Page 89 of Fierce-Jonah

He’d been restless last night and every time he moved, she wanted to ask him if he was okay but held it back. He’d get annoyed if she kept it up, she was sure.

He had his head under the blankets and she knew it had to do with the light and sound. So she tried to stay as quiet as possible and didn’t turn any lights on either.

The fact she was up before him this morning told her everything she needed to know about how bad his head hurt.

She went about making some breakfast. Maybe the smell of food would help. French toast might stick to his ribs. She was hungry anyway.

Twenty minutes later, she heard the bathroom door shut but then heard this horrible noise and went running. She realized that it sounded like he might be throwing up.

Oh man. Should she open the door and check on him or let it go?

Screw it. She loved him. She knew she did. She might not have said the words, but the feelings were there. You took care of those you love.

She knocked softly. “Jonah. Are you okay?”

“Yeah. Can you get me some water?”

She ran back to get him a bottle of water and opened the door and saw him sitting on the closed toilet lid with the lights off. “Here you go.”

“Thanks. I’ll be fine. This is normal the next day.”

“Throwing up?” she asked.

“Dry heaves. Most of the headache is gone. I can tell. I had to sleep it off, but the meds just make me nauseous until I can get some food and water in me.”

She reached her hand out and laid it on his shoulder. “I made some French toast. Is that good or do you want something else?”

“That should work,” he said. “I’m going to try to shower first.”

She moved out of the way and let him go, then took a deep breath when she was in the kitchen.

She was shocked at how much it bothered her to see him like that, but she wasn’t going to leave him either.

When he came out fifteen minutes later his coloring was a little better. “Did the shower help?”

“Yeah,” he said. He went for some more aspirin and then made a cup of coffee. “I didn’t realize it was that late.”

“It’s only eight,” she said. “That isn’t late.”

“No, but I’m up earlier than this.”

“All things considered you might have slept more,” she said. She put the French toast on a plate for him and put it in front of him with syrup.

“Thanks,” he said. “I might have if I didn’t start dry heaving. It’s better to get up and get moving. Sorry about last night.”

“Stop it,” she said. “There isn’t anything to be sorry about. You would have taken care of me and you know it.”

“Yeah,” he said and started to eat. “I haven’t had one that bad in a long time.”

“How often do you normally get them?” she asked. These were things she wanted to know. He’d said his family didn’t know, but she’d like to consider herself more than family to him.

“One or two a year if that,” he said. “Nothing like last night. I can feel them coming on. I know the signs and if I have my meds with me can stop it before it gets that bad.”

“As I said last night, I want some of your meds. They are in a little packet, right? If I have that in my purse then you’ve got it covered when you’re with me.”

“Thanks for that,” he said. “I’m normally more prepared, but I guess that tells you how often I’m somewhere other than work or home.”

“We are changing that about you,” she said. “Both of us are making changes in our life.”