She leaned her hip against the wall and a few seconds later, her head. Winnie was dizzy and she wanted to hurl. That’s what her dad used to say—hurl. She started to cry, and then she did hurl.

20

WINNIE

As it turned out, the alcohol wasn’t the only thing swirling around Winnie’s stomach. The following day unearthed the virus. It hit them in tandem, so it was hard to know who to blame. At first Winnie thought she was being punished with a hangover the size of Kilimanjaro, but when she heard Nigel stumble through the door at noon, heading straight for the downstairs bathroom, she knew Samuel would probably soon follow. Winnie, who had never left for work, was upstairs in a similar position, her face noticeably green as she leaned over the toilet, expelling her bad choices along with the virus. They met in the kitchen accidentally, both in search of water. It was an awkward standoff, one in which Winnie felt like the victor when Nigel looked away first and skulked toward the fridge. It was as she watched the back of his head that it occurred to her that he had brought home this sickness, brought it right from Dulce fucking Tucker. Winnie and Nigel had both shared the same almost empty bottle of Jack Daniel’s, slurping after hours to hide their sin. It was the insult that sent her over the edge, the audacity of Nigel to humiliate her by entertaining another woman. How he hid his bottle all over the pantry, too drunk to put it in the same place as before. Was life with her so unbearable? It wasn’t like she’d let herself go, or that she ignored her husband. He’d just chosen to do this to her and now she was sick as a consequence, sick as a dog. She couldn’t wait her turn for the water, her stomach was rolling. Winnie ran for the stairs angry as all hell.