Page 27 of We Can Forever

“I can carry you in.” His voice breaks through the steady hum of the engine.

Opening my eyes, I see that we’re in front of my house. Being carried in would be amazing, but even with all the pain and fatigue, I can’t forget the mess that is my house. There could be a zombie apocalypse happening, and I would suggest we stay outside and take our chances rather than have him see my underwear on my bedroom floor and my dishes stacked in the sink.

One day, maybe I won’t care about that as much. One step at a time, though. Tonight, I showed him a big part of myself.

“I’ll walk you to the door, then.” He replies when I don’t immediately answer. He comes around to my side of the truck, helps me down, and then stays by my side the whole way to the front porch.

My hands tremble as I get my keys out, so he swipes them from my hands and opens the door. “Can I do anything for you? Bring you anything?”

“No, thank you. I’ll be okay.” I use the last of my energy to muster a smile—and it’s worth it. He smiles back softly, though there’s more concern there than anything else.

“Text or call if you need anything. I mean it. Even if it’s the middle of the night.” He leans forward and kisses me on the forehead. Warmth blossoms where his lips have touched, trickling down my head and neck and into my chest.

“Thank you again.” I step inside.

“Anytime, Hannah.” His gaze holds mine for a long moment. “It’s my pleasure.”

Closing the door, I stumble to my bedroom and collapse on the mattress. His kiss still lingers on my skin, a soft promise that he isn’t going anywhere, that he’s not afraid.

That truth is a warm ember I hold close to my heart as I close my eyes and drift off into nothingness.

Chapter Ten

MICHAEL

Sitting at the kitchen table, I click the next link on my tablet, opening up another site. Like everything else online, the topic of fibromyalgia leads to an endless rabbit hole—which I jumped down about an hour ago.

When Hannah brought up the condition, it took me a moment to even properly process the word. I’d never heard it before.

With each sentence I read now, my stomach twists a little tighter. Evidently, it’s quite controversial in the medical community. Some doctors don’t even believe it exists—which is fucked up, and it’s not surprising that it mostly affects women since I know from hearing my mom and sister talk that it’s sometimes hard for their health issues to be taken seriously.

One commenter in a thread refers to fibromyalgia being the “new hysteria”—basically a made-up condition that women are using as an excuse to get attention. Shaking my head, I move on.

Fatigue, joint and muscle pain, bad periods, IBS, poor sleep, TMJ… The list of symptoms goes on and on. No one really knows what causes the condition, but from what people say online, it sounds absolutely fucking exhausting.

“Like gravity has been turned up and the world is pressing down on you,” one person writes. “I’d compare it to going on an unexpectedly long hike with a backpack you can’t take off—every day, all day long,” another person says.

I sit back in my chair, my jaw tight. Damn. So that’s what Hannah experiences every day?

Why didn’t she tell me sooner?

Then again, why should I expect that? I’m not entitled to know anything about her life, and she was probably worried about how the news would change our dynamic.

Leaning forward, I start a new search: “How to help people fibromyalgia.”

The first thing that comes up is the spoon theory. It’s all about how people with chronic pain conditions often imagine their energy is measured in spoons, and they have a finite number of these spoons each day. Most daily activities, from small ones like getting dressed to large ones like completing a day at work, require spoons. Once a person runs out of spoons for the day, any additional activities they do might cause a flare. It can take a while for each individual to figure out exactly how many spoons they have per day, and once they do, most people are careful to monitor their usage closely.

Learning this part is a punch to the gut. Hannah and I must have seen mini golf completely differently. For me, it was a relaxing way to spend an evening. In her head, though, she was probably calculating how many spoons the game would require. Maybe she didn’t even have any spoons left, but she chose to stay for me.

Sighing, I push my fingers through my hair. So that’s two dates I’ve messed up.

Three strikes and you’re out, right? I better make our next night together something special.

I’ll tailor this next one to her needs, make sure that every detail is just right, that it will require the least number of spoons possible.

But…how the hell do I do that? How do I figure out what the perfect activity is for someone with fibromyalgia?

The internet can only take me so far. I need insight from people who know Hannah, who are familiar with her interests and energy levels. Which means I’ll need to do something I never do, something that I hate.

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