Chapter 14
ABBY
Whether it’s my own admission of enjoying Miles’s company or Walter’s speech about regrets, when I get back to my room, it’s not my door I face. It’s Miles’s—and I knock before I can think too hard about it.
Walter is right; the days are long and the years are short, and this week is even shorter.
Why shouldn’t I hang out with Miles if I enjoy his company?
My migraine hasn’t gotten worse, and it might be fun to have someone go on the sunset sail with me.
It might be romantic, but it can’t be any worse than the dinner we had last night.
He still hasn’t answered the door, so I knock again, louder this time. It’s Sunday, and it’s possible that he won’t even be in his room. I assume he doesn’t work on Sundays, but he might. He might be out with friends or on another run.
The sunset sail isn’t for a few hours. I could slip a note under his door and hope for the best.
I try one more time—loud, firm knocks—count to sixty, and then turn back to my room to get my notebook.
“Abby?” His voice is raspy, and I whip back around only to wish I hadn’t.
He’s wearing gray sweatpants so low that I can see the V of his hip bones, and although this is not the first time I’m seeing this much of Miles’s body, given how often he’s been in a swimsuit when we’ve seen each other, this look is particularly tempting because it’s paired with bedhead and sleepy eyes.
Fucking hell…
Does he realize how hot he is?
“Oh my gosh, I’m—I’m so sorry. I—did I—were you asleeping? Asleep?”
What the fuck is wrong with me? This isn’t migraine brain, and it certainly isn’t alcohol brain.
He squints one eye as he gives me a lopsided smile and leans against the doorframe, hands in his pockets. “I was just—yeah, I was taking a nap.”
“Fuck, I’m really sorry. I’ll—please go finish your—”
I start to back away toward my room, but a hand on my arm stops me. Miles has reached out, keeping his door ajar with one hand and holding my arm with the other.
“What’s up, Abby?”
“Um… I…was going to—later I had—have an excursion. I was going to see if…I was going to invite—if you wanted to come…could you put a shirt on?”
I press my fingers into my eyes, as if the image of his body and the outline of his dick in those sweats isn’t seared into my memory. Why am I acting like a fool right now? He was shirtless and in my bed two days ago; why can I not pull myself together right now?
“Is my body distracting you, Abby?” His smirk is thick in his words. I don’t have to be looking at him to know the smug smile on his face.
“No, no. Definitely not.”
As if to prove my point, I keep my eyes firmly planted on his; no more body scanning.
“My excursion tonight is a sunset sail and I was wondering if you had any interest in joining me,” I say, taking my time, as if to prove that his state of dress doesn’t affect me at all.
“Sounds romantic,” he says.
“It’s not.” I cross my arms in front of my chest. It probably is a little romantic, but I won’t give him the satisfaction.
“I hope it is,” he says. His smug grin takes on more of a sly, flirtatious quality, and my cheeks pink. I’m trying to think of something to say, anything at all, but my tongue feels all tied up in my mouth.
“Okay…well…you have to register for it at the front desk. I’ll swing by your room and get you before we have to go.
” I spit it all out too quickly and spin on my heels, but turn back before I step into my room.
“Wear something pretty for me, Miles,” I say, and listen to him cackle as I close my door.
A nap sounds like a good idea; maybe it’s the migraine wearing off or the food, but flopped back on my bed in the air conditioning, I am feeling sleepy.
I surrender to it, turning off my light and setting an alarm.
I plan to rest until the sail, but I’m hopeful that a nap will knock out the rest of this migraine before I board a boat.
I startle awake to a loud knocking at my door, and I am immediately aware of the sharp pain behind my eye.
My pulse races wildly at the sudden jolt out of sleep, and I can’t figure out for a second where I am or what time it is.
My room is pitch-black, the thick curtains drawn, all my lights off.
I flail around for my phone. What time is it? Did I oversleep?
The brightness of my phone screen is painful.
I squint, fumbling to lower the brightness.
It’s nearly six thirty. I slept for three hours and I was only supposed to sleep for one.
A nap was the wrong move. The migraine is back, and, given the pain behind my eye and the way the world is starting to tilt, I think it’s worse than before.
There’s another knock at the door. It’s probably Miles coming to get me for the sunset sail because I said I’d come get him and never did.
Just the thought of being on a boat in the water right now sends a wave of nausea from my stomach straight up to my throat, so intense that, despite the intense throb of pain behind my eyes and at the back of my head, I bolt to the bathroom and gag over the toilet until I can breathe my way through the nausea.
