39. Lola

Lola

When I wake up the following day, Devon is gone, but he's left behind a note and a strawberry lemon poppyseed muffin. I pick it up, then set it back down when I realize I'm not hungry. I decide to eat it after a shower.

Then, when I'm out of the shower, I feel worse than I did before getting in, and I have to lean against the wall. I'm sweating, and I feel disgusting—bloated and nauseous. I throw up, thinking I'll feel better, but all it does is make me throw up again and again.

"About damn time, bitch!"

"Maisie?" I say weakly.

"Oh shit, what's wrong with you?"

"I think I have food poisoning," I croak, putting a hand to my forehead. "Any chance you can come with me to the doctor? I'm afraid I might pass out on the subway."

Maisie reaches my apartment in twenty minutes, carrying an emesis bag, a bottle of water, and a can of Lysol. She helps me get dressed and gets on the subway with me, watching as I text Devon to let him know I'm not feeling well and won't be able to make it to the game.

When we get off the platform near the clinic, I stop and retch over a trash can, but nothing comes out, on account of the fourteen other times I've thrown up since getting out of bed this morning.

The clinic is bright, white, and sterile, and to my relief, Maisie doesn't ask me any questions as we wait. When the nurse takes my vitals and brings me back, they immediately get an IV in me, and after five minutes, I already start to feel a bit better.

I stare at the ceiling, wishing I was at Madison Square Garden with Devon, cheering him on and annoying him by wearing the wrong jersey. I can only hope whatever I have doesn't keep me from going to the rest of the games.

As I trace the patterns in the ceiling tiles, I wonder what he's doing right now. When I glance at the clock and see it's still before noon, I guess he's running through game film or going through warm-ups with the team. Distantly, I think I should text Ellie, too, to let her know I won't make it.

"So," Maisie says, her voice soft, breaking me out of my thoughts. "You're writing again?"

"Yeah," I say dazedly, staring up at the ceiling. Then, as though my body needed to word vomit as much as it needed the real thing, I told her everything—about meeting Devon, the fake relationship, and how it all inspired me to start writing again after what happened before.

"You know," Maisie says, picking at the clinic blanket. "Sometimes people just have the same ideas at the same time, you know? It doesn't mean you should stop writing."

"Yeah, right," I scoff weakly. "Same exact idea? Same hook? Same setting? That asshole—Georgie Star—stealing my story pushed me to write something I didn't care about to satisfy the publisher, who was already calling me out for plagiarizing that rip-off. It alienated my fans and destroyed my reputation."

Maisie is quiet for a long moment, and the thought of all the pain I went through sends another wave of nausea rushing back through me.

"Don't you think you're successful enough, though?" she asks, her voice small. I can see where she's coming from. Though we graduated at the same time, I've definitely seen more success in my career than her. "I mean, you have the money, the recognition."

"It was my story," I say, quiet but resolute. "Sure, the money is nice, but it has always been about the joy of writing."

Maisie opens her mouth like she's going to say something else, but at that moment, the doctor swings back in.

"Good morning, ladies," she says, pumping several large gobs of hand sanitizer onto her palms. "What do we have going on?"

"I've been throwing up," I tell her. "I think I might have food poisoning."

"Right," the doctor says, grabbing a clipboard from the end of the bed and reading through it. "Well, I'll go ahead and have the nurses get you some medicine for the nausea. In the meantime, I'm going to run some blood work. There's been a nasty strain of norovirus going around, and there was also a breakout of E-coli in our sister clinic, so we'll check for that, just to be careful."

"Great," I say, leaning my head back against the pillow. One of the nurses brings me a face mask and has me put it on in case it is norovirus. Maisie takes one, too, already whining about the possibility of her getting sick.

Most of the nausea is gone an hour later, and the IV bag is empty. When the door opens again, the doctor's entire demeanor has changed.

"Lola," she says, clearing her throat. "I have some results for you from the bloodwork. Would you like to be alone to hear them?"

My heart jumps into my throat. Is something wrong? Do I have cancer? Maisie glances at me in alarm and reaches for my hand. I squeeze hers back before turning to look at the doctor.

"She can stay," I rasp hoarsely, my voice rough from all the throwing up.

"Well," the doctor says, clearing her throat again and taking a seat on the rolling stool. "The good news is you don't have food poisoning or the norovirus."

I stare back at her, my pulse thrumming and my mind spinning with the possibilities of what might be wrong with me. The doctor starts to say something about the importance of taking care of myself and making sure to schedule more appointments so she can make sure I have one before I leave. Maisie looks shell-shocked beside me, her eyes wide, and I realize the doctor gave my diagnosis, but I was too inside my own head to hear it.

"I'm sorry," I mumble, shaking my head a bit. "What did you say was wrong with me again?"

"Lola," the doctor says, her dark eyes meeting mine over the top of her mask. "You're pregnant."