Page 41 of Breaking Point
The candlelight dancing across Layla’s face illuminates the horror that spreads across it. I’m thankful for its low lighting and no doubt Layla is as well as her eyes spring with tears.
“I don’t know what to say.”
“Neither do I.”
“Is there anything I can do?”
“I don’t think anyone can help anymore, not even modern medicine.”
Layla throws back her own drink, shocking me. “Life is fucking cruel.”
“That it is.”
She shakes her head, a deep flush staining her cheeks that matches her fiery hair. “How is there no cure? Why does it feel like we’re not progressing? Why is the medical system so fucked, and why on God’s green earth is it 2025 and they’re still saying that allegedly only ten percent of women have endometriosis when every woman I meet either has endo or PCOS?”
“You know my thoughts on the matter.”
The day I got my first period was when my uterus declared war against me and when the repeated cycle of doctors shoving birth control pills and acetaminophen at me began. Spoiler alert, neither worked for me.
Her lips flatten into a tight line. “I’m beginning to think you’re right. I mean, how have I been sick for nearly ten years, been thrown pill after pill after pill, gone through nearly a hundred different opinions on how to ‘cure’ me, and yet each medication makes me worse?”
“Careful, Lil, you’re starting to sound like a conspiracy theorist.”
“No, I’m serious. And why do I keep seeing videos on the internet of cancer researchers mysteriously dying? Genuinely, if someone could give me a believable answer, I’d choose ignorance but now it just feels like pharmaceutical companies are laughing in our faces.”
As a waiter walks past, I order another round.
“Preaching to the choir,” I mumble.
Layla isn’t wrong and I have no idea how she has remained so positive over the years through her chronic illness. Anytime a doctor disappointed her, gave her medication that had horrible side effects, and had flare-ups that ruined special occasions shehad been looking forward to for weeks, I always waited patiently, ready to catch her if she broke. Yet every time, she’d paste on a smile and find a positive in the situation.
If I were her, I would have spiraled into a depressive state years ago.
Grateful for the waiter and his perfect timing, I sip on the fresh fruity cocktail he places down at our table.
Layla squares her shoulders. “I can’t handle any more depressing conversations. Let’s talk about your sexy new boss.”
“Um, he was a part of the depressing conversation,” I remind her.
She waves me off. “No, we’re going to talk about a tiny fact that you conveniently left out.”
“Please enlighten me.”
She jabs her finger into my arm. “How Grayson Crawford is your type to a T.”
The cocktail I was sipping goes down the wrong hole and I choke. A full-on coughing fit that makes Layla’s eyes widen and patrons rise out of their seats. I hold out my hand, stopping them all, trying to wave them off as tears form in my eyes.
“So, you do find him attractive,” she sings, smug as fuck once I get myself under control.
I snort. “And what gave you that impression? My life flashing before my eyes or the fact I waved off the man who’s been staring at us all night, probably dying at the chance to resuscitate me?”
She grimaces. “Is it Slimy Stan?”
“Yep,” I say, popping thepas I avoid his eye. Slimy Stan is also a regular at the bar, who hits on anything that moves.
“Stop changing the subject.”
“Oh, I’m fine by the way. Not like I didn’t just nearly die.”
