“It’s not.” I cross my arms in front of my chest. It probably is a little romantic, but I won’t give him the satisfaction.
“I hope it is,” he says. His smug grin takes on more of a sly, flirtatious quality, and my cheeks pink. I’m trying to think of something to say, anything at all, but my tongue feels all tied up in my mouth.
“Okay…well…you have to register for it at the front desk. I’ll swing by your room and get you before we have to go.” I spit it all out too quickly and spin on my heels, but turn back before I step into my room. “Wear something pretty for me, Miles,” I say, and listen to him cackle as I close my door.
A nap sounds like a good idea; maybe it’s the migraine wearing off or the food, but flopped back on my bed in the air conditioning, I am feeling sleepy. I surrender to it, turning off my light and setting an alarm. I plan to rest until the sail, but I’m hopeful that a nap will knock out the rest of this migraine before I board a boat.
I startle awaketo a loud knocking at my door, and I am immediately aware of the sharp pain behind my eye. My pulse races wildly at the sudden jolt out of sleep, and I can’t figure out for a second where I am or what time it is. My room is pitch-black, the thick curtains drawn, all my lights off. I flail around for my phone.What time is it? Did I oversleep?
The brightness of my phone screen is painful. I squint, fumbling to lower the brightness. It’s nearly six thirty. I sleptfor three hours and I was only supposed to sleep for one. A nap was the wrong move. The migraine is back, and, given the pain behind my eye and the way the world is starting to tilt, I think it’s worse than before.
There’s another knock at the door. It’s probably Miles coming to get me for the sunset sail because I said I’d come get him and never did.
Just the thought of being on a boat in the water right now sends a wave of nausea from my stomach straight up to my throat, so intense that, despite the intense throb of pain behind my eyes and at the back of my head, I bolt to the bathroom and gag over the toilet until I can breathe my way through the nausea.
Please don’t throw up. Please don’t throw up. Please don’t throw up.
There are so many unpleasant things about having a migraine, but throwing up when my head feels like it’s being squeezed in a vise is one of the worst.
The sudden movement catches up with me. I clutch my head, curling my fingers into my hair as my head pounds, like it’s being hit with a mallet repeatedly. I squeeze my eyes hard and breathe through the pain.
This is bad. I need my meds.
Another knock at the door.
Miles.Fuck.
With my eyes firmly shut, as if it would keep the world from tilting, my head from pounding, I grope my way out of the bathroom, using the sink and then the walls to guide me. I crack my eyes open once I’m in the bedroom, but it makes no difference. Eyes open or closed, the world isn’t staying still.
I make it to the door and crack it open. The light from outside practically makes me hiss, like I’m some kind of vampire.
“Hey, you never— Whoa, are you okay?”
Without an invitation or a word from me, Miles steps into my room, cradling my face. The door closes behind him, and I flinch at the noise. Why was that so loud? Is it normally that loud?
“Migraine,” I croak. “But I’m—just give me like fifteen minutes. I’ll take…I need meds and then?—”
I start to turn, but Miles moves his hands to my arms, restricting my movement.
“Uh, no. Abby, you look…rough. I don’t think we should go on the sail.”
“I don’t want to miss it,” I whine. It’s childish of me, but I am so sick of my migraines stealing time and experiences from me. “I just need my anti-nausea?—”
As I say the words, another vicious wave of nausea rips through me, and I hold a hand up, as if to tell him to wait while it passes. I breathe through it—in through my nose and out through my mouth—but whatever cologne Miles is wearing is too strong. The smells are all wrong, too intense, and they only add to the threat that I will lose my lunch. I push against his chest, covering my nose and mouth with a hand.
He steps back, seeming to understand, and I brace myself against the wall, breathing into my hand.
“Abby, what can I get you? What do you need right now?”
I don’t answer him. I can’t speak until the wave dies back down. I gesture “one minute” with a finger, and he waits.
The nausea subsides. I lean against the wall, eyes closed.
I need my meds, but I’m not even sure I could keep them down.
“Your cologne,” I say. “It’s…I can’t.”
“Give me your room key.”
