Page 46 of Checking It Twice
Except I absolutely cannot just sit here and do nothing.
While she dozes, I pull out my phone and continue my research. Migraine triggers: stress, hormones, certain foods, changes in sleep patterns, weather pressure. Treatment options: medications, lifestyle changes, and something called “biofeedback” that sounds promising.
I start a note in my phone titled “Clare - Important” and begin cataloging everything: when the migraine started, what she ate yesterday, how much she slept, possible stress factors (fake girlfriend performance anxiety?), and environmental conditions.
Then I research meal plans for migraine sufferers. Apparently, magnesium deficiency can be a factor, so I start a grocery list: leafy greens, nuts, seeds, magnesium supplements.
By the time she stirs again an hour later, I’ve basically become an amateur neurologist.
“How are you feeling?” I whisper.
“Like someone’s using a jackhammer inside my skull,” she mumbles. “But the medicine took the edge off.”
“Good. That’s progress. I’ve been researching dietary modifications, and I think we should consider—”
“Mitch.”
“Yeah?”
“Are you planning my meals?”
I glance at my phone, where I’ve apparently written a 2,000-word essay on migraine prevention strategies. “Maybe.”
“We’re fake dating.”
“So?”
“So you don’t need to become a migraine specialist for someone you’re pretending to date.”
Oh.
Right.
Looking at her lying there in pain, hair a mess, no makeup, wearing my old hockey T-shirt, and absolutely gorgeous in her vulnerability—this is the most real thing I’ve felt in months.
“Maybe I want to,” I say quietly.
She goes very still beside me.
The words hang in the dark room between us, loaded with meaning we’re both afraid to examine too closely.
And if that means becoming the world’s most overqualified migraine support specialist, then so be it.
“The peppermint oil might help,” I offer. “I could try the pressure point thing. Very gently.”
She’s quiet for so long that I think she’s fallen asleep. Then she whispers, “Okay. But if you start trying to write a doctoral thesis on my headaches, I’m breaking up with you.”
“Fake breaking up.”
“Right. Fake breaking up.”
But neither of us sounds convinced anymore.
Three hours later, I’m still sitting vigil beside Clare’s sleeping form when she suddenly stretches like a cat and opens her eyes without wincing for the first time all day.
“Hi,” she says, her voice clear and bright.
I blink at her, suspicious. “Hi yourself. How do you feel?”
