Page 29 of That Weekend in Paris
I’m about to get in the shower when a wave of nausea sweeps over me. Pain stabs atboth my temples, the kind of headache I used to get with a massive hangover. Only I hadn’t had a thing to drink last night, so I have no idea what to attribute it to. Dehydration, maybe. Probably should have had more water after the show last night.
I think about the plans I had agreed to with Dillon and wonder now what I had been thinking. I can’t leave Paris and go driving through the countryside. I need to get back to Nashville.
I’ve stopped the thought there because I can’t find the words to finish it. Back to Nashville for what? Riley and the awful reminder of what might have been? Just the thought rolls another wave of nausea through me.
The phone next to the bed rings. I walk over and pick it up with a rusty hello.
“Hey, it’s Dillon,” she says, sounding far more awake and cheerful than I am.
“Morning,” I say.
“Did I wake you?” she asks.
“No. I was just waiting for some coffee. I’ll sound more alive once I’ve downed a cup or two.”
She laughs softly. “So I’ve already been for a run in the Tuileries Garden. And I had my coffee a couple of hours ago.”
“You’re way ahead of me.”
“Well, you are the one who worked last night,” she says. “So, about today. I just want you to know you don’t have to follow through on that. It was late, and—”
“Have you changed your mind about wanting me to go?”
“No, no, of course not. It’s not that at all. I just didn’t want you to feel obligated.”
“I don’t feel obligated.”
“So, you do want to go?”
Now would be the moment to take the out and head back to Nashville. Try to make some sense of what I’d left behind, but that’s not what I find myself saying. “I. . .yeah, I could use some downtime.”
“Really? Okay. Well. That sounds great. I’ve been working on getting a rental car. The service actually said they can deliver it to the hotel. I thought maybe we could head out in an hour or so. Would that work?”
“Yeah,” I say, “that’s good with me.”
~
AND IT ALL sounded great, except it doesn’t really go like that. About fifteen minutes after I’ve finished my second cup of coffee, the pounding in my head has reached a level I can barely tolerate. And I’m seeing little pinpoints of light. Every time I close my eyes, I can see them against the back of my lids.
The pain is now a full-blown ten or better. And all of a sudden, I realize I’m going to be sick. I barely make it to the bathroom before losing the coffee I just drank. My head is pounding so hard that I sink down against the bathroom wall, closing my eyes, and wondering how I’m going to get back to the bed.
I don’t know how long I sit there, but it’s a long time because any attempt I make to move brings on a fresh wave of nausea.
A knock sounds at the door, but I can’t manage to find my voice to call out, and there’s no way I can get up to answer it. I continue sitting, waiting for enough relief from the pain to be able to get up.
The phone in the bedroom rings once, twice, three times. Again, I have no idea how much time has passed, but I eventually hear a key turn in the door, and then Dillon’s voice calling out, “Klein, are you in here?”
“Yeah,” I call out in a weak voice. “I’m in the bathroom. I might have a migraine.”
I hear a French-accented voice saying, “Please let me know if there’s anything else you need, madame.”
“Thank you so much,” Dillon says. And then she’s standing in the bathroom doorway, dropping down beside me. “Klein. What happened?”
“I’m not sure. I woke up feeling sick with a killer headache, and then it just kind of exploded. I’ve never really had anything like this before.”
“Let me call the front desk and see about getting a doctor to come here to see you.”
“I’m not sure I need one.”
