Page 64 of The Rom-Commers

“It’s thumping now,” Charlie agreed. “But it wasn’t. Before.”

“Before?” I asked.

“Before you came in here like this in your robe with all your… hair, and—and put my hand on your chest. It wasn’t. Thumping.”

Oh.

“Just so you know,” he added. “For medical purposes.”

“I see,” I said.

We should probably stop touching each other’s chests now. That much was clear. But I couldn’t figure out how to make the transition.

“Could you google it for me?” I finally asked.

“Google it?”

“The symptoms of a heart attack. For women.”

I felt his lungs deflate with relief as he broke away to get his laptop. “Yes, of course.”

“I’m not allowed to google medical symptoms,” I said, to fill the silence as Charlie scrolled.

“Not allowed?” he asked, still scrolling.

“Back when my dad first got hurt, I developed a habit of frantically googling every tiny symptom that showed up. It kind of turned into a vicious cycle of hypochondria.”

Charlie looked over. “Hypochondria? But your dad really was hurt.”

“But I’d go down these rabbit holes. His shoulder would be aching, and I’d google ‘painful shoulder’ and two hours later I’d be convinced he had Parkinson’s. And MS. And shoulder cancer.”

“That’s not your fault,” Charlie said, going back to scrolling. “That’s just because you’re a writer.”

I hadn’t thought of that. “It is?”

“Believing in things that aren’t real? Making something out of nothing? Connecting dots that don’t needor wantto be connected? That’s what all the best writers do.”

It felt weirdly good to hear Charlie Yates lump me in withall the best writers.

And it felt weirdly—unexpectedly—even better to know that I had just made his heart beat faster.

That’s when Charlie stood up with my diagnosis. “The internet doesn’t think you’re having a heart attack,” he said.

“It doesn’t?”

“It doesn’t. But it does think you’re having anxiety.”

“Ha!” I burst out. Then, at Charlie’s tilted head: “This is the least anxious I’ve been in ten years.”

No argument there.

“I’m a good person to talk to about this,” Charlie added, “because I coped with a lot of anxiety when I was sick.”

I frowned like he was bananas. “I don’t have anxiety. I just worry all the time.”

Charlie gave it a second and then said, “I’m just gonna let those words echo around the room.”

Fine. I saw his point. “But only because I have actual things to worry about.”

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