Page 86 of Without a Clue

“Of course.”

We stand like that long enough that the lady with the Nash-face T-shirt stops and offers to take our picture.

Several ladies walk by holding plates and settle themselves in lounge chairs as the sun sets.

Steaming broccoli.

Ruby-red lobster on a bed of macaroni and cheese.

“Hungry?” Nash says.

“Headache.” Stars are starting to flash in my vision now. It’s time to lie down in utter darkness immediately. “Correction. Migraine. I’m going to take some medicine and lie down.”

“I’ll come with you.”

“No. It’s fine. Really. I can make it twenty feet to an elevator.”

But my protest is useless, as I knew (and appreciated) it would be.

I don’t put up a fight.

It’s not pretty, or even remotely romantic, him seeing me this way—blundering around with my eyes nearly shut—nauseously making gentle steps inside the room and urgently hunting through my unorganized clothes for some Excedrin.

The migraines only started after the research dives.

I only brought medicine on this trip in case I ended up in the lower caverns of the ship and something like this happened—and it precisely did.

And I know my meds are somewhere in here, jumbled in the pile of clothes I keep unfolding and tossing like a fabric volcano.

Somewhere.

I feel Nash reach for my hands. Still me.

“I’ve got it. You just lie down.”

I don’t fight him or his arms guiding me to the bed.

It takes approximately thirty-two seconds for a knock on the door to come and a waiter to drop off an entire silver platter with ten various brand-new, unopened bottles.

“Geez, Pip, you really picked the Ritz here. This one?”

“Whichever knocks me out.”

He picks one and hands me a glass of water.

“They tried to give me a cooler of bottled water options,” he says with a touch of humor.

And I would crack a joke about it, if I could laugh without my brain exploding.

Instead, I manage a tiny smile before I set the pill on my tongue and chase it with water.

I tuck myself under the covers as soon as possible afterward, pulling the thick white comforter up to my eyes.

I’m otherwise entirely hidden beneath blankets.

I look like a dead snowman.

“Go on to dinner,” I say, my voice muffled through the blankets.