“You okay?” he asks, and that makes me very aware of how I’ve been lying beside him, half on top of him, in fact, with my head resting on his chest for many minutes. No longer can I even claim it’s for a quick post-coital embrace; my breath has returned to normal, I’ve pulled up the covers around us because I grew cold, and I couldn’t tell you how long he’s been absent-mindedly stroking my back, but it’s the same amount of time I’ve been smiling as he does.
Fuck. It happened again. A couple of heady orgasms as he fucked me hard from behind and I’ve forgotten the rules. Rules I’ve set for myself so I can put this weird Charlie chapter behind me once and for all. Because I meant what I said to him. There is no way on earth that we would work.
He’s too cheerful, too upbeat and too… nice. I’m too moody, too realistic and too… honest for Charlie. He just hasn’t seen me at my worse. He’s got lucky that our fake dates have happened on days without an attack and with only low-level symptoms and pain. He and everyone else I work with is fortunate I’ve always managed to keep my migraine disease hidden from them. He may think he likes me and wants to see me again, to date for real this time, but this version of me has an expiry date. An attack is always just around the corner, especially considering my period is due in two days. My bad days aren’t just occasional blips; they’re unavoidable realities.
It’s not that I think having chronic migraine disease makes me unlovable. It hasn’t held me back from starting relationships before and I’ve never found it difficult to explain myself to potential lovers and partners in the past. But they were… women. It pains me that there’s truth in the fact that because Charlie is a man, a part of me is convinced he wouldn’t adapt well to seeing me at my worst. But this conclusion isn’t unfounded. He’s known me for the better part of two years, and he thought nothing of co-adopting my Moana nickname and being privy to a bet about my sexuality. And that’s just because I have kept my guard up at work. Imagine what he’d think if he saw me shaking and sweating in my darkened bedroom, unable to even have him in the same room because the smell of him, the sounds his breath makes and the soothing words he wants to speak to me are all too much, too fucking much. Imagine what he’d do if I couldn’t make it to the bathroom in time and vomited on the floor, and yet didn’t have enough energy or vision to clean it up for hours afterwards.
Hannah only saw me at my worst a handful of times – I became adept at hiding it from her even, simply burrowing down in bed with the lights off whenever a migraine hit – and aside from administering my medication and insisting I took a few sips of water every few hours, she happily kept her distance. And that worked for me. Something tells me that Charlie would want to fuss over me. Charlie would likely want to try things to make me better. Charlie would want to fix me and make it all go away.
But you can’t fix or change something that just is. Something that is difficult and unpredictable and tumultuous. But something that is my reality.
No, Charlie doesn’t fit into that reality. I can’t have his sunshine persona reminding me just how dark and stormy I become when a migraine attack hits. And I refuse to be ashamed of this side of me. It’s taken me long enough to accept that this is part of who I am, and to not be embarrassed or ashamed. Fundamentally, I refuse to feel unworthy or broken or less than, not when it takes all my energy just to navigate the long minutes and hours of an episode.
That’s why I lift my head from Charlie’s chest and disentangle my limbs from his. Because it’s the right thing to do.
Or rather, I tell myself I will feel like it was the right decision later. Maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow. But one day soon I will know I’ve made the right decision. Probably the next time I’m curled up in my bed, an ice wrap around my head and lonely tears sneaking out of my eyes as a severe attack sucks me under.
“I should go,” I tell him, pushing up on my hands.
“Please don’t,” He wraps his hands around me and pulls me back down to his chest with a light thump.
“Charlie, it’s dark and I need a good night’s sleep before tomorrow’s pitch,” I explain.
“Sleep here,” he says.
“I can’t. I need my clothes. I need my make-up.”
“Would you believe me if I told you I have eyeliner and mascara here?”
I pause. “Yes, actually,” I say with an unstoppable little grin that I don’t let him see. “But I still need clothes. And my laptop.”
“We’ll get up early and go and get everything together. I don’t know about you but I’m exhausted and I could fall asleep right now. And if we do that then setting my alarm for five won’t feel bad at all.”
I consider this. I’m certainly tired enough that I could fall asleep in a heartbeat.
“I’ll loan you pyjamas,” Charlie says.
“I normally sleep in the nude.”
“Then you’re definitely staying.” His arms tighten around me.
Laughter bubbles out of me despite myself. Is it so bad that I allow myself a night of warmth in Charlie’s bed? Warmth that doesn’t just come from Charlie’s bed, but from the slow-burning heat in my chest that his company gives me, that his touch brings.
“And Mina, you know I have what you really want.” One of his hands travels down to cup my arse.
“You do?” I ask hesitantly. Maybe one more last fuck is permissible? It was so good when he was ploughing into me from behind just a moment ago. Besides, isn’t it the same fuck if we don’t put clothes on in between?
“And you know I’d be more than happy to give it to you in the morning.”
“You will?” I play along. I’ve always liked morning sex.
“A nice warm shower,” he says slowly and gravelly.
And that does it. That justifies it completely to me. I’m not just staying for a few more hours of Charlie’s warmth. I’m staying so I can wake up to a hot shower for the first morning in over two weeks.
Maybe also some morning sex… One last time.
And then we really are done. As soon as we walk into that office together, we’re done. It’s that simple.
