Farrow sucks in breath. “Not really. He pulled some Cobalt plot-twist shit, and man, that’s not me.” He tilts his head. “But clearly it’s in him.”
I bob my head again. “Thatcher loves implementing strategies and taking bullets. Always has. And Janie is his other half.” They’re teammates in this fucked up world.
Farrow assesses me in a quick sweep. “Okay, you didn’t come here just to talk about your brother, did you?”
Just say it. “I have a doctor’s appointment tomorrow.”
His brows shoot up. “Everything okay?”
I nod, automatic, but then I shake my head. “I don’t know.” I scrape a hand down my tensed jaw. “No offense, Farrow, I fuckin’ hate going to the doctor.”
His lip quirks. “That’s a more common sentiment than you might realize, Banks. It’s okay.”
I grip my knee, not able to tell him how I grew up rarely going to annual check-ups. Not really wanting to sit here and describe how I don’t trust doctors because in my head, they never have anything good to say. Why go to a place just to receive bad news?
I’m going to live my life and one day, I’m gonna die.
So it goes.
Now, though, it’s different. I want to know that I’ll be able to wake up tomorrow and see her. I want to hold her in my arms a year from now. Two years. Longer.
As long as she’ll have me.
Farrow frowns harder. “The med team is open to Kitsuwon Securities, so you can talk to me about what’s going on.”
I nod several times. God, I hate talking about my pain. I’m not broken, and I want to be treated like I can do anything on security. Like I can keep up with SFO, because I know I can.
“Is it your back?” Farrow guesses.
“No.” I straighten up. “Maybe you can diagnose me here, so I don’t have to go in tomorrow.”
A bird squawks from the book, and Ripley giggles loudly. Farrow smiles before looking back to me. “I don’t even know one of your symptoms, Banks, so I can’t promise you a diagnosis. But I can give you my advice.”
Better than nothing.
I swallow hard before telling him, “I keep getting these migraines. After I came back from deployment when I was twenty-two, they started and haven’t let up that much since.”
Farrow doesn’t show anything past his expert-level poker face. “How often do they occur?”
I shrug. “It varies. Sometimes a few times a week. Sometimes once a month. But sometimes they’ve stopped for months at a time.”
“Do you notice any symptoms before the migraines start?”
“Like what?”
“Fatigue, nausea, depression, irritability. Anything like that?”
I yank at the collar of my shirt, feeling the cold metal of my dog tags. “Hell, I don’t know. Maybe irritability?”
He flips another page for Ripley. “What about at the start of the migraine?” He looks to me. “Do you experience any sensory changes? Flashes of light in your eyes, spots in your vision, strange smells, hearing music when there is none, numbness or difficulty speaking?”
I shake my head. “No. None of that. My eyes just get ungodly sensitive to light.”
“The migraines are painful?”
I nod slowly. “Yeah.”
He pops something up on his phone and then hands it to me. “On a scale from 1 to 10, where’s your pain?”
I’m staring at a pain scale for migraines. Next to each number is a paragraph detailing pain symptoms. “I don’t think I’m anywhere near a 7, unmanageable pain. I can still perform daily functions.”
If I couldn’t, Akara would’ve sidelined my ass since he found out, not kept me on-duty. I’d be risking his company and Sulli. Hell, I’d sideline my ass at that point.
The casino was the first time I needed a bathroom puke break on-duty.
“I’m probably usually a 4 and verging on a 5,” I tell Farrow, passing him the phone back.
Farrow takes this in for a long second. “Does your brother know?”
“He knows I get migraines. But he thinks they’ve died down. He probably would’ve drop kicked my ass to the ER if he knew they’re back and getting worse.”
Farrow tilts his head to the side. “He wouldn’t be wrong. It’s not something that should be left unchecked for too long.”
I shrug. “I’ve survived.”
He pockets his phone. “How have you been treating it?”
“Advil, water, sunglasses, some Hail Mary’s, and prayers to Saint Gemma Galgani.”
His lips rise. “The first few most likely helped.”
“Don’t knock Saint Gemma. She’s come through for me a few times.”
He smiles a warm genuine smile. “I’ll take your word for it.”
“So what’s the diagnosis?”
“Are you seeing a specialist tomorrow?”
“Neurologist.” I don’t mention how she was fully booked and squeezed me into her schedule when she realized who I was. Her daughter is on the middle school swim team and idolizes Sullivan Meadows. Perks of having a talented girlfriend. Plus, Sulli was happy the appointment is only nine days after my Atlantic City migraine.