Page 19 of Once Smitten, Twice Shy

“Here you are.” She threads her arm through mine. “Enjoy your granny nap?”

“Hey.” I poke her ticklish side, making her squeak. “Leave me and my granny naps alone.”

Kate smiles down at me, a coy splash of freckles on her nose, that feisty glint in those blue-gray-green eyes Mom gave all of us, her hair dark like mine and my twin sister Bea’s, except it’s tinged auburn, twisted up in a messy bun on her head. “Warning, Mom tried to make gluten-free dinner rolls again. Dad almost cracked a tooth on one.”

I snort. “Oh no.”

“Oh yes. But the vegetarian gluten-free potpie turned out pretty well. For being vegetarian. And gluten-free.”

“Which means you didn’t try to make it this time.”

“Hey!” Kate pokes my side. “Rude.”

“Katerina!” Mom calls from the kitchen. “You’re not harassing your sister while she’s walking down the stairs, are you?”

“No, Mom!” Kate rolls her eyes and mutters, “Still treating you like a porcelain doll.”

I smile up at my baby sister, who has the nerve to be four inches taller than me. “Guess someone has to, since you and Bea certainly don’t.”

“Damn right we don’t,” Bea says, popping her head out of thekitchen. My twin looks a little like me but is so beautifully distinct, with her blond-tipped dark hair and colorful tattoos all over her body. She gives me a wide smile. “Heyyy. Nice dress, JuJu.”

I glance between our outfits and groan. “Well, thanks, BeeBee. That’s a pretty cute dress you’ve got on, too.”

Bea and I are wearing the same swingy tank top dress, albeit in different colors—hers, sunshine yellow; mine, rose pink. Totally by accident. It doesn’t happen often, but when it does, my mom insists on making us take a picture like old times, which she does the second she glances over her shoulder and sees us. Wedging us together, Mom is gentle with my body. These days, she’s convinced a strong breeze will make me collapse.

While Mom bickers with Kate (who’s a photographer) about how to use portrait mode on her iPhone, I smile. Bea wraps her arm around my waist and makes me laugh as she jokes about Mom and Kate’s endless squabbles since Kate moved back home after years of endless traveling for photojournalism work.

We pull apart and walk into the kitchen. I feel my smile slip when I look around for something to do but come up short.

Soft overhead light warms the space, cutting through the hazy steam of vegetarian potpie (for Kate) with a gluten-free crust (for me). Dad stands at the counter, one hand sprinkling the finishing garnishes on his salad, the other resting affectionately low on Mom’s waist while she opens a bottle of wine. Kate sidles up to Christopher, whispering something in his ear that makes him smile as he builds a dessert plate of dense dark chocolate brownies and glossy tartlets piled high with fresh summer fruit. Bea and Jamie stand hip to hip at the cabinets, pulling out dinner, salad, and bread plates, stealing loving glances at each other.

They’re all so happy.

And God, am I happy for them.

But as I stand in the middle of the kitchen, empty-handed, no one bymyside, I can’t help but feel a teensy bit…unhappy to be the only who’s alone.

Rain pelts against the windows, another storm that came through shortly after I said goodbye to Will yesterday and hasn’t let up since. I ease onto a stool at the kitchen island and swallow a groan. Another fun development since getting sick—rainy weather makes my achy joints ache that much more.

Mom clocks me wincing as I settle onto a stool and spins out of Dad’s arms toward me. “Hurting?” she asks. “Need one of your pain pills?”

I exhale slowly, fighting the frustration that’s been building the past seven months. I know Mom wants to take care of me, but the constant fussing over me only makes me feel worse. “Just a little stiff from my nap. I’m okay, Mom. Thanks, though.”

I could definitely use an eight-hundred-milligram naproxen sodium for the pain I’m feeling, but not on an empty stomach. It would wreck my insides. I’ll take one after dinner, with food in my belly and when Mom isn’t looking, so she won’t worry even more that I’m hurting enough to need one.

Planting a kiss on my temple, Mom gently rubs my back, like she always did when I was sick as a kid. “You sure?”

“I’m sure!” I pat her hand and try to subtly ease out of the lingering back rub.

To be fair to my mom and her concern for me, I was pretty badly off when my health hit rock bottom at the end of last year, and initially, it was scary. But I’ve come a ways since I woke up on Boxing Day, my joints so stiff I’d have sworn they’d turned to cement, the weird rashes I’d blown off before reappearing; the fevers and flu-like aches that had wracked my muscles in Scotland, that I’d chalked up to something viral; a vicious spate of digestive issues. It was an avalanche of bizarre symptoms that landed me inthe care of a rheumatologist who promised me we’d get my overactive immune system under control.

I’ve tried to do my part to take care of myself, while my doctor takes care of me, too. But even so, I’m not all better. I might never be, which I’m starting to make peace with, some days more easily than others. I wish my mom could follow my example and start making peace with it, too. I wish she could understand that this new “normal” of mine can be just that—normal.

“How can I help?” I ask, trying to move past the Poor Invalid Juliet bit for the evening.

Mom smiles, patting my cheek. “Just sit there and be your lovely self.”

I let out a miserable sigh as she leaves me to my perch at the island, glancing around the kitchen at everyone else, who has some helpful task they’re undertaking. Which is when I realize every single one of these fools is canoodling. Dad kissing Mom discreetly behind the curtain of her hair as he tosses the salad. Kate sneaking a bite of brownie with one hand and squeezing Christopher’s butt with the other. Bea nuzzling Jamie’s neck as he gathers up the plates for dinner.

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