ON THURSDAY OF THE following week, I have a bad day and end up with a pounding headache.
At four, I take ibuprofen and lie on the couch, closing my eyes and hoping I’ll feel better by the time Damian comes home.
It’s almost six when I get a text from him saying he’s running late, so I shouldn’t wait for dinner.
Great. The perfect end to a miserable day. But it’s just as well. My headache hasn’t gone away, so I wouldn’t feel like a cozy dinner and sex anyway. I make myself a sandwich and force it down with a bottle of water. Then I give up feeling better, take a shower, and go to bed.
It’s way too early, but I don’t care. I feel like crap and want to start again tomorrow.
I’m not sure how long it’s been—probably no more than an hour—when I hear the muffled sound of Damian’s voice in the entryway. “Hey. I’m finally back.” After a minute, I hear, “Clarke?”
He must have gone into the living area and seen I wasn’t there.
“Are you home?” he asks after another minute. His voice sounds closer now.
“Yeah. I’m in here.” My door is cracked a little the way it always is. I don’t like to sleep with it closed.
“Are you okay?” he asks when he moves into the doorway and sees me lying under the covers with the lights off. “It’s really early.”
“I know. I have a headache and gave up on the day.”
He walks over to the bed and sits down on the edge so he can peer down at me. “You don’t get headaches a lot, do you? What’s it from?”
“I don’t know. Probably just tension. I had a crappy day.” To my astonishment, my voice cracks a little on the last words.
He reaches over and smooths some loose hair away from my face. His touch is gentle. It feels so good. “What happened?”
I make a wordless, unhappy sound. I don’t really want to get into it.
“Hey.” His hand moves down to cup my cheek lightly. “What is it? Did something happen with your mom?”
“No. No, no. Nothing like that. It’s not a big deal. I just got into a stupid fight with Steve this morning, and then I blew a tire on the interstate.”
“What? Are you okay?” His tone is soft and urgent.
“Yes, I’m fine. I told you it wasn’t a big deal. It was just the two things at once, and then I got this headache, and I can’t seem to get rid of it, and it’s just...” I turn my face away from him and close my eyes. “It’s nothing more than a bad day.”
“Okay.” He pauses as if he’s thinking before he continues, “I’m going to go to the bathroom, grab something to eat, and then change clothes. Then I’ll come back and you can tell me about it.”
“You don’t need to—”
“Do you need anything? Aspirin? Water?”
“No. I’m really fine. You don’t need to come back.”
“I’ll be ten or fifteen minutes.” He’s out the door before I can object any further.
I’m actually glad he’s gone because a tear leaks out of my eye. For no good reason. It’s silly. Irrational. There’s nothing to be emotional about.
And I shouldn’t be so glad that he’s here.
He returns in almost no time. He’s changed into a T-shirt and his pajama pants, and he’s carrying two bottles of water. One must be for him since he sets the other on my nightstand.
Without asking, he climbs onto the bed and moves me out of the way so he can sit against the headboard. Then he positions my head in his lap.
“What are you doing?” I try to crane my neck around to look at him.
“I’m going to give you a head massage. If it’s a tension headache, it might help.”
“I don’t need—”
“Will you stop trying to tell me what you don’t need all the time and just let me help you occasionally?” he asks in a clipped, impatient voice.
The tone silences me. Makes my eyes feel full again. “Okay,” I finally mumble.
He relaxes behind me. I can hear him let out a breath. Then he moves my head some and slides his fingertips over my scalp through my loose hair.
It’s just a light touch, but it feels so good that I sigh and close my eyes.
“There,” he murmurs in that thick tone he sometimes uses in the bedroom. “That’s better. You don’t have to fight me all the time.”