Raised by the Mafia

35. A Dish Served Burnt (Mila)

I wake up to a nauseating smell. Something is burning! I flail, not knowing where I am, until I realize I'm struggling with a sleeping bag. I pull its silky fabric over my nose, gazing wide-eyed at the underwear hanging right in front of me. A dark silhouette of a man crouches next to a patch of glowing coals, poking them with a stick. Something hisses and steams on these coals. The burning smell that wafts from over there is just awful, but it's not threatening.

It all comes back to me in a rush. Luca. The cabin in the woods. . And this is my husband, Ryan. He's... cooking?

"Ryan?" My voice is thick from the interrupted sleep. I choke on the fumes, but hold back the urge to vomit. Barely. It seems, I've been nauseated half the time since I've left on this damn trip. Morning, day and night...

"Trout! That's why the cabin is here. It's someone's fishing hole!" Ryan responds excitedly. "You're right in time for dinner, love. Or maybe supper?"

I sit up, clutching the sleeping bag over my chest. Yeah, there were fishhooks in the survival gear, so he used them. "Trout?" Another wave of nausea assaults me.

Ryan is so boyishly happy with the food he caught, I don't have the heart to tell him that even gourmet fish, prepared a-la mode, disgusts me. Trout from a mountain brook, burned almost to crisp to make sure it's cooked through to destroy parasites and full of tiny sharp bones, that smells like... eww.

Ryan blows on his fingers and swears, handing me his catch on a stick. Two more fishes are still sitting on the coals.

Instinctively, I lean away from his offering. "I'm too tired to eat. Please, have it all. You need it!"

"Naz," he says in a warning tone. "This isn't the time to play coy. It's almost midnight. We must eat and rest."

"Stop talking to me like I'm a damn toddler!"

"You aren't? Oh, good. Because I was going to ask you to open the hangar for this airplane." He pinches a bit of fish between his thumb and forefinger, and brings it to my mouth.

Before I know what I'm doing, I suck the flaky flesh off his fingers, even though I hate fish... but it's his fingers! God, I haven't kissed him in so long, and nobody deserves a kiss more.

His face breaks into a sheepish grin, a merry twinkle in his eyes from the unsteady light of the stove.

This is adorable... until the revolting taste fills my mouth. My spine stiffens. There's no way I can force this down! Saliva floods my mouth, the sick roils my gut. I jump to my feet, pressing my hand tightly against my lips. Please, Lord, let me hold the terrible stuff in until I dash out of the door half-naked and barefoot.

For once, God answers my prayers. My innards hang in there for just long enough. Once outside, I bend over, spitting out fish mixed with bile. It hurts. I stumble to the pool to wash my mouth, ignoring rough footing. Actually, I wouldn't mind dipping my whole head in.

Through the haze of sickness and splashing water Ryan's panicking voice calls out to me.

"Naz, dammit, are you alright? Where are you? Did you choke on a bone? Naz? Naz?!"

My response is a weak-ass whimper in comparison. "I'm by the pool. I'm okay, I just couldn't stomach the fish. Never could... Sorry?"

"Jeez, Naz, you freaked me out. Why do you always have to freak me out? Are you allergic or something?" He silhouettes against the darkness, his arms treading air like water.

"I'm not allergic, but I hate it. The smell, the texture, the slimy skin... eww." Another wave of nausea comes up just talking about it, but it's not so bad. I gag and cradle my belly. "Look, I know we have to eat, but I can't do fish. I'd rather chew bark."