Page 80 of When in December

“I’m not going to tell you. Why would I when it’s clear that you don’t care or don’t want to?” She raised an eyebrow, which I could just see through the dimness in the room.

I shook my head. “Because you’ve already surprised me more than once today.”

Poppy blinked, as if unsure what to say to that. Maybe I surprised her too.

“Go on,” I encouraged.

“Okay,” she whispered, gathering her thoughts. “At the end of high school, I developed pretty terrible chronic pain. At least, that was what the doctors called it. They couldn’t figure it out. I would curl over myself; it was so bad, and no one seemed to care.”

“Are you in pain now?” I asked.

She should her head. “Not like I was. Sometimes, I can forget about it. But not long enough not to …”

“Not to what?”

“Remember,” she said, honestly. “And worry that it’ll come back. Eventually, the doctors found out the chronic pain wasn’t some mystery. But it took about five years. Too long, yeah, though some people go longer without that kind of diagnosis, which almost feels like a godsend. People finally started to look at me like I wasn’t insane. I had—haveendometriosis.”

I’d heard the word before, but the look of confusion on my face must’ve been plain to see.

“It’s basically when uteruses attack.”

“Doesn’t that happen every month?” I asked ignorantly. Immediately, I wanted to correct myself.

I didn’t get to. Poppy giggled.

“Sort of. But more. It’s when the tissue sort of invades other places, and around that time of the month or even other times, the tissue sort of”—she squeezed her hands together in a little fist between us—“contracts.”

I cringed.

“Yeah. Not the best feeling.” Poppy swept her hair to one side, casting it out of her face. “After I got my diagnosis, I found a doctor who specialized in treating it. I had surgery for it to go away for good. It’s never guaranteed though … but that’s it. I doubt you want to hear any more of the little details.”

She was wrong. I wanted to hear more.

“But you’re not in pain now?”

“Like I said,” she whispered, “not like I was. But that doesn’t mean it won’t come back one day. Or ruin other things. You don’t have to pretend you want to talk about it. Not your kind of trauma, right?”

I felt like she might as well have punched me in the chest. “I …”I had no idea.

She slowly nodded, as if she knew exactly what I was thinking. I hoped she did because I couldn’t find the words. They disintegrated on my tongue every time I tried to think of a phrase that would somehow make up for how horrible I had been to this woman, who was trying her all at something she loved so that other people could love it just as much.

“And getting to the point, it wouldn’t be the first time a relationship ended because of it. So, maybe that’s why I brought it up,” she confessed.

“Ended because of what?”

“Because”—she shook her head—“with the diagnoses and the treatment, there’s a risk of infertility issues. Men often want children. Among other things. And they want simple. Even if they say they don’t care or it isn’t important to them … it is. And I’m not. Simple anyway,” she said. “No one wants someone already preprogrammed to disappoint you.”

Who told her that?

“Anyway, now, I’m okay with that. I have realized that I’m just not good at it anyway.”

“Good at what?” I dared to ask.

“Relationships. Every one I’ve ever had ended horribly, and I’ve come to terms with that. I’m dedicated to my work. I won’t let myself down, doing it. You’re right. Home Haven has always been the dream. I’m content that it will be my love. And I refuse to disappoint myself in the relationship I have with it,” Poppy said with a small huff, the same way I imagined she said her little mottos that popped up on her phone every morning.

I noticed them a lot. At first, I’d snorted at them.

I am strong.

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