I only made it halfway through my BLT before I set it aside. The emotions in the little diner were making my already upset stomach worse. The cook was worried, probably that he’d undercooked the burgers, which he had. The waitress emanated impatience and irritation. She probably wanted a smoke break. And the restaurant’s other customers were just as dreary.
I felt over-sensitized to every little mood swing. My gaze shifted to Jim, and I scowled at him. Stupid drinking. I put my elbows on the table and rubbed my face. My stomach gave a lurch as a burst of concern came from the right.
“Are you all right?” Michelle asked.
“I want to kill Jim,” I mumbled through my hands.
She set a sympathetic arm on my shoulder.
“I’ve been there. Hungover because of Jim, I mean.”
“And because of yourself,” Jim said from the other side of the room.
“Quiet,” someone said in a low voice. I thought it was his mom.
“Do you want something for your head?” Michelle asked.
I dropped my hands. Everyone was watching me.
“No. I think I’ll just step outside for a while.”
Even the simple motion of standing made me feel worse. My skin crawled, my head throbbed, and my stomach squeezed and rolled in a sickening way. I made my way outside and gulped in the fresh air. The emotions of everyone inside still drifted to me. I moved away from the building, walking toward the sparse trees near the back of the property. Passing the dumpsters made me gag.
I leaned against the first tree I came to.
“It’s more than a hangover, isn’t it?”
Carlos’ voice made me jump. I should have known he would follow.
“The hangover isn’t helping. I think I’m more sensitive to everyone’s moods because of it.”
He moved around me so we faced each other.
“Then we need to do something about it.”
I cringed.
“I’ll throw up if I have to spar. I just need a few minutes.”
He studied me and shook his head.
“No, I think waiting will make it worse.”
“I’m not fighting, Carlos.”
“What if you tried pushing again?”
I frowned.
“We’re too close to people.”
“Then let’s go for a walk.” He held out his hand.
I ignored his hand and shoved away from the tree.
“It would be better if I did this alone. I don’t know what I’m doing, and I don’t want to hurt anyone.”
“I was fine yesterday.”
I walked as I thought it over. I doubted he’d leave, even if I asked him to.
“Fine. Stay.”
I stopped walking. I could hear the occasional car pass in the distance, but felt nothing around me. A squirrel chittered at us from its branch above. Glancing up, I considered it.
“You know, I’m going to be really upset if dead rodents start falling on my head because of this.”
I closed my eyes, rolled my shoulders, then tried to relax. I took several slow breaths, and on an exhale, I tried to push out. After my third attempt, I opened my eyes and looked at Carlos.
“Why isn’t it working?”
“What’s different from last night and today?
I shrugged.
“Last night you were more relaxed.”
“I’m trying to relax.”
“But you’re still worrying. You need to let it all go.”
“You think I’m worrying? About what?”
“Hurting me. Hurting the squirrel.”
He was crazy. I wasn’t worried about that. I looked up at the squirrel staring down at us and realized it had stopped chittering. Why? And the sudden worry I felt affirmed Carlos was right. I sighed. How did someone let go of all worry?
No matter how hard I tried, I cared about whether or not I would hurt someone around me. If I couldn’t push the overflow out, that meant I needed to spar. My stomach shook its head at the idea.
“It’s not working.” Facing Carlos, I gave him an unhappy look and put my hands up. He shadowed my move. “I might puke on you. If I do, I’m really sorry.”
“I can handle it.”
“I can’t.” I gave a half-hearted jab.
He swatted it away and returned the swing. It was so unexpected that I almost didn’t block in time.
“What the hell?”
“Fight,” he growled.
“I hope I do puke on you.” I started to swing like I meant it.
I gagged twice within two minutes, and he was quick to dance away. But after that, some of the nausea started to ease. He seemed to sense I was feeling better because he drove me harder. Sweat started to glue my shirt to my back. I hated that feeling. And it was unlikely that I’d get a shower until after dinner. The thought of yet another restaurant dinner made my stomach twist. I didn’t understand why it would be so picky now after months of feeding it TV dinners.
“Do you know what?” I said, trying to find a way under his guard.
“What?”
He blocked my jab to his head.