Page 72 of Something Forever

He gasps in faux-horror. “You’ve never seen Star Trek?”

I shrug. “I think I saw Star Wars when I was a kid.”

He shakes his head. “First of all: not the same. Second of all: we must fix this severe oversight.”

“Fine,” I reply. “You watch Love Island with me, and I’ll give your nerdy show a chance.”

“Not nerdy,” he mumbles under his breath, stealing another cookie, and I can’t help but laugh. There’s something so simple about the two of us sitting on our couch, watching bad reality TV. It fills my chest with an unexpected warmth, and even though Liam and I are on opposite sides of the couch, ignoring the orgasm elephant in the room, I can’t help but smile.

27

LIAM

The next day, I wake up on the couch, my body half-draped over Whitney’s. Surprised that we fell asleep, I fold my arms under her body and lift her up without thinking. I carry her to her bedroom, glancing at the clock. It’s not even eight yet, so I figure I’ll let her sleep for a bit longer while I go get my stuff from my room. My dad’s going to be here tonight, and I don’t want him to suspect we’ve been sleeping in separate bedrooms.

As I set her on the bed, she moans, turning away from me, her arm draped over her eyes. Leaning towards her, I notice that she looks paler than usual, a clammy glow on her face. My stomach drops at the sight.

“Whitney?” I press the back of my head to her forehead, and she’s burning up. “Are you okay?”

Smacking my hand away, she groans and sits up. “Migraine. Can you get my sleep mask? It’s on my table.”

I find the mask immediately, handing it to her. She pulls it over her eyes with another small groan, leaning back to rest her head on her pillows.

“Are you nauseous?” I ask, pulling her blanket over her.

“A little.”

“Do you want me to go get some medicine from the chemist?” I ask, my voice pitching upwards.

“Quiet, please,” she replies, dropping her voice. “The noise makes it worse.”

“Sorry,” I whisper. “How can I help?” Need is clawing its way up my throat, a desire to stop her suffering coursing through me. I feel completely helpless, and I hate it.

“I’m okay,” she mumbles, curling into a ball.

My throat thickens, and I try to swallow through it. Forcing myself to leave her alone, I rush into the kitchen and get a cloth, pouring cold water over it and ringing it out. Then I grab three types of painkillers, a glass of water, and one of her La Croix cans. When I get back to her room, she’s exactly how I left her.

“Here,” I whisper, kneeling next to her bed. Laying the cool cloth over her forehead, I study her body movements for a sign of how she’s feeling. She lets out a low exhale when the cold reaches her forehead. “Good?” I ask.

She nods, a soft smile stretching across her face. “Thanks,” she manages, her words slightly slurred. I watch the rise and fall of her chest, waiting for her breathing to even out. After a few minutes, I replace her cloth with a new one and notice that she’s fallen asleep.

I should check my phone to see if my dad has texted me. Instead, I lay down next to Whitney, watching her sleep, worry coursing through me. She looks okay now, but she’s still pale. What if she needs to go to the doctor?

Grabbing my phone, I look up ‘migraines’ and spend twenty minutes researching the symptoms, causes, and possible remedies. A few articles suggest that weather and stress can be triggers. Am I stressing her out? Have I made things worse for her or inadvertently caused this somehow? Reading further, I find that caffeine can sometimes make people feel better. Without thinking, I go into the kitchen and set the Nespresso machine going. Maybe when she wakes up, she’ll want to try a little bit. Unless she’s still feeling nauseous?

Taking a deep breath, I try to calm my rising anxiety. Why am I freaking out? Whitney is fine. She’s absolutely fine. Just in case, I go back to her room to check on her and find her sleeping still. I bring the coffee into her room and leave it on her bedside table, creeping quietly through the room. Whitney stirs and yawns, her arms reaching above her head with a groan. Immediately, I rush to the side of the bed, peeling the cloth off her head. She slips the eye mask off and meets my gaze.

“Liam?” She glances around, looking confused.

“How are you feeling? I made coffee. Do you want some? The articles said it would help.”

She studies my expression then smiles, a small, coy grin. “Liam Clark,” she says. “Are you fussing?”

Despite myself, a smile cracks through my nerves, relief taking over me. At least she’s making jokes. She must be feeling better. Right? “I’m not fussing,” I argue, if only to see her little frustrated frown, because she looks so damn cute when she’s mad at me. “I’m being nice.”

“You’re never nice,” she whispers.

“I’m always nice,” I whisper back.

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