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James sits at the table. He presses his cheek to its cool surface and wraps his arm around his head. He should go, he thinks. Somewhere. Not here. Or at least turn off the light.
The logical thing to do is plant himself in the bathroom and wait out his seasick headache. The thought of the bathroom sends James’s throat up to throb behind his clenched teeth. He won’t be turning off the light. He won’t be moving at all.
“It’s bad?”
Steve seems to have materialized in the kitchen. James doesn’t know how long he’s had an audience. He’d taken his hearing aids out a while ago. With his echolocation gone and his eyes hidden, James knows he’s a sitting duck. Not that Steve would ever hurt him. Well, not on purpose. He sometimes gets a little rough when administering first aid.
“Eh,” James says to the inside of his elbow. “You probably know better than I do.”
“Mm,” Steve muses. James imagines him stroking his chin in contemplation. “You have a headache and feel like you want to hurl?”
“Yeah…” James pauses to draw in a shaky breath. “I don’t know. When, I mean. If.”
“You never do know.”
There’s a scraping sound and a vibrating sensation as Steve pulls up a seat. James bites his lip. He’d rather taste blood than bile.
“I mean, I can guess. I can try to help. Hold your hair. Or a mop.” Now that he’s close, James hears the uncertainty in Steve’s voice.
“Yeah. Try consulting your magic 8 ball or something. ‘S as good as anything else.”
Steve gives a quiet laugh. “I would if I could.”
“Wait, what?” Tasha’s running up the hallway, her words going from muffled to sonorous. James pretends he doesn’t suppress an instinctive swallow. He can’t acknowledge what doesn’t exist. Logic bends as James’s head makes a particularly strong throb. He’s losing his grip on reality. He must be. Tasha awake and moving at this hour on a Saturday morning? James assumes it’s still morning. It was morning when his mild headache turned to extreme vertigo and sent him tilting toward a chair.
“Oh, hey, Tasha.” Steve says.
James forces out his own sound of greeting.
“Who has an 8 ball?” Tasha speaks quickly, tripping over her words. She’s probably on an upper already. Hopefully her very own, very legal Adderall. She has absolutely no need for cocaine.
“Nobody,” James groans. He lifts his head just enough to give his sister a scathing look. Her hair is piled on top of her head, and she’s wearing a bathrobe that hangs far to low in the front.
“I heard you—“ Tasha starts.
“No.” James shuts his eyes and bows flat to the table again, this time cooling his aching forehead.
“It was, you know.” Steve sounds slightly embarrassed. Maybe because he won’t leave the bedroom in just boxers. Whose dignity he’s still pretending to protect, James will never ask.
Steve clears his throat and goes on. “Like, the toy kind? Where you ask it a question and shake it?”
“Oh.” Tasha’s disappointed. She recovers in a beat and says, “I had one of those once. As a kid. It was dumb. It wasn’t right about anything.”
“I was thinking about ordering one on Amazon.” Steve puts too much positivity into his tone. The man will do anything to avoid a confrontation.
“If you really want one, just give me a few bucks. I can have it by tonight.” James sincerely hopes she’s joking. Well, not joking, exactly. He hopes she won’t do it, whether to spite him or any other reason.
“That won’t be necessary.” James sees Steve’s gluey smile projected onto the backs of his eyelids.
“Might help your headache.” Tasha pokes James in the shoulder. He grunts and swallows frenetically, determined not to lose control.
“Tash…” James sighs. “Just leave it.”
“If you say so.”
Silence briefly ensues, then a cabinet opens and the sink starts running. Then the table jiggles again as Tasha joins them. She sips her water, then casually asks, “What question were you going to ask, anyway? The 8 ball?”
“Oh.” Steve laughs.
“You can tell her,” James says, then breathes deeply and focuses on the feeling of his nose squashing as he rests his forehead directly against the hardwood.
“It was, um,” Steve warms himself up. “We were going to ask, uh, whether or not James is going to puke.”
“Hm.” Tasha sets down her glass. “Well, duh. You could’ve just asked me.”
“What sayest you?” Steve gives James the floor. Which he may or may not be about to soil.
James has reached his limit. If he speaks, if he so much as acknowledges his turn in the conversation, his jaw will unhinge and everything will fall to pieces. He steels himself and clenches his abdominal muscles as much as he can. “Yeah.” It comes out in a gasp that’s probably inaudible as he takes off in a rush toward the bathroom.