Page 26 of We Can Forever

By the second hole, though, reality comes crashing in. Everyone else on the course looks perfectly comfy in this weather, but the chill has seeped into my bones, making me shiver. Fire sears through my joints, every cell in my body aches, and I’m so tired that if I sat down on the fake grass, I’d be asleep in seconds.

What’s happening isn’t foreign. If I don’t make it home and into bed within the hour, I’ll have a flare. All of my symptoms will get worse, and I’ll be stuck in bed for days, unable to sleep from the pain.

I have no choice. I need to tell Michael the truth.

The mere thought is a vise grip around my vocal cords. He looks so proud of himself for bringing me here, and I don’t want to rain on his parade. I also wanted to be ready for this conversation, to have a script prepared so that I can make it through without stuttering.

Because, truthfully, I’m terrified. What if he thinks I’m being dramatic? Or that fibromyalgia isn’t real?

Then again, is that someone I really want to be with? Isn’t it better to rip the Band-Aid off now and expose the truth, whatever it may be?

“Michael.” My voice shakes, and his name comes out in a partial croak.

“Uh-huh?” He turns away from where he’s about to take his first shot into the plastic alligator mouth. At the sight of my face, his eyebrows knit. “What’s wrong?”

I gulp, the shivers from the cold nothing compared to the trembling in my heart. Here goes nothing. “I need to tell you something. I have fibromyalgia. It’s a chronic condition.”

“Oh.” He blinks and turns more fully to face me. “Okay.”

His face is so warm, so receptive, it gives me the courage to go on. “It means pain in your muscles, ligaments, tendons. Fatigue. Headaches. Sensitivity to heat and…cold.” The last part is hard to say, because I can’t help but worry that it sounds like I’m calling him out for bringing me here—which, of course, I’m not.

His mouth drops open. “I see. Are you not feeling well? It’s cold out. Is this too cold for you?”

I bite my bottom lip. “I’m sorry. If I don’t go home and go to bed, I’ll have a flare right here on the golf course, which means you’ll probably need to half carry me to the truck, and then I’ll start crying in pain on the way home because just being on the highway will hurt so much, though it’ll be nothing like the potholes we’ll go over on the island…”

I suck in a deep breath. That was a lot, but I needed to get it all out before I lost my nerve and never gave myself the opportunity to do it again.

“Shit.” He takes my club from me. “I’m so sorry I brought you here.”

“No, it’s okay. You didn’t know. I—I didn’t tell you.” The tears are still threatening to spill over, tears of relief. He’s responding even better than I had hoped for.

Not only is he understanding, he’s concerned. Gentle.

“Here.” He takes off his coat and wraps it around me. “Sit on this bench over here while I bring the truck around.”

There’s not even time to thank him. He’s off at a jog, returning our clubs and balls and then hopping into the truck. The people playing around us don’t seem to notice anything is off, and thank God. There’s little that’s as embarrassing as this.

“Would you like me to carry you?” He gets down on one knee in front of the bench, a knight in shining armor.

As tempting as it is to be cradled against his strong chest, I also don’t want to be stared at. So I shake my head.

“I can walk, thanks.”

It’s like I’ve aged sixty years while sitting on the bench. My joints protest against the slightest movement, and I shuffle more than walk my way to the truck. Michael is there the whole time, his arm looped through mine, letting me lean on him.

At the passenger’s side door, the step leading up to the seat seems impossibly high. How can I even lift my foot that much?

“Here.” Michael hesitates, his arms held out. “May I?”

I nod, too weary to talk. With one smooth motion, he lifts me up and deposits me in the seat. If only I weren’t feeling so crummy, I could take the moment to enjoy being in his arms. Instead, the touch causes more pain, and I have to grit my teeth.

But at least the seat is warm, the hot air is blowing in my face. We take off down the highway, Michael driving maybe a little too fast.

“I’ll take the newer roads on the island,” he says. “Those don’t have as many potholes. And you can doze off if you need to.”

I nod, my eyelids already heavy, my head rolled to the side. “Thank you.”

Only my aunt and Flick have ever been this understanding and attentive to my needs, and that’s because they have front-row seats to what this condition is like. But Michael doesn’t know that much—at least, I don’t think he does—and he’s doing what I need anyway. He’s not asking questions. He’s not demanding proof.

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