Read Online Marine Ever After (Always a Marine) by Heather Long - Free Book Online
Authors: Heather Long
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purse and the duffel with her change of clothes from the locker. She would make do with the scrubs. She stopped by to grab the recommended bags of saline on her way to the car. Thankfully, she didn’t seem to have the fever and misery everyone else had suffered from—or maybe she had that to look forward to when she got home.
Joy and rapture . The humid August air slapped her in the face as soon as she cleared the doors. The Texas heat soared into the upper 90s if they were lucky and beyond three digits when they weren’t. She couldn’t really tell what the day’s temperature was stuck at, but hurried to her car anyway. Pulling open the door, a blast of congealed humidity struck her.
Her stomach revolted at the overabundance of heat—cars turned into convection ovens in the Texas summer. Leaning in, she started the engine and dialed the A/C to its coldest setting and opened all the windows to let out the suffocating air. Maybe she should have put the saline bag in and laid down in an on-call room.
She positively melted. Finally, the nausea subsided and she climbed in. Driving with the windows open wasn’t pleasant, but as soon as cold air filtered out of the vents, she closed them and sighed. Bless the coolness.
Lillianna hated to be sick. Whether it was a naturally strong constitution or the fact her father’s Army assignments dragged her around the world and exposing her to so many places growing up, she didn’t get sick often. The cold air seemed to do wonders for the nausea, but she didn’t look the gift horse in the mouth and headed straight back to her apartment. Forty-eight hours of sleep sounded good.
She hadn’t been that tired after seventy-hours straight in the hospital, a wedding, and back to it for another three days while her co-workers battled the raging respiratory symptoms of the last flu to blow through the staff. Regular as clockwork, every three months, and summer always seemed to be worse than winter.
Three months.
Eleven weeks. Almost three months. Lillianna slammed her foot on the brake, nearly hitting the car in front of her. Her stomach swam. Sucking in a noisy breath between her teeth, she signaled and cut over three lanes. Drugstores sat on nearly every other corner. Ignoring her gut’s complaints, she parked and threw herself out of the car and into the store.
It wasn’t possible. But…eleven weeks and she hadn’t had a period since before the first flu outbreak. She hadn’t been paying attention, not with her schedule and switching from days to nights so Jodi could go on vacation, then back to days again. Hell, half the time she didn’t know whether she was coming or going.
Standing in front of the over-the-counter pregnancy test shelf, she scanned the brand names. The hospital used one particular type, but she wanted two or three—false positives were possible. False positives on three different brands? Far less likely.
It’s viral gastroenteritis—this is just an overreaction . But even her mental voice lacked the conviction to make her believe the sentiment. Condoms failed all the time. Nothing was one hundred percent foolproof, even when used correctly.
And they’d used it correctly. Despite the sick misery coating her insides, a shiver of desire raced over her skin. She’d woken more than once in the last few weeks, remembering that night and wishing it had lasted longer than one night. But only for as long as it took her to wake all the way up. Then the cold, harsh reality that Paul was military reminded her she was better off with the memory for comfort.
Choosing the three best tests, she grabbed a bottle of Pepto and some antacids, a case of Gatorade, and added a box of saltines to the stack. She drove home with her purchases, sipping the pink, chalky liquid straight from the bottle to avoid another session of vomiting. Her nerves aggravated her already upset stomach.
She left her duffle in the car and grabbed the plastic bag and her purse. In her
Joy and rapture . The humid August air slapped her in the face as soon as she cleared the doors. The Texas heat soared into the upper 90s if they were lucky and beyond three digits when they weren’t. She couldn’t really tell what the day’s temperature was stuck at, but hurried to her car anyway. Pulling open the door, a blast of congealed humidity struck her.
Her stomach revolted at the overabundance of heat—cars turned into convection ovens in the Texas summer. Leaning in, she started the engine and dialed the A/C to its coldest setting and opened all the windows to let out the suffocating air. Maybe she should have put the saline bag in and laid down in an on-call room.
She positively melted. Finally, the nausea subsided and she climbed in. Driving with the windows open wasn’t pleasant, but as soon as cold air filtered out of the vents, she closed them and sighed. Bless the coolness.
Lillianna hated to be sick. Whether it was a naturally strong constitution or the fact her father’s Army assignments dragged her around the world and exposing her to so many places growing up, she didn’t get sick often. The cold air seemed to do wonders for the nausea, but she didn’t look the gift horse in the mouth and headed straight back to her apartment. Forty-eight hours of sleep sounded good.
She hadn’t been that tired after seventy-hours straight in the hospital, a wedding, and back to it for another three days while her co-workers battled the raging respiratory symptoms of the last flu to blow through the staff. Regular as clockwork, every three months, and summer always seemed to be worse than winter.
Three months.
Eleven weeks. Almost three months. Lillianna slammed her foot on the brake, nearly hitting the car in front of her. Her stomach swam. Sucking in a noisy breath between her teeth, she signaled and cut over three lanes. Drugstores sat on nearly every other corner. Ignoring her gut’s complaints, she parked and threw herself out of the car and into the store.
It wasn’t possible. But…eleven weeks and she hadn’t had a period since before the first flu outbreak. She hadn’t been paying attention, not with her schedule and switching from days to nights so Jodi could go on vacation, then back to days again. Hell, half the time she didn’t know whether she was coming or going.
Standing in front of the over-the-counter pregnancy test shelf, she scanned the brand names. The hospital used one particular type, but she wanted two or three—false positives were possible. False positives on three different brands? Far less likely.
It’s viral gastroenteritis—this is just an overreaction . But even her mental voice lacked the conviction to make her believe the sentiment. Condoms failed all the time. Nothing was one hundred percent foolproof, even when used correctly.
And they’d used it correctly. Despite the sick misery coating her insides, a shiver of desire raced over her skin. She’d woken more than once in the last few weeks, remembering that night and wishing it had lasted longer than one night. But only for as long as it took her to wake all the way up. Then the cold, harsh reality that Paul was military reminded her she was better off with the memory for comfort.
Choosing the three best tests, she grabbed a bottle of Pepto and some antacids, a case of Gatorade, and added a box of saltines to the stack. She drove home with her purchases, sipping the pink, chalky liquid straight from the bottle to avoid another session of vomiting. Her nerves aggravated her already upset stomach.
She left her duffle in the car and grabbed the plastic bag and her purse. In her
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