"I can't. I can't come."
I dialed him.
I watched, through a gap in the hedge, as he stopped pacing and pulled the phone from his ear to check the screen.
"Hey, babe," he answered, warm as ever. "You almost here?"
"Nathan," I whispered, and made my voice thin. "I'm so sorry. I've been throwing up since noon. I thought it would pass. I can't. I can't come."
"I don't care about the reservation."
A pause. Just long enough.
"Oh no. Sweetheart, where are you?"
"Home. On the bathroom floor. I'm sorry, I know you planned everything."
"Forget the plan," he said. "Do you want me to come back?"
"No. Please. Stay, eat, don't waste the reservation. I just need to sleep."
Only then did I breathe.
"Claire, I don't care about the reservation."
"Please," I said. "I'll feel worse if you drive back. Just text me later."
He hesitated. I could hear him breathing.
