THE WRONG KIND OF TROUBLE

Chapter 11

I woke up dizzy, my vision swirling like the world was spinning in slow circles. My head throbbed, and a burning heat crept up my throat.

At first, I thought I was alone in the apartment. It was quiet, too quiet. But then I caught a muffled noise from the living room. Probably Tom—either watching some random show again or glued to his game.

Before I could think much, my stomach twisted violently. I shot up from bed, stumbling toward the bathroom. Dropping to my knees in front of the sink, I gripped the faucet with both hands, bent forward, and gagged until bile forced its way up.

It was hot, sour, and sticky, burning as it clawed up my throat. What came out was a nasty mash of yellow and brown, probably the acid-soaked bread I had nibbled on at Cam’s party last night.

I retched again. And again. Until there was nothing left, only dry heaves and strings of spit clinging to my lips. I turned the faucet on, splashed cold water into my hands, and rinsed my face. One last gag left me with nothing but air and a trail of gooey saliva sliding down my chin. I scrubbed it off, my reflection in the mirror staring back at me—pale, sweaty, and completely wrecked. Morning sickness had officially declared war on me.

Dragging my body out of the bathroom, I zombie-walked back to the bedroom and collapsed onto the bed. My eyes darted to the digital clock on the nightstand.

11:45 a.m.

My jaw dropped. "What?! No way!"

Had I really been out that long? Then I remembered... I crashed at what, four or five in the morning? Still, that meant barely six hours of sleep. Not nearly enough, especially now. My hand instinctively went to my stomach.

Bad for the baby.

The noise from the living room grew louder. Tom’s voice boomed suddenly, half-yelling, half-cheering, and I sighed. Of course. Curiosity got the better of me, so I shuffled to the doorway and peeked out.

There he was, sitting cross-legged in front of the TV, controller clenched in his hands, completely lost in his game. His eyes were laser-focused, following Mario as the little plumber zipped past a giant baby and then promptly smashed into a pile of bricks.

I leaned on the doorframe, watching. The apartment smelled faintly of chips and energy drink—the official Tom starter pack.

It was a weekend.

Normally, weekends meant hanging out with Gustin at the bookstore, flipping through new comic releases. Gray usually tagged along, not for books, but to hunt girls.

Gray had this ridiculous obsession with dating girls in alphabetical order. Last I checked, he was somewhere at "M." He’d already gone through Amber, Bridget, Chance, Donna, Elise, Fran, Georgia, and even our cousin’s cousin, Hera. After that, the names got fuzzy, but he was dead set on finding an "M."

Honestly, the guy needed a hobby that didn’t involve hearts and rejection letters.

"Yes! Another win!" Tom shouted, fist punching the air. His voice cracked with so much excitement that I almost laughed.

Almost.

One more F-bomb from him, though, and I was ready to chuck that controller out the window.

Right on cue, my stomach growled. Loud. Loud enough that Tom finally noticed me standing there. I rubbed my belly as it growled again, this time longer and meaner. I didn’t blame it. Nearly noon and I hadn’t eaten a single thing.

Oh dear God. Please let my baby be normal and healthy when it comes out.

"Shawarma," I started to mutter out of the blue.

"What was that?" he asked, absentmindedly.

"Can you buy me shawarma?" The words tumbled out before I could stop them.

His eyebrow climbed higher, his face twisting into an expression I couldn’t read. It sent shivers down my neck, but I held my ground. On screen, Mario spun in a victory dance to the goofy end-of-game music, bright letters bouncing with the options: Play Again or Exit.

"You're kidding me, right? Go buy your own shawarma," he snapped, eyes fixed back on the TV screen.

"Well, the nearest shawarma place is like two blocks away, and you're the only one here with a ride to get there fast," I shot back.

He snorted arrogantly and clicked Play Again. Tom ignored me, glued to his game.

I stomped closer and stood behind the sofa, glaring at the back of his head. Without thinking, my hand smacked it.

"Ow!" he yelped, rubbing the spot as he spun around. His Mario Kart character fell off the loopy bridge, and a giant GAME OVER flashed on the screen.

Tom sighed in annoyance and tossed the controller onto the couch. His eyes locked onto mine, sharp enough to make me freeze for a second. Luckily, my craving saved me.

