Page 41 of Checking It Twice
The first thing I notice is the ice pick lodged directly behind my left eye.
The second thing is that I’m draped across Mitchell like he’s my personal body pillow again, my face buried against his neck, one leg thrown over his hip in a way that would be mortifying if my skull weren’t actively trying to crack open.
I’ve had migraines since college—stress, hormones, too much wine, not enough sleep. Usually, I can feel them building, pop some ibuprofen, and hide in a dark room until they pass.
This one hit like a freight train driven by a sadist.
I try to extract myself from Mitch’s warmth without moving my head too much, but the tiny bed makes stealth impossible. The mattress creaks, he shifts, and suddenly those storm-gray eyes are blinking open inches from mine.
“Morning,” he mumbles, his voice rough with sleep.
I try to smile, but even that small movement sends lightning shooting through my skull. “Morning.”
He studies my face, and I watch awareness sharpen his features. “You okay?”
“Fine.” The lie comes out strained, tight. “Just tired.”
But I’m not fine. I’m definitely not fine. The pain is building behind my eyes like pressure in a dam, and there’s a rollingnausea in my stomach that suggests this is going to get much worse before it gets better.
I need to get to the bathroom. I need to splash cold water on my face and take something for this before—
I sit up too fast.
The world tilts sideways, and suddenly I’m bolting for the tiny attached bathroom, barely making it to the toilet before my stomach decides to rebel against last night’s wine and Karen’s rich dinner.
“Clare?” Mitch’s voice comes through the door, concerned. “You okay in there?”
I want to answer, but I’m too busy dry heaving to form words. The fluorescent light above the mirror feels like a laser beam drilling into my brain, so I flip it off and sink onto the cool tile floor in the dark.
Better. Slightly.
“I’m fine,” I call weakly, my voice echoing off the bathroom tiles. “Just need a minute.”
There’s a pause, then a soft knock. “Can I come in?”
“No. I’m fine. Really.”
But I’m not fine, and lying on his parents’ bathroom floor at seven in the morning while trying not to throw up is not how I pictured this fake girlfriend weekend going.
The door opens anyway.
“I said I was fine,” I protest, but it comes out more like a whimper.
“Yeah, you look fine,” he says dryly, and I crack one eye open to see him crouched beside me. He’s wearing nothing but boxer briefs and a concerned expression, his hair sticking up in seventeen different directions. “What’s wrong?”
“Migraine.” The admission slips out before I can stop it. “Bad one.”
His face immediately shifts to something I can only describe as panic. “Migraine? How bad? Do we need to go to the hospital?”
“No hospital.” I close my eyes again because looking at him is making the spinning worse. “I just need it to be dark and quiet and for my head to stop trying to explode.”
He’s already moving, and I hear him fumbling around the bathroom. “What else? Medicine? Do you have medicine?”
“In my bag.” I nod toward the bedroom. “The good stuff.”
“On it.”
He disappears, and I hear him moving around the bedroom with the subtlety of a baby elephant. Drawers opening, zippers being yanked, muttered cursing when he presumably can’t find what he’s looking for.
