28. CORA
CORA
Today is better than yesterday because I don’t have a migraine. This week has been brutal—the pressure from the seasons changing, constantly feeling like there was a migraine about to take me down.
I’ve been to every kind of doctor, done all the fancy tests, tried all of the meds—including monthly shots—and I know less now than what I did before all of this.
When I was fourteen, I got my first migraine.
I was at the movies with my friends and I thought I was having a stroke.
Mine always come with an aura, which could be squiggly lines, circle floaters, or just no peripheral vision.
I called my parents, who picked me up and took me to the emergency room.
I’ve never known something so debilitating with such limited answers. There’s not much research that proves why women suffer more than men, and when we’re talking about the leading cause of disability in the U.S., it feels unacceptable.
After all the tests and trying new meds, plus odd lifestyle changes—like the two month period where I had zero citrus fruit—I’ve essentially learned how to cope and take care of myself. Mine are mostly hormonal and weather driven—two things that are cyclical and can’t be turned off.
Or sometimes, it’s due to stress. And that’s also in the back of my head for the way I’ve felt the last few days.
I’m taking eighteen credit hours, teaching spin and yoga at the rec center, doing stats for hockey, and pretending to have a social life. Oh, and don’t forget the research I’m supposed to be doing, but can’t, considering Lane and I aren't speaking.
With that comes the amount of pressure I’m under to get this into a place that’s tangible.
Each day that passes where I don’t have the data to even get started digs a pit deeper in my stomach.
The thought of going back to Professor McCullough and telling her, “Just kidding, won’t be doing any research, sorry to be a waste of time and space!
” has me frequently chewing the inside of my cheek.
I think I’m going to ask Leo or Troy to help me with the research.
I’m walking out of the rec center when someone calls my name.
It’s Lane. Holding two coffee cups. Leaning against a wall outside the rec center.
Certainly not what I was expecting.
He walks over, saying nothing further as he offers me a coffee.
“What is this?” I ask.
“Your coffee order,” he answers, tilting his head to the cup warming my hand.
Handwriting on the cup includes Lane’s name with a heart next to it—real subtle barista behavior—and then oat milk vanilla latte.
Before I can ask how he knows it, or the bigger question—what is this, really?—he says, “Leo helped me. Got it from Brinn.”
“Gold star. This is my coffee order.” I lift the cup to him. I could keep pressing until Lane tells me what he’s doing, but it’s not my job to dig.
He looks around, his breath creating puffs of white—it’s chilly this October morning. “You were supposed to teach yesterday?” Lane says it like a question.
How does he know that?
“I had a migraine yesterday. Had to have someone cover.”
“Well, I tried catching you then.” He looks down at the ground before taking a sip of his coffee. “Don’t worry, these are new.” Lane tries to smirk to match his joke, but I don’t laugh.
“What is this?” I rest my weight on one leg.
“A peace offering. You were trying to be nice. And—”
I finish his sentence. “You were an asshole.”
Lane nods. “Yes. I was an asshole. That’s why I’m here with coffee.”
I sip my latte, the warmth a perfect contrast to the cool fall air.
Looking at the writing on my to-go cup, realization surrounds me: Freddy never did this.
He never knew what I liked to drink or went out of his way to learn it.
Lane and I obviously aren’t dating, but it’s hard for me to kick the thought about effort.
“Thank you. This is appreciated.” I take another sip.
A bit of stress rolls of Lane’s shoulders—broad, covered in a charcoal gray Otters hoodie. His face softens, almost like this has been bothering him. “Are we good for next week?” His voice is quieter than I expect.
“What’s next week?”
“Shooting from the right circle next, I’m guessing.”
It reminds me of the last time we were on the ice. No good.
I nod. “Yeah. That works for me.” I walk past him, ready for the next part of my day. Before I’m too far away, I call out, “Good luck tomorrow.”
“Thanks, Lee.”
He says my name like it’s an inside joke, and it sort of is.
“Why are you bringing coffee to our coffee date?” Brinn asks, brows pinched together. Her eyes go wide when she reads the label. “I’d like to take that question back. Why is Lane’s name on this coffee cup?!”
Heat rushed to my cheeks at Brinn having no issue shouting this in a public place. The coffee shop is busy for this early—laptops open at every table, the low buzz of conversation mingling between them.
“Lane apologized,” I admit while we stand in line for Brinn to order her coffee. “Feels like he meant it."
“Wow. A man apologizing?! Someone write it down so we can remember this momentous day!” Her jab drips with sarcasm. “That’s why Leo was digging for coffee details.” She shakes her head in fake disappointment.
Elbowing her playfully, I say, “Stop that. This is a nice thing to do for someone.”
“Nice?” Her eyebrows shot up. “I’m sure that’s exactly what you were thinking. How nice he is.”
I gave her a look, but she just grins like she’s cornered me and there’s nowhere for me to go.
“We’re just friends,” I insist, a little too quickly. “Actually, we’re more like colleagues. With the research, and the stats, and—”
“Uh-huh.” She gives me a side-eye. “He seemed super friendly when he was showing you around his piercings...”
I grip her forearm, feeling the blush run rampant over my cheeks. My face feeling as hot as the pot of fresh coffee I see from here. “I told you that was between us,” I hiss, my jaw sort of clenched, and I’m trying not to laugh.
“It is between us. No one knows what we’re talking about.
” She gestures around the room, everyone focused on themselves or their own conversation.
“But you’re avoiding what I'm trying to get at. How do you feel?” Her grin softens into something gentler.
“I’m not saying you have to profess your love or anything.
But admit it—there’s something there. Lane messed up, he owned it, and now he’s trying. ”
I sigh, pressing my fingers to my temple. “It’s… complicated. Well, it’s not. One of the first rules for the hockey players is to not hook up with the coach’s daughter.”
“Complicated doesn’t mean it’s not worth it.” Brinn bumps her shoulder into mine, her voice quiet but sure. “Plus, I'll have you know, you’ve evaded the question yet again.” She claps her hands like she’s got me.
Heat creeps up my neck. I take a slow sip of coffee to buy myself a few seconds. “He doesn't want me like that. He’s made that perfectly clear.”
For a moment, I pause. I think about what she’s asking. She reaches the front of the counter and is ordering coffee while I try to figure it out. Brinn doesn’t press me and I'm thankful.
What do I want? And if I already know the answer, maybe I’m weighing the risks of what it would mean to actually have it.