Total pages in book: 134
Estimated words: 134746 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 674(@200wpm)___ 539(@250wpm)___ 449(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 134746 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 674(@200wpm)___ 539(@250wpm)___ 449(@300wpm)
The darkness behind my eyes is soothing.
The violent flashers slowly fade.
The worst is over.
I hope.
I can’t do anything about the noisy people settling in, but I can at least choose which noise to focus on. Jet Daddy’s typing is actually pretty soothing.
It’s rhythmic and predictable. As long as I focus on that, I won’t jolt every time a toddler shrieks like they’re trying to turn my head into a broken Easter egg.
Once we’re in the air, I’ll be fine.
I will.
Cabin pressure will even out, and, assuming the migraine hasn’t put me in a coma by then, I’ll be able to ride it out like I always do until this flying metal tube drops me off at SeaTac.
I stay still until the telltale ping tells me the Fasten seat belt lights have come on, and I wince as the captain’s voice rattles over a staticky loudspeaker.
Not helping, but at least some of the pounding has stopped. Enough that I feel more human and less like a reanimated corpse.
Opening my eyes, I fish my laptop out, then tuck the bag under the seat and the laptop against my hip while I fasten my seat belt.
Next to me, Jet Daddy has finally closed his laptop, put his tray table up, and tucked the laptop away in the seat pocket in front of him so he can fasten his own seat belt.
I could almost live with the migraine just to watch him move.
There’s a flexing flow under his suit that’s fascinating. He’s thick enough in the waist—no, thicc, like muscle thicc—that he has to yank the seat belt tight just to fasten it comfortably.
I catch his head starting to turn slightly toward me when I realize I’m staring again.
Yikes.
I look away quickly, riveting my eyes on the window and holding my breath. It’s at least a solid thirty seconds before I dare to glance back at him.
Now, he’s not looking at me at all.
Welp.
So much for hoping I could distract myself with a little light flirting.
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.
All it takes is a change in the hydraulic pressure in my veins to turn my world into a special hell.
It’s why I try so hard to just be happy when I can.
To counterbalance these moments of sheer torture and enjoy the good times while I have them.
That’s definitely not now.
It feels like years pass before I can breathe again.
I can’t stop the tears that leak out, trickling down my face. The pain is too deep, but it starts to ease up, so I no longer feel like I’m going to shatter by the time the ding sounds that tells us we can unbuckle our seat belts, use our devices, and enjoy a six-hour nonstop flight from coast to coast.