Page 45 of Checking It Twice
The question stops me cold. I said “next time” as if this is going to be a regular occurrence, implying I plan to be around for all her future migraines—a future that extends way beyond this fake girlfriend weekend.
“I mean, if there is a next time. Generally speaking.”
She’s quiet for a moment, and I can’t tell if she’s processing my slip-up or just trying not to move her head too much.
“Thank you,” she says finally. “This is really sweet.”
“I haven’t even started yet. I was going to research pressure point massage techniques, and maybe we should look into your diet because I read that certain foods can trigger—”
“Mitch.”
“Yeah?”
“Come here.”
I perch carefully on the edge of the bed, trying not to jostle the mattress. She reaches for my hand, threading our fingers together, and something in my chest eases slightly.
“You can’t fix this,” she says gently. “I know you want to, but you can’t.”
“I can try.”
“You’re already trying. Maybe too much.”
I look at the ridiculous collection of supplies I’ve assembled: the towel-and-duct-tape blackout curtains, and the fact that I’ve basically declared war on her migraine like it’s my personal enemy.
“I don’t like seeing you hurt,” I admit.
“I know.” Her thumb traces across my knuckles. “But this isn’t like hockey. You can’t outskate it or check it into the boards.”
“I could try.”
That earns a tiny smile, barely visible in the cave-like darkness I’ve created. “Please don’t try to body-check my migraine.”
“What if I just lightly checked it? Like a friendly nudge?”
“No checking migraines.”
“What about a stern talking-to? I could give your migraine a really intimidating lecture.”
Her smile widens slightly. “You’re ridiculous.”
“I’m thorough.”
“You duct-taped towels to the window.”
“I eliminated light sources. Very different.”
She’s quiet for a moment, and I think she might be drifting off when she speaks again.
“Mitch?”
“Yeah?”
“Will you just... stay? Just be here?”
The question does something dangerous to my chest. Because she’s not asking me to research pressure points or build more elaborate blackout systems. She’s asking me to stay. To be present while she hurts, without trying to fix anything.
“Yeah,” I say, settling more carefully onto the bed beside her. “I can do that.”
