Valentine steers me toward the toilet with practiced ease. My hand's clamped over my mouth holding back what is about to be extremely embarrassing.
My knee caps crunch as I drop down just in time for my body to attempt the ejection of organs that are definitely not attached to my digestive system.
"Get it out, love. You're good." She soothes me through the first waves.
Several deeply humiliating minutes later, I'm kneeling on expensive tile flooring while Valentine holds my hair back with one hand and keeps up a steady stream of conversation.
Apparently the phone she'd given me to hide earlier belongs to her brother. He is, in her words, "an arrogant, overgrown testosterone goblin who doesn't believe in privacy." Between bouts of dry heaving I learn she stole his phone in retaliation
