I lean over the toilet and throw up. Again. My whole body aches, is covered in a greasy sweat and I'm shaking like I'm freezing cold. I feel drained of everything – and not just the food in my stomach. I feel emotionally, mentally, and spiritually spent.

I've been home for almost two weeks now, having somehow survived the rest of the Thanksgiving holiday. After the horror show that the dinner with Miles turned into, the three of us Gates girls did what we do best – avoided reality. We didn't talk about it. We didn't mention it. We barely even spoke or looked at each other. We just went on like normal, pretending that nothing had happened.

The damn elephant in the room was so big, that neither of them even mentioned the fact that I’m supposedly getting married after that night. Thank God. I left town the day after Thanksgiving and don’t think I’ve ever been so thankful to see my shitty apartment and amazing roommate before.

I lean over the bowl again and dry heave – but there's nothing left in my body to come out. Suddenly, a knock sounds at the door. All I can do is groan and flush the toilet. The door opens and Rosie – my roomie and best friend walks in, her face utterly aghast.

“Wow,” she says. “You look like absolute shit.”

“Thanks, Rosie,” I groan.

I lean my head against the cool porcelain of the bowl, trying to will the nausea away.

“Are you pregnant or something?” she laughs.

“Shut up,” I say. “I ate off the taco truck outside of work last night.”

“Christ, Sasha, why in the hell did you do that?” she asks. “You know that thing is a Hep C factory on wheels.”

“I was hungry,” I reply.

“Well, I certainly hope this teaches you a valuable lesson, young lady,” she says.

Rosie turns and walks out, but comes back a few moments later with some Pepto, a glass of water, and a few tabs of Alka-Seltzer. I let her take care of me, leaning my head against her shoulder as she holds me upright.

“Can you stand?” she asks.

I nod and get to my feet on seriously shaky legs. It feels like I'm walking on ice and could fall on my ass any minute. Rosie guides me to my bedroom and pushes me into bed. She pulls the covers up to my chin and tucks me in. I shiver and moan as another wave of nausea rolls through me. She looks at me, concern shining in her eyes.

“I'm worried about you, Sash,” she says. “You seriously look like you're about to die.”

“It'll pass,” I say and take her hand.

I'm gripped by an icy fist of nausea that clenches around my stomach. With a surprising energy, I throw the covers back, leap from the bed, and dash for the bathroom. I fall to my knees without a moment to spare as I spit up what feels like twenty gallons of bile, my whole body tensing and clenching up.

“That's it,” Rosie says from the doorway. “I'm taking you to the doctor.”

“It's food poisoning, most likely,” I say, my voice thick.

“They'll at least be able to provide you with something to keep you from throwing up every two minutes,” she says. “Get dressed, Sasha.”

“Don't you have to get to work?” I croak.

“Not for a couple of hours,” she replies. “It'll be fine. Get dressed.”

I nod and shuffle down to my room, throwing on a pair of black yoga pants and an old, pastel pink hoodie. I tie my hair back into a sloppy ponytail and don't bother with any makeup, but I don't care. If I feel like absolute trash, might as well look like it too.

Half an hour later, we're sitting in plush leather chairs at my doctor's office, waiting for my name to be called. Ten minutes after we arrive, we’re taken back. Slowly and creakily, I get to my feet, feeling like every joint in my body is on fire. The nurse leads me back to a curtained room where I wait some more.

After I've been sitting there for about twenty minutes, Dr. Adric steps into the room and closes the curtain behind her. She gives me a smile.

“Well, hello, Sasha,” she says brightly. “You look like crap.”

“Your bedside manner kind of sucks, Doc.”

She laughs. “You're not the first person to tell me that.”

“Color me shocked.”

She looks at my chart and reads all of the measurements her nurse had taken before she came in – temperature, heart rate, blood pressure – the works.

“I'm sure it's food poisoning,” I say. “I ate off a taco truck yesterday and it’s just been –”

“Don’t eat off those things unless you can somehow get a copy of their latest inspection,” she says and motions to me. “Otherwise, you might end up looking like this.”

