Nochelle - Our Stories

S A T U R D A Y

~Post TNS~

What irritates Richelle most about the way she wakes up is that it's a Saturday morning.

Saturday mornings when they're both free are supposed to be for sleeping in late, waking up when the sun eventually forces its way through the thick curtains in the late morning. Saturday mornings are supposed to be for sneaking an arm around her husband's torso, pressing kisses down his chest until he stirs awake, laying there talking in low voices until one of them reluctantly gets up to make coffee.

What they are not for, Richelle decides when she presses her phone's home button to see the screen light up with the time of 5.22 a.m, is waking up before sunrise with a throbbing head and gnawing nausea in the back of her throat.

She groans into her pillow out of sheer frustration. Paracetamol is in the bathroom cabinet, left side top shelf next to the ibuprofen and antihistamine. It might as well be on the other side of the planet.

Slowly, with more effort than it should take, she pushes herself up on her elbows and reaches for her glass of water. Right when she thinks she's got it she's hit with a dizziness spell and the glass falls to the bedroom floor, hitting the carpet with a distinct thud and spilling water everywhere.

It's too much - she's already feeling under the weather, has been throughout the week for some perplexing reason, and now she's probably ruined their carpet. Before there's time to react in a more emotionally stable way, she's quietly sobbing, drawing uneven, heaving breaths that just happen to worsen the throbbing headache.

It really isn't her best Saturday morning.

"Rich?" Noah's voice is groggy, mumbling her name when she feels his body shift at the other side of the bed, shuffling towards her. "Is something up?"

"Headache." she manages to get out, moving close enough for him to put an arm around her when she buries her head in his t-shirt, trying to ignore how overpowering the smell of their laundry soap feels, how much it worsens the nausea. "Just - weird migraine, I think."

"Okay." He presses a careful kiss to her temple. "Is that why you're crying?"

The nausea keeps getting worse. She forces air in and out through gritted teeth, hoping to keep it at bay. "I spilled water on the carpet."

"And started crying?" There's a worried tone to his voice. She's keeping her eyes closed, but suspects if she'd open them, she'd find the crease on his forehead he gets whenever she tells him she's not feeling good. "Richelle, don't be offended when I say this, but you must be really stressed out."

"Am not."

"Don't try." he warns, rubbing comforting circles on her shoulders. "Stay here. I'll get you painkillers. Pretty sure we have something for migraines somewhere—hey, what are you—"

She's pretty much thrown herself out of bed. Pressing the back of her hand to her mouth, she thanks God that the distance between their bedroom and bathroom is short and that she put her hair in a ponytail before going to bed yesterday. Small wins, she tries to think, crouching over the white porcelain bowl, but the positive thinking is drowned out by the revolting feeling of emptying her stomach of yesterday's dinner.

She can hear Noah's footsteps behind her, noting the worried sigh he lets out upon seeing her hunched-over frame. She figures she must look about as disgusting as she feels, but if he thinks so, he doesn't let her know - just sits down next to her, stroking her back with more tenderness than she's probably worthy of after having woken him up with this about four hours after they went to bed.

"Sorry..." she mumbles when the worst seems to be over and she dares retreat into his arms. He wraps them around her, shaking his head, and it's the sweetest gesture she could imagine in this moment but it doesn't take away from the fact that his shirt still stinks of lavender.