𝗧𝗼 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗠𝗼𝗼𝗻 𝗮𝗻𝗱 𝗕𝗮𝗰𝗸

𝗧𝘄𝗲𝗻𝘁𝘆-𝗙𝗶𝘃𝗲 | 𝗔 𝗙𝗶𝘀𝘀𝘂𝗿𝗲

"𝙏𝙚𝙡𝙡 𝙢𝙚 something. Anything."

Michael pushed the final word out desperately, like it was another form of prayer. While he was an expert at concealing what he felt behind an occasional purse of his lips or hardened stare, now wasn't one of those times. The crack in his controlled, impassible veneer was hairline. But it was there all the same, threatening to spread if aggravated—the longer Mallorie sat there and said nothing.

Heat rose to her face as he stared into it in search of answers she couldn't bring herself to voice. And when she felt overwhelmed by his wordless interrogation, she sought refuge where she never had before: away from him.

Shame was crawling all across her skin, burrowing deep underneath. Michael prided himself on keeping his temper practically invisible. So what did it mean when she'd crossed him into such a reaction more than once? And as his wife? Her vision swam in a gathering of tears, and being unable to look at him any longer, she shifted herself to the opposite edge of the bed, hauling in breaths steadily to quell herself.

"Can we not do this right now?" she whispered. "I'm sorry."

"Wow," was all he responded with. In the next instant, the bed jiggled as he climbed out of it, a toss of covers flying as well.

Mallorie closed her eyes. She found the two large tendons in her wrist and pressed the space between them enough to bore a bruise. The odd acupressure habit from her childhood seemed to be the only thing as of late that would keep the contents of her stomach from escaping her altogether. "I just–" Her body spasmed with the sudden involuntary contraction of her throat as she sucked in another breath. More tears gathered in her eyes, saliva overwhelming her mouth. "I just need a minute."

"You had a minute," he said tersely. "More than a minute, actually. Days it seems to me. But you still tried to lie to me just now."

A stab of guilt sliced right through her. She clutched her stomach. "Please, Michael."

"Please what?" he snapped.

The next handful of seconds happened fast. So fast that, just as quickly as Mallorie forced her eyes open, she was hunched over the side of the bed, her insides forcefully purging until she was spewing half-digested brownies and bile into her palm. Everything following the moment occurred in flashes between her heaving. She saw Michael's horrified stare, the letterman jacket he was putting on falling to the floor, then she saw him fall to his knees beside her. The already large, doll-like rounds of his eyes seemed to grow triple in size as they dashed frantically between her trembling, cupped hand and her face.

"Jesus Christ," he said shakily beneath his breath, slipping an arm around her waist and quickly pressing a pillow against the back of her hand with the other. Gently, he guided her to rise to her feet and hastened her across the hallway to the bathroom.

By some scant bit of mercy, they managed to make it to the nearest washroom without the fluid in her hands spilling over onto Liza's carpeted bedroom flooring or gorgeous tile. But as soon as they stepped foot into the guest bathroom, the lights flicked on and revealed to Mallorie what she had thrown up in gruesome detail, and the sight triggered her stomach to turn itself inside out once again.

Mallorie was grateful her mind had gone blank to submit to her body's demands. She didn't know how long she had been hunched over the bathroom sink with the faucet running hot over what she spewed into it and over her soiled palm. Sweat prickled her pores and provided an uncomfortable stickiness to her skin. Her eyes ached with every retch, letting her know that the capillaries around them had probably broken from the force. All she knew was that Michael was there.