“Okay… Boy Scout it is then.” I pause, waiting for something else, but he doesn’t say more. The air shifts, and I don’t really feel like now is the time to talk about curses or possible cults. “Should I go?”
“Yes.”
My insides deflate. “All right. I’m sorry?—”
“Youshouldgo,” he continues, cutting me off. “Because the longer you sit here, the more I think about stripping you bare and taking what you’ve offered me multiple times now.”
“Oh.” I push the sheets off and toy with the snake dangling from my choker.
“Fuck. I shouldn’t have even said that. Just… Give me a minute.” He presses the heel of one hand to his temple.
“Are you okay?”
“Migraine. It’ll pass eventually.”
“Do you get them often?”
“A few times a week.”
“Is that what the apricots are for?”
“Yes. They probably don’t help all that much, but it’s a bit of a ritual at this point.” He pauses. “Thank you for the one you brought to class. That was very thoughtful of you.”
“Well, I’ve used them myself, so I can attest to the anti-inflammatory properties. They don’t work for everything or everyone, but I figured maybe you were eating them so often for a reason.”
“You get migraines?”
“Endometriosis. Tissue grows outside the uterus and makes periods super painful. Among other menstrual and reproductive-related issues.” I cringe as I speak, aware that I sound like a pamphlet you’d get at the gynecologist and that most guys probably don’t want to talk about periods at all.
“Ah, yes, I remember you mentioning it before. That sounds…well, to be frank: shitty.”
I laugh softly. “Yeah, it is.”
“At least we can commiserate together. Perhaps next time, you can bring two apricots.”
Flames lick at my cheeks. “The other one was just supposed to be a peace offering.”
“Are we at war?”
“Well, no, but I’ve been coming on really strong, so I was just kind of hoping we could maybe…start over.”
“Start over,” he repeats. “And breaking into my apartment for sex was, what, a fallback plan?”
I don’t reply, shame too heavy in my chest. The silence thickens around us, and I swallow, moving to dismount the bed in case he wants to be alone.
He lets out a small breath, like he’s in pain, and I freeze.
“Is there anything I can do to help?”
“No,” he replies. “Most of the time, I can sense them coming on and take the necessary precautions, but some things like stress can trigger them before I really notice. This one just happened to sneak up on me, but it will subside.”
Guilt pecks at my bones. “Am I stressing you out?”
“Since the day we met.”
Apparently my embarrassment knows no bounds.
“I’m sorry.” And I am. I’ve clearly misread everything because I was too busy focusing on external, carnal sensations rather than putting any effort into caring about him.
