I went home angry and didn’t sleep for the entire night. My bed was cold and felt hollow after just one night with Knox’s warm body beside me. That thought made me so upset, I spent the rest of the night rolling around on the damn couch in my living room.
Then, today, after waking up feeling like shit and still dragging my ass into work, I had the worst argument with my mother about all their meddling and interference. When I grabbed my purse to walk out for some fresh air, she had the nerve to tell me that as her boss, she forbade me from leaving. That’s when I quit.
But I made the worst mistake leaving through the front doors of this office building. The paps were waiting for me. It was only two of them, from some unknown online political paper. Those vultures had the nerve to ask about me and Knox, hurtling questions my way as they snapped their cameras in my face.
When’s the big wedding?
Who’ll be at the engagement party?
Where will you live together?
Does Senator Harrison approve of Knox Steele?
What is Knox Steele’s real political affiliation?
Are you thinking of starting a family soon?
I ducked into another office building with a bunch of security guards in the entrance, and they left me alone.
So yeah. I’m friendless, unemployed, and about to be the subject of more media attention. I figure I may as well take a vacation out west.
A couple of hours later, on the plane, I lean back in my seat in first class, stuffed after eating every bit of food they offered me. Chicken l’orange, two dinner rolls, a decadent-tasting chocolate éclair, and three packs of those little mixed nuts. I have drinks too, but not alcohol. With the mood I’m in, I would get shit-faced, but I got a whiff of the alcohol on the breath of this guy in the seat across the aisle, and the smell caused my stomach to turn. Like a double flip. So, I’m playing it safe with alcohol-free virgin cocktails. Virgin daiquiris, virgin Pina coladas, even a virgin sex on the beach, which I honestly didn’t know existed. Every drink is so sugary and sweet they feel like another helping of dessert. There’s two hours left of the flight. Pushing my seat back all the way, I pull the blanket over my face and close my eyes.
I open my eyes to the sound of my own voice, groaning as though I’m in pain. I don’t think I was dreaming. But then I feel the fingers taping on my shoulder and look up to see the middle-aged blonde flight attendant who served me all that food and virgin cocktails.
“Yes?” I groan out the question.
“Ma’am, are you all right? You sound like you’re in a lot of pain.”
“I’m… I think I’m fine,” I tell her, still groggy.
But the loud roar from my stomach seems to disagree. A second later, the severe pain I must have been experiencing during my sleep hits me hard, and I double over.
“Ma’am?” she calls to me.
“I don’t think I’m fine,” I say, wincing in pain. I wrap my arms over my belly, hoping it will subside, but I hear a deep rumble.
Moving in a panic, I unbuckle my seat belt. “Bathroom!” I shout, and she steps aside, pointing toward the front of the plane.
I slip past her and hurry to the front. I’m so weak from the debilitating pain, that I have to hold onto each and every seat along the way. I finally get to the front. Thank goodness the restroom is empty. Closing the door behind me, I hustle to put down one of those seat protector paper towels. I sit, thinking I’m about to have the worst case of diarrhea in my life.
But I’m oh so very wrong.
It’s much, much worse.
I unlock the door from my seat and push it open so I can see a sliver of the hallway. This flight attendant must be a mind reader. She’s standing there with a stack of three or four vomit bags in her hand, just inches from the restroom door.
“Thanks,” I say, grabbing it and shutting the door just as fast.
I want to feel embarrassed but I can’t. I’m too sick to feel remorse as everything I’ve eaten is hurled into the bag at the exact same time that my bowels violently empty themselves.
Oh God. Please kill me now.
The flight attendant knocks feverishly on the restroom door a minute after the pilot came onto the intercom to announce that he and the copilot are preparing for landing.
“Ma’am?” she calls, her voice laced with urgency.
“Yes,” I groan. I’m not just weak. I’m exhausted and I feel like if I stand up, I’ll faint.
“Ma’am, I’ll need you to finish up in there and return to your seat for the landing.”
“I can’t,” I say, pleading for an exception to that rule.
“I’m so sorry, Ma’am, but you’ll have to try.”
“I swear to God, I feel so faint, and my bum is so raw, but there’s more coming out from...everywhere. Please let me stay in here. I promise I’ll hold on really tight. I’ll sign a waiver or whatever you need me to. I just can’t.”
“Open the door, Ma’am. I can give you something for that.” I unlock the door and open it a crack. She shows me an adult diaper. “It’s for our first-class passengers,” she informs me.
“Out of curiosity, what do you give the passengers in economy?” I ask with the last bit of energy I have. But I need to know.
“They have to go in their pants...or skirts,” she says flatly.
Grabbing the diaper, I slam the door shut and do my best to neaten up. I also slip the diaper on, because going in my pants
