Page 10 of Assigned

Chapter Four

Riley

Ilie on the couch in the den, wrapped in an afghan my grandmother crocheted for me. It’s a touch of home I’d brought to Virginia Beach. Thankfully, Lucas is at work. Definitely don’t want him seeing me when I feel like shit. Nor do I need him asking questions either. Right now I can blame my symptoms on stress and he’d believe me. It wouldn’t even be an outright lie, since stress often triggers episodes of autoimmune diseases. It started getting bad the day I moved in last week, with cramps coming and going during our “marriage ceremony,” such as it was, and if that wasn’t stressful, I don’t know what is. Luckily this isn’t a full-on attack. Just Crohns’ way of keeping me on my toes and off my feet. Still, even this mild flare-up has been knocking me on my ass the past couple of days.

I pull the blanket tighter around my body and squeeze my legs to my chest as a wave of nausea washes over me. Seriously, FML right now. None of this ever gets easier. Once I believed it was possible. That my symptoms would weaken with time, or that somehow I’d learn to live with them. But nope. I groan and lean my head back. At least I’ve had the house to myself.

Speaking of, I’ve barely seen Lucas at all this week. Once for breakfast three days ago and twice in passing when I got up to use the bathroom late at night. If that’s his work schedule while he’s home, I can’t imagine what life is like when he’s away. My chest tightens. “No wonder his son has been having a hard time.”

Growing up, Lucas and I both had our fathers around, even if they worked a lot. I really can’t imagine how Mason is handling all this—the divorce or his dad’s long hours away. How do any of these military kids handle a parent—sometimes both—being gone so much? Which is why as long as I’m here, married to Lucas, I plan to help Mason as much as I can. It’s the least I can do. I doubt it’ll make me feel like any less of a heel when I leave. Though just because I’d no longer live in the same house or be married to Lucas, doesn’t mean he or Mason couldn’t ask for help when needed. I still intend to remain in Virginia Beach after all.

It’s just the marriage situation that’s temporary, not my willingness to help a young boy or remain friends with my now husband.

My phone chimes go off and I grab it to check the time. I hoist myself up and slip on my sneakers. Time to go. Maybe this new doctor will be able to help me more than the last one I saw did.

I collect my stuff from the coffee table and head out the door into the garage. After starting my car, I turn on the GPS and make my way out onto the road.

The drive isn’t long and I open the windows, hoping the fresh air will help manage my nausea. Nothing like the tinge of salt in the ocean breeze to make me feel a tiny bit better. The bright sun warming my arm that rests against the driver side door is nice too. Maybe later I’ll take a walk, if my GI tract cooperates. But only if no one else is around. No need to have strangers staring at me. I already know how pale and sickly I look, and I feel like utter garbage already without having to stress over introductions to Lucas’s neighbors.

Fifteen minutes later I pull into the parking lot, turn off the engine and, after taking a few deep breaths to curb my queasiness, walk into the building. The office is bright, with eggshell paint on the walls and light wooden furniture. The seat cushions are a lime green along with the reception desk. I make my way to the self-check-in station and plug my information in before taking a seat.

“Mrs. Craiger.”

I pull out my phone and start to scroll through the news when the receptionist calls out into the waiting area again. “Mrs. Craiger.”

That’s when it registers. Mrs. Craiger, as in, Lucas Craiger. Holy hell. That’s me. “Um, yes.”

I stand and make my way to the desk, heat rising to my cheeks. Totally forgot about my new last name. It sounds so strange.

“Ma’am, please fill out these forms. Also, we got your medical records from your previous doctor. Thank you for taking care of that ahead of time.”

“You’re welcome.” Better to have the doctor equipped with as much information as possible rather than go through testing all over. Plus, hopefully, it will save on time explaining my past to him. I take a seat and fill out the paperwork, appreciating the fact I made note of my new address before leaving. How embarrassing would that be? Not knowing my own name or my address. When I’m done, I return to the receptionist and hand her both the paperwork and my insurance card.

“Take a seat and the nurse will call you when the doctor is ready.”

I nod and do as I’m told. It’s odd. Medical offices bring me a sense of calm, as if I’m in a safe place. Or a place where answers can be found. I don’t feel the need to hide the fact I’m not doing so well while I’m here. There’s no one judging me and no sympathetic or confused looks from people who don’t get it. In a medical office named Digestive Disease Care Specialists, everyone can relate on some level to what I go through every day. Even the family members accompanying the other patients usually understand too. There’s no need to put on the fake smile, no fake demeanor, no explaining. I can just be me. Riley.

The door to the left of the front desk swings open, and a couple emerges. The man waves to the receptionist before wrapping his arm around the woman’s waist. I swallow hard. How would it feel to have a partner to walk by your side through the highs and lows of this disease? For a brief moment, I picture Lucas sitting in the chair beside me. But no. The reasons I sent him away all those years ago still hold true today. He doesn’t need to be saddled with some sick girl. He has bigger responsibilities and broader horizons ahead of him.

“Mrs. Craiger.”

A man in green scrubs waiting by the door rescues me before my imagination runs too wild. I raise my hand to acknowledge him, collect my purse, and walk over. We make a quick stop so he can record my weight—down another two pounds—and then head into an exam room where he takes the rest of my vitals.

“Doctor will be in shortly.” He turns and walks out the door.

I glance around the room, reading the medical posters—posters I’ve read so many times I’ve lost count. Some of them list various medications available while others lay out the intestinal tract, pointing out what healthy looks like compared to various illnesses and diseases. Across from the exam table is a laptop. Hopefully, this doctor is one to pay attention to me first and worry about entering his medical notes second. Nothing I hate more than talking to the back of someone’s head while they are typing away.

A moment later there is a knock at the door before it opens. “Good Morning, Mrs. Craiger. I’m Dr. Patel.”

She extends her hand out and I shake it. Then she takes a seat at the computer. And I guess I’ll be speaking to the back of her head. What I didn’t want. But she looks over her shoulder. “No worries. I just want to go through some of your information before we begin.”

Oh. Well, okay then. She runs through my height, weight, current meds and date of my last period. Once she is done, she spins the stool around to face me. “So, I went through all the records you had sent over. Quite extensive. And the surgeries. You are very lucky to be alive after the sepsis issue.”

“Tell me about it. It’s hard to forget. Of course, nothing like having a bunch of scars across my abdomen to remind me every day and to make me feel sexy.” I clamp my mouth shut and my eyes widen, unsure of why I had just said that.

“Have you considered plastic surgery if the scars bother you so much?”

I snort. “What happens if I need another surgery? I would’ve wasted money then.” It’s not like I hadn’t considered it. After weighing the pros and cons, I had decided the cons outweighed the pros. At least, they had on paper. The look of horror on a man’s face the first time I take off my shirt doesn’t translate well to a list.

---