Chapter Ten #2
I don’t let myself finish that sentence, or I’ll spiral into a guilt fest I won’t be able to get out of and ruin yet another outing with a very nice person. He doesn’t deserve me being distracted.
Not a date, I remind myself.
But two hours later, I start to realize the truth.
This is totally a date, and I’m a liar.
*
The ibuprofen doesn’t work.
In hindsight, I should have had more water throughout the day. I’m guilty of hating how bland it is, and the powders people put in them to give it flavor make it too grainy for my liking. But if I sucked it up, then this might have been prevented.
It starts when the dull thrum behind my right eye spreads to my left until the lights inside the bar begin hurting me.
Then nausea settles into my stomach, making it nearly impossible to eat any of the appetizers Dane orders for us to share as we have a drink and go over a few more details of what I want at the store.
He shows me pictures on his phone from old jobs that are beautiful, and everything I’d love to see once I get my plans approved.
Eventually, though, staring at the slideshow of images makes me want to vomit. And when I excuse myself to go to the bathroom, I cringe at the glassy-eyed version of myself I see in the mirror as I splash cold water on my face not caring if what little makeup I applied washes off.
A group of girls stumble into the bathroom, clearly tipsy.
They giggle and crowd the sinks, checking their hair and makeup while one of their friends disappears in a stall.
The sound of their laughter doesn’t help my head, so I walk out and try ignoring the lightheadedness making each step difficult.
As soon as I sit down, Dane asks, “Are you all right?”
I wince. I know I look rough, but I was hoping he wouldn’t notice.
Aren’t men bad at noticing things? Once, I dyed my hair blonde and a guy I dated didn’t say a thing.
When I called him out for it, he said he thought it was always that way.
My hair is naturally brown. Darker than chocolate, but not quite black.
“I’m not feeling well,” I admit sheepishly, rubbing my temple hoping to alleviate some of the pressure building there. My eyes hurt so bad, that I’m worried they’ll combust at any second if I don’t lay my head down.
Clearing my throat feels like a chore, and it vibrates my head in ways that sends another wave of nausea ripping through me. “I think I have to go. I’m so sorry.”
I stand, grabbing my jacket and purse before he can say anything. He stands too, concern tilting his lips down. “Is there anything I can do?”
“No,” I force out, swallowing down the need to puke. I take out a few bills from my wallet and set them onto the table. “I’ll be fine. I just really need to go. Sorry. I’ll…I’ll let you know when I get home.”
I’ll feel bad about walking out on him later when I can think straight without wanting to cry. Right now, I just need to get home. That’s all.
It’s a miracle that I get back on my own without needing to pull over and empty the contents of my stomach or curl up in fetal position in the backseat. It’s tempting, but I manage to pull into the driveway in record time.
I forget about parking in the garage, choosing to leave the car closer to the entrance so I can go inside as soon as possible.
It takes me three tries to punch in the code with shaky fingers, and I barely get inside before I’m launching toward the garbage and saying goodbye to the half a loaded potato I ate at the bar.
Sinking against the cool tile floor in the kitchen, I hug the trashcan and let myself catch my breath.
I’m not sure how long I lay like that, keeping my eyes closed and feeling the thump, thump, thump echo in my skull and eardrums. When I’m positive I’m not going to throw up again, I get to my feet and slowly make my way upstairs.
It’s more like a crawl, but when my body hits the bed belly first—shoes, jacket, and all—I all but groan.
I don’t remember falling asleep, and I have no clue what time it is before I hear my name whispered. Except, it doesn’t sound like a whisper. It may as well be somebody screaming at me because of how it bounces around in my head.
The incoherent noise I make is in protest, but I can’t figure out how to get the words out. A hand rests on my cheek before a cuss rings out in the room. “You’re burning up,” the voice says.
I feel like I am, but I’m too weak to do anything about it. If I move, my head will pound and who knows what will happen. I’m not even sure I can lift my arms on my own right now.
“Come on,” the voice coaxes softly, before something is tugged off my body. My jacket. It’s peeled off me one sleeve at a time, then my boots come off a moment later. “I’ll be right back.”
I think I drift off again, because I’m startled when something cool is draped over the back of my neck. I’m still laying on my stomach, unwilling to move.
The voice says something else, but I ignore them. Unfortunately for me, they don’t listen. “I need you to take this, honey. Sit up for just a second to take these pills and then you can lay back down.”
Honey. Honey is nice. It warms my heart and breaks past the pain threshold, just a little.
Somehow, I do what I’m told. With help, I sit up as something presses against my mouth. A cup. “Take these,” the voice says, guiding my hand to take two small pills. I do that too.
The nausea has subsided a little, so I’m not worried about getting sick again. Hopefully that means the pills will work.
“One more sip, baby girl,” that masculine voice prompts, a hand gently rubbing my back to keep me sitting up for a few seconds longer.
Because I’m desperate to lay back down, I drink more of the water without complaint. One sip. Then two. Then three.
“Good girl.” The glass is pulled away, and he helps me lay back down. I’m nestled into the pillows and blankets, letting my body cool off as the water works its way into my system.
The cool cloth goes from my neck to my forehead, and those fingers that were on my back are now brushing hair away from my face. Then I feel something warm press against my cheek as the weight that dipped the bed goes away.
I fall back asleep at some point, praying that I’ll have relief from the throbbing pain taking my brain hostage in the morning.
Hours later, after a restless sleep, I crack my eyes open to the sunlight creeping through the windows. My eyelids feel heavy as I blink a few times to adjust to the light.
Then I see him.
Jesse, sitting in the armchair in the corner of the room that usually has a piece of clothing hanging from it.
He’s sleeping, with one elbow resting on the arm and his chin propped on his hand.
He’s got a leg bent, resting on his other as if he tried to get comfortable at some point during the night.
He slept in the room.
He took care of me last night.
I swallow.
It wouldn’t be the first time, would it?
Jesse cracks an eye open, as if sensing that he’s being stared at. As soon as he realizes I’m awake, he perks up. “Hey. How are you feeling?”
His voice is quiet, cautious. He knows how sensitive I am to sound. He remembers all the days and nights of agony when a migraine would make it impossible to function.
Instead of answering, I ask, “Did you sleep in here all night?”
His lips twitch. “I was worried.”
A lump forms in my throat. “You’re going to get a neck cramp, old man,” I joke, voice watery.
A soft chuckle escapes him. “Good thing I know a damn good masseuse.”
We watch each other for a split second.
I cringe, remembering I threw up when I got inside. “I need to go downstairs and—”
“I already cleaned things up,” he cuts me off, completely unfazed. Did God create this man to torture me knowing I can’t have him?
I close my eyes and rub them. “I’m sorry. I wasn’t going to make it to the bathroom, and it took everything I had to get upstairs.”
There’s still a dull ache in my skull, which means I definitely won’t be doing anything today. I can’t risk it getting worse again.
Jesse scoots to the end of the chair and pins me with a look. “You never have to apologize for that, Bells. I’ve got your back. No matter what.”
Like I said. Torture.
He stands. “I’m going to make you some breakfast. You should eat something and take more medicine. I left a fresh glass of water right there, and another pill. It’s been long enough, so you can take one.”
He walks over to me, swiping hair away from my face and grazing the pad of his thumb down my cheek. Jesse doesn’t say a word to me. He just steps back and walks out of the room to do exactly what he said he would.
But I still feel that touch on my face the rest of the day.