Please Don't Forgive Me

In a week and a half they had a day off before their home show in Scottsdale. That was when I made my appointment for. In the time until then I hoped that the guys on the bus would stop acting the way they were. They were treating me like glass—afraid the slightest thing might make me break. They were trying to avoid me—afraid they might say something wrong. Garrett, of course, tip-toed around me as if he were walking on eggshells, but nevertheless he was the way he always was. He had come to see why I needed to terminate the pregnancy, and he had reassumed his position as my best friend.

Aside from Garrett, Kenny and John acted somewhat normal. Kenny was there when Garrett was being Garrett; when Garrett was in one of those moods where he was mad at the universe. John was the one trying to break the tension—it was so thick that it needed to be cut with a steak knife. Jared and Pat and all of the other guys—Aaron, Vito…--avoided me like the Black Plague.

I knew that I had started to gain weight, and I didn’t need John to point it out like he did. When he did Garrett hit him in the head. I also knew that I was starting to feel the horrible effects of the pregnancy that I had so hoped to avoid. Morning sickness was not in fact morning sickness; it was all around the clock sickness. And the cravings sucked. Not only did I want the weirdest foods, I felt nauseous the minute I ate them. My skin had started to break out, which it hadn’t since freshman year of high school, and my energy level was nonexistent. It sucked and I was glad to have it almost over with.

“What are you looking for?” Garrett asked as I searched the bus for food.

“I don’t know,” I sighed. “I don’t know what I want to eat, but I know that as soon as I eat whatever it is, I’ll feel sick.”

“It’ll be over in a few days,” he said rubbing my back. “In a few days you can go back to eating what you want and not wanting to throw it back up five minutes later.” He smiled and walked over to the couch with me after I gave up on finding food. I put my head in his lap and stretched out. He began playing with my hair and rubbing my back—which I discovered actually helped subdue my nausea.

“Thanks,” I sighed reaching for a pillow to prop my head up—that helped too with the now-constant nausea.

“No problem,” he laughed. I buried my face in the pillow and started to fall asleep. Apparently that’s when the bus started moving, and my stomach contents decided they would no longer be in stomach. “It’s almost over,” he soothed. Someone had apparently decided that following me with a garbage pail or plastic bag was a good idea, and they were right.

“How many more days?” I sighed, as Garrett wiped my mouth with a paper towel.

“Four. Four more days.” I nodded and forced myself to sleep to avoid feeling sick. Four very, very long and intolerable days.