But this option is more interesting. I’d like to think it has potential, at least it did when we first met, you know, “B.A.”
I could go.
Or I could stay.
“So,” she says, cocking her head to the side. “Tea?”
NINE
Austin
Istand in Bex’s living room, my gaze wandering over the photos she’s hung up on the wall. Each one tells a story—her life captured in moments of laughter, adventure, and the people who matter to her.
My eyes drift to the photos beside it, each one pulling me deeper into Bex’s world. One is of her standing on a beach, the wind whipping through her hair as she laughs at something off-camera. The sun is setting behind her, casting a golden glow that makes her look almost ethereal, like she belongs in that perfect, carefree moment. The other photo shows her in a cozy bookstore, curled up in an oversized armchair with a book in hand, a contented smile playing on her lips. The warmth of the place seems to seep out of the image, making it easy to see why she loves it there. Each picture reveals a different side of her—a woman who finds joy in the little things, who’s lived a life full of these quiet, beautiful moments.
But then, one photo stops me cold. It’s Bex and Georgie, arms wrapped around each other, both smiling like they don’t have a care in the world. They’re at that game—thegame where everything went sideways for me, where my Achilles snapped and my whole life flipped upside down. Seeing them so happy, completely unaware of what was about to happen, sends a jolt through me. It’s like looking at a moment that’s been etched into my life, only now with a connection to Bex that I never saw coming.
“Chamomile or peppermint?”
“Chamomile, please,” I say, keeping my focus on the photos on the wall. The hall light flicks on above me and I turn around to find Bex standing with a mug in her hands.
“Here.” She passes it to me. When I thank her, I notice how pale she is. I hadn’t been able to tell before when we were outside, but now indoors and under this light, I can see she doesn’t look well.
“Thank you,” I mumble, watching as she walks away slowly. Her gait isn’t the energetic, snappy one that I’m used to. I’d say she seems defeated, but that’s a stretch. Tired maybe?
“I’m still quite curious why the evening visit, Austin,” she says as she grabs a prescription pill bottle off the counter, opening it and popping a pill in her mouth. I’m both shocked and impressed when she swallows without any hydration. “Last time I saw you, I was plotting how to come back and destroy you, which I know sounds dramatic. You can bet I was at least trying to figure out how soon I can sue my new employer for injuries sustained on the job my first day.”
“I know, I’m sorry.” I take a sip of the chamomile tea, which is delicious, forgetting about her coloring for now. “I am. It’s been a rough year. Actually, more than that, but that doesn’t matter. What does matter is that I’ve been horrible to a lot of people. My family can handle it, but doing it to someone like you, or even Emma or Georgie…”
“Who’s Emma?”
I really hope that’s a little jealousy I’m detecting. “My physiotherapist. She’s had to deal with me being moody, but lately she’s had to bear witness to my bad attitude with my family and she’s gotten an earful or two about you as well.”
“Wow.” Bex folds her arms in front of her and smiles. “Guess I got under your skin.”
“Guess so,” I say, returning the smile. I keep my sights on her, watching as Bex steadies herself and closes her eyes, her right hand floating to her chest as she inhales sharply. “You okay?”
“Oh, my foot?” She flexes it. “It’s sore, but I’m fine.”
“No,” I say as she rubs her chest again. “That.”
“Palpitations,” she whispers, opening her eyes slowly. It’s only now that I can tell those usually bright hazel eyes are dulled. “I’m in the middle of having an onslaught of them and it’s wiping me out.”
“I thought you looked like you weren’t feeling well.” Concerned, I put the mug down on a table nearby and walk to her side. “Can I do anything?”
She shakes her head. “I have an auto-immune disease and it likes to rear its head at inopportune times. This is one of them.”
Bex pulls out a chair at her kitchen table and gently lowers herself into it, with what I can only describe as a relieved breath of air escaping her lips as she does. She closes her eyes again and sits still.
“It’s Graves’ disease,” she says after a few moments of silence. Well, except for the sound of that dog in the other room scratching itself. I can hear the tags jingle on its collar, the sound of metal on metal swaying through the air and reverberating around us.
“Okay,” I respond, pulling out a chair and sitting down myself. “That sounds…”
“Horrible, right?” She laughs, her eyes flicking open. “It’s the worst name for a disease ever. People always think I’m dying when I tell them, but lucky for me I’m not.”
“Noted.” I watch as she takes a few more deep breaths. “But you are okay?”
She waves a hand in the air. “It’s fine. I have an overactive thyroid, so it likes to work at a fast speed.”
