Page 93 of Ellie Hayes and the Himbos
I’ve let this go on too long. I’ve forgotten who I really am, and what it is to be the real me, always on time but never a good time. I don’t get to have this life. I don’t get to have him. I don’t get to hope.
I straighten enough that he has to loosen his hold. “The vision loss could be permanent. But symptoms could take any number of forms. In any case, a second flare-up would mean that I have multiple sclerosis.”
Ian’s arms stiffen. He steps away, his hands falling from me like I’ve shrugged out of a jacket. “What?”
“Half of the time, the eye thing is the first sign. The MRI I had two months ago showed no damage that would correspond with MS, which was great,” I say, lightly, “and when the six months isup, I’ll have a second MRI and they’ll look again. But if I have another nerve attack in that window, I’m diagnosed. That’s why I lost it the day I got dizzy. I—”
“You thought it was the second nerve attack,” he finishes for me. His face is so hard. “And when I asked youdirectlythen,” he bites the words out, “you said that you werescared.”
“Iwas,” I say, defensively.
“But that wasn’t all.”
“What does it matter? It didn’t end up being anything.”
“It was a lie of omission.”
Why is he being so hostile about this? And why am I arguing with him? “How, Ian? How would knowing this have been useful?”
“You’ve had this hanging over you this whole time, and you never said anything to me!”
That his instinct is to point out that this has been a burden I’ve been shouldering alone does not elude me. He was annoyed by the eye thing, but this is different. He’s mad because I left him out of something massive in my life. Because I wouldn’t let him help.
I get back on the defensive. “What could you have done?”
“Been aware! Known to look out for signs—”
“What signs, Ian?” I ask, weeks of sidelined fears creeping in, the past decade of crushed hopes overwhelming his credentials. I think I’m going to throw up. “I don’t even know what signs to look for. I just get to obsess over every minor glitch in my already fucked-up body and hope it goes away. There was no reason to burden you with this, too.”
He’s shaking his head. “I’ve heard that line of logic before, Ellie. It was bullshit when my parents used it, and it’s bullshitfrom you. When my mom relapsed, she and my dad decided that Grant and I didn’t need to know the severity of it. So when she went from ‘a little sick’ to terminal, it was a pretty huge shock.”
“This isn’t like that. This isn’t a terminal diagnosis. There isn’t evenadiagnosis! It’s just a maybe. It’s a maybe for the next few months, less of a maybe for the next five years—”
“Fiveyears?” He stares at me. “How long does it take to get a fucking diagnosis?”
“If something doesn’t happen in the next few months, there’s still a 20 percent chance of it developing in the next five years.”
His eyes bug. “And you’re just going to live with that?”
“I don’t see any alternative.”
He runs his fingers through his hair, tugging it. “I can’t believe this.”
“This isn’t even for you to take on, Ian. All this was only temporary, anyway. This whole thing, renting the room here, working at the gym.” I point back and forth between us. “Whatever this is—”
“Us.”
“Everything! All of this was a break from my life while I waited out the window. It’s a fantasy. It’s not who I am. I make to-do lists and go to bed by ten. I don’t skate on the living room floor and have a fling with my hunky boss!”
But…I do. Or, at least, I do now.
The color drains from his face, his expression going slack. I don’t think he could look more stunned if I’d slapped him.
His eyelids flutter, and his head shakes slightly, eyes going hard. “So you’ve just been passing the time, then? All of this. Like you said. Everything. Us. None of it has mattered.”
I know that this is my chance to nip this in the bud. I can just agree and it will cut him so deeply, he’ll be severed from me completely. But some sentimental, stupid part of me says, “I didn’t say it doesn’t matter.”
“But it’s not real. Not for you.”