"I'm hungry, you know. It's bad for a pregnant woman to starve. Do you want me to die out of hunger?" I hissed dramatically.

He snickered. "That doesn’t actually sound like a bad idea."

I gasped, stomped one foot, and, before I knew it, a tear slipped down my cheek. Great. Now I was crying over shawarma.

"Why are you like this?!! I asked for one thing. One thing!!!" I wailed like a kid who didn’t get the Christmas gift she wanted.

Tom’s expression shifted. He raked his fingers through his hair, sighing deeply before finally standing up.

"Alright, alright. I’ll buy you one. I need a new pack of cigarettes anyway," he muttered, grabbing his jacket, then headed to the door.

My teary eyes lit up instantly, lips curving into a smile as he left.

The apartment fell quiet. I flopped back onto the sofa, tapping my foot against the floor, restless. My stomach growled again, reminding me of its cruel betrayal. Minutes felt like hours.

Ugh. Why does waiting feel like torture?

I got up and wandered aimlessly, picking at random things on the table just to keep myself busy. My hand brushed against the still-warm game controller, and I decided to put it away.

As I slid it into the bottom shelf of the dusty cabinet, my fingers grazed something thin and crinkled. Curiosity buzzed in my head.

I hesitated.

Should I? What if it’s private? What if he kills me for snooping?

But my curiosity won. Always does.

I pulled it out.

A photo.

Old, dusty, torn at the edges.

It was Tom—only younger. His hair was neat, his bangs brushed across his forehead, and his ear was bare, no cuff piercings yet. He looked… happy. Innocent.

But what caught my attention wasn’t just Tom. Beside him was a girl. Her face, however, was smeared over with black ink, scratched until it was unrecognizable. The only thing visible was her auburn hair.

Weird.

I flipped the photo around. There was nothing else except a complicated signature at the corner. Only the letters N and A stood out.

A chill crawled up my spine. Who was this girl? Why would Tom scratch her out?

I shoved the photo back quickly, afraid he’d murder me if he caught me snooping. Still, curiosity clung to me like a burr. Relative? Ex-girlfriend? And why… why did I feel uneasy about her?

Maybe it’s just hunger. My stomach growled, loud and dramatic, as if agreeing.

Soon enough, Tom came back holding a brown paper bag with the words Khaleb's Shawarma on it.

"Here’s your damn shawarma," Tom grumbled, dropping the warm paper bag right on my stomach.

I yelped at the weight and sat up. He marched past me, shoved my feet off the armrest without warning, and flopped onto the sofa beside me. With a dramatic stretch, he let out a sigh and grabbed the remote like he owned the place.

I blinked at him, then at the bag, then back at him.

"I don’t want this anymore," I muttered.

His head snapped toward me. "What do you mean you don’t want it anymore?"

I chewed my lip. "Can I get… steak instead?"

The look he gave me could’ve melted steel. His jaw tightened, his brows furrowed, and yep... there it was: the infamous Tom death glare.

"Please?" I tried again, forcing my best doe-eyed expression.

He groaned so loudly it sounded like a dying walrus. "I swear, you’re impossible."

Tom dragged his hand down his face. He shot to his feet and stormed out, the door slamming behind him. Seconds later, I heard the motorbike roar to life and fade into the distance.

I sighed dramatically and peeked into the shawarma bag, the smell making my stomach growl. But no. My appetite had officially betrayed me. I want steak now. The shawarma went back on the table with a pathetic little thud.

I flopped down again, arms across my belly, groaning. Minutes crawled by. My stomach growled again, echoing in the silence. I swore I could almost hear the baby inside me scolding: Feed me, woman.

Finally, the door slammed open again. Tom stomped in, face dark as thunderclouds, a plastic bag swinging from his hand. He didn’t even look at me as he dropped it onto my chest. The smell of steak instantly hit me—juicy, savory, heavenly.

I beamed at him. He slumped onto the sofa beside me, muttering something under his breath.

I peeked inside the bag, grinning wide. "Thanks, Tom." Then, without missing a beat, I added sweetly, "Can I get cake too?"

The death glare was back.