Page 5 of Not Catching Love

I’m at a loss for what to do about it because cutting him off when he needs me feels cruel, but continuing the way I have been is wearing on me.

I lean in to inspect my ant colony, hoping the queen will take and not go on a homicidal spree with all her worker friends. These little rays of happiness I give myself are what I need to focus on.

“You talk about future plans like you’re not mid-thirties,” I point out to him.

“Whoa now. That isn’t ageism I hear in your tone, is it?”

“No, it’s reality.”

“Fuck, reality. My thirties have been the best years of my life.”

Well, that makes me feel like shit for mine being on hold. The good part about doing nothing big with your life and having no dependents to rely on you is that you end up saving a good chunk of money. When I finally pull my head out of my ass and accept Manny’s offer, I’ll be doing it with financial confidence. I only wish I could accept it now.

“Still meeting Saturday?” I ask.

“You really think any of us will miss a birthday game? No way, man.”

There’s eight of us left from our high school days, and we meet up on each person’s birthday to play a friendly game of four-on-four football.

So, that’s something at least.

And for right now, it has to be enough.

I’m aboutto clock off from my shift when Constantine rounds the corner into the break room. He pins me with his “guess what” look.

“Xander?”

“On his way.”

Right, well, I guess I’m staying a bit longer, then. I clock out and head for the front room, where I normally see peoplewho stop in with health questions or give vaccinations. It’s also where I see Xander for his health anxiety.

He’s such a tricky one to deal with because where I thought I was doing the right thing by stepping in to help when he had a panic attack in the pharmacy, it slowly evolved into … more. Every attack, every spiral, every episode where he’s sure he’s dying and can’t pull himself back, he ends up here. At first, it was months apart. Then weeks. Now, well, this is the second time I’ve seen him since last Monday.

I ignore the unprofessional nerves that hit and head out the front to wait for him.

It doesn’t take long for Xander’s friend Seven to walk in, carrying Xander in his arms.

They’re a real pair, and Seven is the main reason they caught my attention in the first place. He’s well over six feet, tattooed just about everywhere, and is speaking so softly to the tiny, blue-haired man he’s currently carrying.

The man I’ve become way too invested in.

Xander is shivering all over, struggling to breathe, and he hasn’t grasped where he is yet.

Seven lays him on the bed, and I approach.

What I do for Xander is mostly triage because there’s nothing physically wrong with him; it’s all his anxiety preying on his senses. He needs a psychologist but flat out refuses to see one, and for some reason, that same anxiety has decided that I’m someone who can be trusted. He refuses to calm down until I’ve seen him.

“What’s wrong?” I ask, letting my professional demeanor slip into place.

Seven crosses his broad arms, face tense like it always is when I see him. “Appendix.”

This is the tricky part. That fine line between making sure I don’t completely blow off Xander’s claims on the offchance something is wrong while not giving them more weight than I should, which would play into his anxiety more.

I’m so not the person cut out for this.

Not least of all because it’s starting to really fucking hurt to see him in this state.

“I need you to lie back,” I tell him, and once he does, I reach for his hand. “I have to lift your shirt and inspect the area. Squeeze my hand twice if you’re okay with that.”

---