“Lesson learned,” I say.

“I'd certainly hope so,” she replies.

“All the same, as long as you're here, I'm going to take some blood and run some tests,” she says. “Gotta do all those doctor-y things to justify my paycheck.”

I nod. “I don’t care what you do, as long as you give me some really good anti-nausea meds.”

“I think I can do that.”

An hour later, I'm on the couch back home, tucked under a quilted blanket and TV remote in hand. I've taken the meds Dr. Adric gave me and I'm already starting to feel better. So thankful for modern day science and that we no longer live in the days where they would have bled me to try and make me feel better.

“Okay, is there anything else you need before I head off to work?” Rosie asks.

“No, I'm good,” I say. “The meds are already kicking in. Thank you for everything, Rosie.”

She gives me a smile. “You're my best friend,” she says. “I can't exactly let you die – who'd pay your half of the rent?”

I laugh as she grabs her keys and heads out to work. I've got to work at the bar later this evening and I'm hoping I'm back to normal by the time my shift rolls around. If not, they'll have to deal with me as I am. I can't really afford to not work – especially with Christmas rapidly approaching. There’s a thought that makes me sick for reasons that have nothing to do with eating off the Taco Truck.

Not to be a Grinch or anything, but I hate this time of year. For one thing, it's expensive as hell. It also means I'm obligated to spend more time with my mom and sister – and the visit was just so much fun. For whatever reason, Christmas feels like it puts even more pressure on people to be kind and loving to one another, and the way I feel right now, I'm not even going to be able to fake it very convincingly.

Personally, I'd rather just stay home, make up some junk food, and watch crap TV. Or just write. One of the two would be good with me. Sitting up, I pull my laptop over to me, setting it in my lap. I haven't written a whole lot in the week or so that I've been back, and I feel guilty about that.

I turn off the TV, dropping the remote beside me on the couch, as my computer boots up. A moment later, I'm pulling up my current work in progress. It's a science fiction piece that includes a lot of contemporary social themes and references. Honestly, it's as much a message to society as it is a story. It's my most ambitious piece to date and I feel really good about it. I'm not one to toot my own horn or heaps praise on myself for my work, but I think this is a really good story with a lot of potential.

I actually have really high hopes for this piece. I think it's the one that can help put me on the map.

As I read through the last few chapters, absorbing the words and falling back into the story, I can't keep my mind from wandering – and of course, it heads straight to Miles. Even though I vowed to never call or see him again – if only to protect myself from being hurt – I haven't been able to get him out of my head since I got back from Washington more than ten days ago.

Maybe, it's because I vowed to never see or call him again that he’s sticking around in my mind. I don't know.

All I know is that he pops into my head at the most inopportune times. I get snippets of the times we had sex, of course. I mean, he really is the best sex I've ever had, but it's more than that. It's deeper than that.

What I remember the most is how he stood up for me with Sarah and my mom. The way he defended me to them. No one has ever stood up for me like that before. I can't pretend that's nothing. It means a hell of a lot to me, actually.

It means almost as much as what he said about my writing. The fact that he believes in me and thinks I'm going to make it – that too, is something new. My family has never been supportive of me and my endeavors. They've always hounded me to be practical and pursue a job that is steady and reliable over what they interpret as a frivolous fantasy.

And I know that Miles isn't an agent or publisher – he's not someone who can help me get my foot in the door – but, the fact that he sees talent in me brings me an indescribable amount of joy. It gives me a sense of validation unlike I've ever felt before. Maybe I'm not the hack my sister obviously believes me to be.

Knowing that there's one person out there who believes in me and is in my corner, fires me up and gives me a renewed sense of spirit. It revitalizes me and my energy.

There is a piece of me that wishes I could call Miles and thank him for giving me that boost when I needed it the most. But I know that some doors, once closed, are better left that way.

This is the better option. Miles should fade into a pleasant memory instead of being an active participant in my life. Neither one of us need the headaches, the drama, or the potential heartbreak in our lives. We will both be better off not wasting time and moving forward.

It's better this way. For both of us.