“Have you had it for a long time?”
“Ten years, maybe eleven?” She shrugs. “I was diagnosed after a really hard and stressful stretch of time in my life. I was losing a lot of weight but eating well over my calorie allowance, had hair falling out, anxiety was through the roof. Oh my gosh, don’t even get me started on the brain fog. I was a multi-tasker who could spin plates and platters while tap dancing if I needed to, but that’s no more.”
“I had no idea,” I start to say, and she interrupts with laughter.
“How were you supposed to know? It’s not like we had time to talk or get to know each other.”
“To be fair, you also don’t look…” As soon as the words are about to fall off my lips I want to take them back. Shove ‘em right in my mouth and forget I thought them.
“I don’t look sick?” she says with a guffaw. An actual guffaw—then she sighs the heaviest sigh I think I’ve ever heard. “That’s what most folks say to people like me and it’s super annoying.”
“I know.” I groan. This quick visit to say I’m sorry is going downhill fast. “Can I add that to my list of things I’m sorry for?”
“It’s becoming a long list, Austin,” she manages with a wry smile.
“I can handle it,” I retort.
“No doubt you can.” She chuckles. “Not to change the subject, but did you call those people?”
“Not yet, but I will. I’m going to do it tomorrow.” When she looks at me with a stern expression, I reach over to pat her hand. It was meant to be a kind gesture, albeit pandering, but the moment my skin touches hers, I freeze. The softness of her hand surprises me as I feel the roughness from the callouses on the tips of my fingers as they catch on it. So smooth and soft, a suppleness that’s telling of how she takes care of herself. The opposite of the guy who sits in front of her.
There’s a moment where I want to let my fingertips trace their way across the back of her hand, allowing them to dance up her arm, but I stop myself. I snap my hand back, feeling the cold in the air as I do. Which is going to happen when you step away from the sunshine, isn’t it?
“Trust me,” I say as I clear my throat. “I am going to call all of them. I heard you yesterday. I’ve been absent and I need to show up more. In all ways.”
Her mouth opens, her jaw slack as she watches me with a look I’d describe as judgmental curiosity. “Okay. So, this apology tour you’re on. You serious?”
“Yes,” I say, smacking my hands on the table and drumming my fingers. I have no idea how much time has passed since I arrived on her doorstep, but I’m liking the fact that I have no clue. That time is standing still and it’s not just me. Or her, alone, in her house across the field.
It’s us.
“Okay,” she says, throwing her hands in the air. “I’m not going to question it anymore. I’ll just say thank you.”
“Thank you?”
“And you’re forgiven.”
My eyes almost jump from their sockets. “It’s that easy with you?”
“Yes,” she responds, looking at me quizzically. “Should it be harder?”
“Well, no, but…”
“Austin, do us both a favor and let it be okay.”
The fact it’s so easy for her to forgive and move on fills me with a feeling that’s foreign, one that I’d forgotten until this moment. It’s hope.
I turn my attention back to her. “How are you feeling now?”
She shakes her head. “I should go lie down.”
“Do you have a doctor we can call?”
“I haven’t had a chance to find one locally, at least not yet. But I saw my endocrinologist before I left LA. He reminded me that moving can cause a ton of stress and since I’m still getting my symptoms under control, I need to make sure I steer clear from as much stress as I can.” She smirks. “Because that is so easy to do.”
Laughing, I push my chair back and get up from the table. I hold out my hand for Bex to take. “Let’s get you to the couch.”
She eyes my hand for a moment before sliding hers on top of it. It feels nice to hold someone close like this, even if it is only the skin of our palms touching. For good measure, I wrap an arm around her waist to help guide her as we start our way across the room together.
