Dancer Read Online Free Page A

tray between us. Took me every ounce of resistance not to use one of these plates as a weapon. Maybe stick a fork in...
    Okay. Time to get hold of yourself, Sam.
    Pursing his eyebrows, he flashed a puzzled look that asked: Do I know you, lady?
    Heat crept up my neck. Feeling his wife's judgmental glare, I realized I wasn't breathing.
    One by one I slammed the sirloin dinners on the table, plunking them down so hard the table shook. Infuriatingly nonchalant, he mumbled a barely coherent 'thanks'.
    He turned to chat with his lovely, lovely wife.
    And I—I had to get the hell out of here.
    Fast-forward to the restroom.
    In a narrow bathroom stall, I crouched as nasty bile rose to my throat. Disgusting sour puke splashed in the toilet.
    I dropped the tray.
    Oh god. Just hurry up and be done with it. I puked twice more.
    Since the vomiting spell left me breathless, I waited before returning and peered in the wide restroom mirror where a sickly reflection stared back. With a complexion so white, my normally pink lips were blood-red. Blue discoloration traced my eyes.
    My black hair, pulled severely into a bun, appeared greasy and in need of a serious wash. Lately I hadn't been taking care of myself.
    Forcing my legs to carry me to the next (final it seemed) destination, I continued through a roomful of murmuring strangers and past a table where a certain sonofabitch sat.
    His wife cast a longing gaze at him, her elbows on the table, hands folded under her chin. She lowered a hand, he clutched it and their fingers entwined.
    The Dancer arose, slanted over the table and sealed her lips with a romantic kiss.
    Her bubbly laughter drifted like music. He obviously made her happy.
    Meanwhile I wanted to disappear. Sheer misery churned within me, soured my attitude. Turned me into someone unrecognizable.
    Someone I despised.

4
    A nother day of working at Sizzle meant another day of puking in the parking lot and/or restroom.
    As soon as I pulled up that morning, before shutting off the engine, I cracked the door and vomit spewed to the concrete.
    Pink chunks ricocheted and landed on the side of my seat.
    Disgusting .
    The worsening of my morning sickness meant I could hardly do my job. It was a wonder my boss hadn't noticed.
    Or had he?
    Approximately every thirty minutes I flew to the restroom. Never mind the curious glances from strangers.
    To my detriment I put off calling the abortion clinic. I had to do it soon or it'd be too late. The bigger my baby grew, the guiltier I'd feel getting rid of it.
    At random times I found myself reciting cute girl and boy names.
    Not good. Not good at all.
    If only I'd conceived under different circumstances. I'd always wanted to be a mother. I loved children... even when they were annoying.
    Thankfully I hadn't sighted The Dancer or his wife in a couple of weeks. The last thing I needed was to see those two. I wasn't sure which hurt worse: Seeing him, seeing her or seeing them together.
    On September the twentieth, I gathered the courage to call a downtown clinic. My hands violently trembled when I tapped in the number and spoke to the receptionist.
    Once the appointment date was set, it seemed a countdown to doomsday had begun. In two weeks I'd be destroying this tiny being who lived inside me. Who depended on me.
    Not exactly my idea of fun, and I hated myself for drinking too much at the nightclub. Hated myself for being so goddamn stupid. Allison assured me that mistakes happen, shit happens and there's no point in crying over what cannot be changed. All I can do is learn from my fuck-ups while moving forward.
    During the weeks which followed I constantly reminded myself of those tropes.
    It didn't help.
    I dreaded the upcoming appointment, tried not to think of it. But anticipation would sneak in and remind me that I had precious few days left.
    Five more days, Sam.
    Then seventy hours. Forty-eight hours.
    Twenty-four additional hours until doomsday, Sam.
    Now. It was here. The day of