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Still, I should try to be friendly.
Even though he’s looking straight ahead, I offer my hand and try another smile.
“Hi. I’m Eleanor Lark, but you can call me Elle,” I say. Then it hits me how weird it must be that I’m talking to him after I dove into the seat like I was falling and immediately went for my pills. I let out an embarrassed laugh. “Sorry if we got off on the wrong foot. I just really needed to sit. I know I was being, you know, kinda weird. I’m not a nervous flier or anything. I just get these nasty headaches and needed my meds.”
Jet Daddy lets out an almost imperceptible sigh.
He turns his head, just enough to look down at my outstretched hand like a prince contemplating why any mere mortal would be so stupid as to try to touch him.
There isn’t a flicker of a reaction.
No smile, no frown, no Ew, cooties, get your dirty paw away from me.
He just looks away again without making eye contact.
O-kay, this guy is weird.
Frowning, I pull my hand back, curling my fingers against my palm.
Hey, I tried. Hot pricks and me don’t mix, I guess.
His attitude problem doesn’t need to make my bad day worse, when I’ve got better things to focus on.
Like the fact that the engines are whirring and the airplane’s jolting to life, this giant steel dragon with us in its belly.
Overdramatic?
Yes.
I get a little dramatic when I’m praying my skull won’t implode at thirty-six thousand feet.
Ready or not, though, it’s coming.
That powerful push forward, faster and faster, gravity pinning me to my seat.
Most people don’t get that migraines aren’t just in your head.
When they hit like this, they attack everywhere. It’s like being crushed in a trash compactor until your entire body rings with pain, blindness, nausea, throbbing, dizziness.
I dig my fingers into the armrests as we take off. I close my eyes and try to time my breaths in deep, slow movements.
I try to find my happy place where there are no soul-shredding migraines or antisocial sexy freaks cramping my breathing space.
It’s not much, but it helps with the pressure changes.
It still sucks.
So I just try to keep my internal organs in one place as the pressure builds, peaks, and—
Then it just bursts.
The worst migraine ever slugs me dead in the face before we hit cruising altitude.
I’m reeling, sick, trying not to cry.
I hate this.
I hate this so much.