Please don’t throw up. Please don’t throw up. Please don’t throw up.
There are so many unpleasant things about having a migraine, but throwing up when my head feels like it’s being squeezed in a vise is one of the worst.
The sudden movement catches up with me. I clutch my head, curling my fingers into my hair as my head pounds, like it’s being hit with a mallet repeatedly. I squeeze my eyes hard and breathe through the pain.
This is bad. I need my meds.
Another knock at the door.
Miles. Fuck.
With my eyes firmly shut, as if it would keep the world from tilting, my head from pounding, I grope my way out of the bathroom, using the sink and then the walls to guide me.
I crack my eyes open once I’m in the bedroom, but it makes no difference.
Eyes open or closed, the world isn’t staying still.
I make it to the door and crack it open. The light from outside practically makes me hiss, like I’m some kind of vampire.
“Hey, you never— Whoa, are you okay?”
Without an invitation or a word from me, Miles steps into my room, cradling my face. The door closes behind him, and I flinch at the noise. Why was that so loud? Is it normally that loud?
“Migraine,” I croak. “But I’m—just give me like fifteen minutes. I’ll take…I need meds and then—”
I start to turn, but Miles moves his hands to my arms, restricting my movement.
“Uh, no. Abby, you look…rough. I don’t think we should go on the sail.”
“I don’t want to miss it,” I whine. It’s childish of me, but I am so sick of my migraines stealing time and experiences from me. “I just need my anti-nausea—”
As I say the words, another vicious wave of nausea rips through me, and I hold a hand up, as if to tell him to wait while it passes.
I breathe through it—in through my nose and out through my mouth—but whatever cologne Miles is wearing is too strong.
The smells are all wrong, too intense, and they only add to the threat that I will lose my lunch.
I push against his chest, covering my nose and mouth with a hand.
He steps back, seeming to understand, and I brace myself against the wall, breathing into my hand.
“Abby, what can I get you? What do you need right now?”
I don’t answer him. I can’t speak until the wave dies back down. I gesture “one minute” with a finger, and he waits.
The nausea subsides. I lean against the wall, eyes closed.
I need my meds, but I’m not even sure I could keep them down.
“Your cologne,” I say. “It’s…I can’t.”
“Give me your room key.”
“Why?” I ask, my words half-breathed. Every syllable is an effort. I want to lie down, but I know it won’t help. I feel so weak. I don’t want to be standing anymore.
“Because I’m going to change and come back.”
“You don’t have to. I’m okay,” I say, and I can hear how tired, how feeble, how not okay I actually sound.
“Just tell me where the room key is, Abby.”
I lift my arm with a wimpy point at the dresser. I hear the slide of the plastic across the wood and the careful click of the door as he opens and closes it.
Through the pain, a glimmer of relief.
I don’t have to do this alone.
Moving feels impossible, so I don’t. I stay leaning against the wall for however long it takes to hear the beep of the door key scanned and feel Miles take up space near me again. It feels like hours.
“Let’s get you to the bed,” he says.
“Not yet. I might…” I gesture to the bathroom. Everything is sideways and spinning and my stomach is unsettled.
“Okay, can we both agree that you’re not getting on a boat?”
I stick my bottom lip out and squint harder, expressing my displeasure as best I can without words.
“Pout all you want; you couldn’t make it to the boat, much less handle it when it’s moving.”
“Don’t be mean to me,” I say. “I’m ill.”
“You are, which is why we’re staying here,” he says.
I want to argue so badly, but I can’t find the energy for it. Words won’t come to me. And the worst part is that he’s right—I would not survive a boat ride or even the walk to the boat. I know he’s not being mean, but my vacation is being ruined by this migraine and I’m taking it out on him.
“Fine, but I—”
Another wave of nausea hits me. It’s not a normal wave; this is a tsunami, and I am not going to be able to ride it.
Faster than I’d like to, I move into the bathroom, just making it in time to empty the contents of my stomach without getting it all over the floor.
I reach to move my hair out of my face, but Miles is already there, scooping my hair away and rubbing my back.
As I lower myself to the floor, he comes with me.
The pain in my head is excruciating. The exertion of it all has my brain feeling like it will bust through my skull, and the sharp pain behind my eye feels nothing like a pinch and everything like a knife.
“I’m so sorry,” I whisper.