Page 43 of Lighting the Lamp
I swallow hard, guilt blooming in my chest. “Lisey?—”
“No,” she chokes out. “You don’t get toLiseyme right now. You don’t get to shut me out and act like I’m some girl you barely know. I see you, and I am not leaving.”
I squeeze my eyes shut. “I don’t want you to see me like this.”
“I don’t care!” she cries, voice breaking. “I don’t care what you want if it means you’re suffering like this with no one around! You’re not a burden, you stubborn, beautiful asshole. Let me help you.”
The wordhelpcuts deeper than the pain because what if she sees everything? Not just me crumpled on the floor, but the ugly proof plastered to my chest, recording every second of weakness.
I close my eyes, chest shuddering, my hands trembling against the tile. “I can’t—I can’t move. I don’t even know what the hell is happening to me, and if you stay, I’m going to break into a thousand fucking pieces right in front of you.”
She presses her hand to my shoulder. “Then break. I’ll help you pick up the pieces. You don’t have to do this alone, Beau. You never have.”
I feel the last bit of resistance drain from me, leaving nothing but pain and bone-deep exhaustion. I don’t have the strength to keep fighting her. I don’t even want to. Something inside me splinters. Not in a loud, dramatic way, but quiet and final, like the last thread holding me together just lets go. I shake from pain, shame, and the weight of finally being seen. My body trembles from the weight of it, from the goddamn relief of not having to pretend I’m okay. I’m not, nowhere near it.
“I’m scared,” I rasp, the words crawling up from a place I’ve kept locked down tight. “I don’t know what’s happening to me. I can’t move. I can’t fix it. I always fix it.”
She kneels beside me slowly, careful not to jostle me, and cups the side of my face with one hand. Her thumb brushes the tears I didn’t realize had fallen.
“You don’t have to fix it,” she says softly. “You just have to let me in.”
My chest cracks wide open. I close my eyes, trying to get a grip, but my body won’t stop trembling. The patch tugging at my chest scratches against my shirt, and I instinctively press a hand over it, curling my fingers as if I could hide it from her.
Her eyes flick down. “Beau… what is that?”
“It’s nothing,” I respond, panic spiking sharper than the pain in my hip.
“Don’t you dare,” she whispers, her voice raw. “Don’t you dare tell me it’s nothing.”
“It’s a cardiac event monitor or CAM for short. The doctors want me in it for thirty days.” My voice cracks as I finally say it aloud. “It records every skipped beat, every misfire of my heart. Every second I can’t control.”
“Does it hurt?”
“Not exactly. It just… itches sometimes and pulls at the edges when I sweat. But mostly it’s feels like a brand stamped on my chest.”
“Can it get wet?” she asks, her voice small, glancing toward the bathroom like she’s rethinking he plan to get me into the shower.
“Not exactly. I can shower with it on, but need to avoid direct water spray and keep my shower brief.”
Her breath hitches; her free hand fumbles at her pocket. “I’m calling 911.”
I catch her wrist weakly in my hand. “No hospital, please. They’ll tell me to hydrate and probably give me some pain meds, before telling me to follow up with the doctor. I just… need a minute a few minutes.”
She stares at me, torn between doing what I ask and fear of making the wrong decision. “Then we set rules. If your chest pain gets crushing or spreads to your jaw or arm, if you pass out, if your breathing doesn’t ease in sixty seconds, I’m calling. No arguing.”
“Okay.”
Alise exhales slowly, her fingers brushing gently near the edge of my shirt but not lifting it. “And you’ve been carrying this alone.”
“I didn’t want anyone to know. Didn’t want you to look at me like I’m broken. Like I can’t play. Like I can’t be me.”
She shakes her head fiercely. “You’re still you, Beau. Monitor or no monitor. I don’t care if it records every heartbeat for the rest of your life, I just care that you’re still here.”
A jagged, choking sound escapes me, and I bury my face in her shoulder for a second, grounding myself in her warmth, her steadiness.
“I was an asshole back at the rink. I’m so fucking sorry—” I rasp as the pain flares bright behind my eyes. “For everything I said. I didn’t mean?—”
Her hand presses gently over my mouth, grounding me, quieting the spiral. “You don’t have to explain right now.”
