6. Laying low

Lena’s POV

I wake up because my stomach twists, not because I ate anything off or drank something that made my stomach upset.

It just twists, sharp enough that my eyes snap open and my hand flies to my mouth before I even think about it. For a second I lie there, frozen hoping it passes hoping it was just one of those weird sleep things where your body panics for no reason.

It doesn’t pass.

“Oh shit,” I whisper to no one.

I roll out of bed too fast, my foot catching on the edge of the rug, and I barely make it to the bathroom before I’m on my knees. The floor is cold and my palms slip a little. I gaged hard, nothing coming up at first, just that awful feeling like my body is trying to turn itself inside out.

My eyes burn and my nose runs. It’s ugly and loud and there is nothing graceful about it.

I grip the toilet and breathe through my mouth, slow because if I don’t I know I’ll cry and once I start crying I won’t stop. I’ve learned that about myself.

When it finally eases I sit back against the tub legs pulled in and forehead resting on my knees.

This is not just stress.

I know that. I’ve known it for two weeks I just keep pretending maybe it’ll go away if I don’t look at it too closely.

The house creaks somewhere down the hall and my heart jumps so hard it hurts. It takes me a second to remember where I am. Not the mansion. Not our bedroom. Not my old life.

The vacation house. Keenan's parents place. The middle of nowhere.

I hear his footsteps before he speaks.

“Lena,” he calls, voice rough with sleep. “You okay in there.”

I swallow, wipe my mouth with my sleeve, and stand up even though my legs feel like they might fold. “Yeah,” I say. “I’m fine.”

There’s a pause. Then his shadow appears in the doorway. “You don’t sound fine.”

“I’m just tired.”

He looks at me like he doesn’t buy it for a second. His hair sticks up at weird angles and he’s wearing some old shirt that used to be white but isn’t anymore. He looks worried in a way that makes my chest tighten.

“You were throwing up,” he says.

“I was not.”

He blinks. “I heard you.”

“Okay,” I snap, then immediately feel bad. “I mean I felt sick that is all.”

He sighs and rubs his face. “You’re not good at this, you know.”

“At what.”

“Pretending everything is okay.”

I turn away and rinse my mouth, staring at my reflection instead of him. I look pale myy eyes look too big as if I haven’t slept in days which I guess I haven’t.

“It’s the change,” I say. “New place the stress and just my body being dramatic.”

“Your body isn't dramatic,” Keenan says. “You are.”

I almost laugh. Almost.

He doesn’t push it, which somehow makes it worse. He just gestures toward the kitchen. “Come on. Sit. I’ll make something boring.”

“Why boring.”

“Because exciting food makes people puke,” he says. “Trust me I have lived through it.”

The kitchen smells like old wood and cleaning spray. The house is quiet in a way that feels loud, like it’s listening to us. Keenan sets toast in front of me and watches until I take a bite.

I chew slowly. My stomach protests or make me nausas, which feels like a small victory.

“You staying today,” I ask, mostly to fill the silence.

He snorts. “Where would I go.”

“I mean. You didn’t have to stay.”

“Yes, I did.”

I frown. “You really didn’t.”

“I really did,” he says. “You think I’m leaving you alone out here.”

“I’m not a child.”

“I didn’t say you were.”

“You implied it.”

“I implied you’re not okay,” he corrects. “Which you’re not.”

I don’t answer.

The day drags. I unpack slowly, putting clothes into drawers that smell like cedar and dust. Everything I own fits into one suitcase. That thought sits weird in my chest.

Midday hits and so does the nausea. Harder this time. I barely get to the sink before it happens again.

Keenan doesn’t even comment. He just holds my hair back and hands me water after.

“Okay,” he says finally. “That’s twice.”

I shake my head. “Don’t.”

“Don’t what.”

“Don’t ask.”

He studies me, jaw tight. “You’re hiding something.”

“No,” I say too fast. “I’m not.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Lena.”

“I just don’t want to talk about it,” I whisper.

He exhales slowly. “Alright.”

That’s it. No lecture. No pushing. It makes my eyes sting.

That night I lie awake again, staring at the ceiling one hand resting on my stomach like I can feel something there even though I can’t. My thoughts won’t shut up it run in circle and trip over themselves.

Ethan. The ring. The papers. The words he threw at me like knives.

And this.

This secret I’m carrying that I haven’t told anyone about.

Not yet.

I press my lips together and breathe through another wave of nausea, telling myself the same thing over and over because it’s the only thing that keeps me from falling apart.

Lay low.

Don’t think too far ahead.

Just get through tomorrow.

The ocean hums somewhere far away.

And I stay still, pretending that’s enough.