Page 25 of We Can Forever

With that in mind, I don’t open the door all the way.

“Hi.” I block Michael’s view of my messy house. I’m sure I’m about to say something else, but my mind just flatlines.

He’s not wearing anything special, and it’s not like he looks any different. Or does he? Because I don’t remember my knees becoming this gelatinous around him.

Is it his smell? Something different about the way he’s done his hair? Or am I just falling head over heels for this guy?

“Hey.” The soothing balm that is his deep voice washes away all worries about tonight. Just like that, I know everything will go well, simply because I’ll be with him. “You look great.”

“Oh. Thank you.” I smooth my skirt. “Let me just grab my stuff.”

Snatching my jacket and purse from their hooks, I step onto the little porch with its swinging bench and hedge that half hides the area from the street. The woman I rent from let the garden grow out of control while she was here, and I haven’t had the time or the green thumb to do anything about it.

Not that I mind. The whole spot has a magical, wild feel to it that tickles my heart.

“Where are we going?” I follow him into the gravel driveway, where he’s parked behind my car.

“It’s a surprise.” He opens the truck door for me, and my stomach drops.

Surprise.

Most people love that word, but not me. If I don’t know where we’re going, how will I know whether or not I have the tolerance for it? And if I don’t have the tolerance for it and I have a flare-up…

I work to get my breathing under control. “Great.”

He doesn’t seem to notice my discomfort, instead taking his place behind the wheel and drumming his fingers as he backs out of the driveway. “How was your day?”

My little porch becomes smaller. It’s not too late to say that I can’t go, that I’m not feeling well—not too late to make up some excuse about having to do paperwork for the shop or call my aunt.

I can’t tell him the truth. Not yet. There’s no such thing as a conversation where one person says, “Hey, I might be about to have a fibromyalgia flare,” and the second person goes, “Oh, really? You should stay home, then.” Most people don’t know what fibro is, and others have received all the information and still—somehow—think it’s not real. They think the people with it, like me, are being dramatic about the pain, that we’re making it up for attention and to get out of hard work.

I squeeze my eyes shut, nausea that has nothing to do with a flare rising in my chest. Michael isn’t like that. He’s nice. He’s considerate. He listens.

He would believe me.

Right?

I pop my eyes open. “It was good. How was yours?”

And there it goes; I’ve missed my chance to explain myself and escape a potentially bad situation. I’ve chosen how much I like this guy and fear over what he might say and think if I were to come clean. I’m betting on the chance that tonight will be easygoing and that I’ll return home no worse off than I am now.

“Nice,” he says. “It was a slow day at the firehouse.”

We make small talk about our jobs while he drives across the island. When he reaches the bridge and we enter the mainland, I’m still holding on to some hope. Maybe we’re just going to a restaurant over here.

But then he takes a left, and we drive down the coast, deeper and deeper into uncertainty. My stomach knots tighter, and my head starts spinning.

“Surprise.” Michael pulls up to a mini golf course.

“Oh. Wow. Cool.” I blink and do some quick calculations.

It’s about forty degrees out. The wind coming off the ocean blows straight onto the golf course. It’s a standing-only activity.

Yep. My odds aren’t good at all.

“Come on.” He leads me across the parking lot and to the short line to get clubs and balls. “Have you ever played?”

“It’s been years.” I do my best to sound as excited as he is. Maybe this won’t be as bad as I think. We’re just walking and standing around after all. It’s not like it’ll be physically challenging.

---