Page 51 of Breaking News

How she whimpered my name.

I needed to get a fucking grip. As much as I wanted this connection with Jill tomeansomething, it didn’t. And it couldn’t. Because if I was really under a microscope like Noah said, the worst thing I could do was drag Jill into focus right along with me.

chapter nineteen

Jillian

There were a lot of things I hated about doctor’s offices–the bright lights, the crinkly paper, and the people who coughed into their hands before touching everything. But most of all, I hated having to repeat my symptoms to multiple people, my confidence wavering each time I had to say the words “whole body aches and pains.”

By the time I heard my doctor laughing with his nurse, pumping hand sanitizer into his hand just outside the door, my heart was beating so loud I was half-convinced Dr. Boyd could hear it. As he entered the room with his hand extended, I sat up a little straighter, my feet crossed at the ankles.

“Ms. Taylor, how are you?”

Another thing I hated about the doctor: answering that question. “I’m okay,” I said, shaking his hand as I looked up at his face from the exam table. He reminded me of my father, with his overgrown eyebrows half-hidden behind rimless glasses.

“But you’ve been better, huh?” he asked, lowering himself to the wheeled stool in front of the computer. “Let’s see what you’ve got going on.”

As he read everything the nurse typed, I ran through my symptoms again—how the pain seemed to move from one location to another, how I woke up tired no matter how early I went to bed. “And I walk around all stiff like a ninety-year-old woman,” I said with a laugh, fully aware of just how pathetic that sounded.

He tapped away on the keyboard without looking at me. “Is there anything you do that seems to ease the pain?”

“Resting,” I said, scratching my elbow, even though it didn’t itch. I just needed something to do with my hand. “My symptoms seem to flare up when I’m under a lot of stress and working a lot. Which is, you know, always.”

Doctor Boyd nodded, smiled, and turned toward me on his stool, pulling his stethoscope off his neck and sticking it in his ears. “You were in here last November with shoulder and elbow pain,” he said, pressing the stethoscope against my back. Naturally, I took a couple of slow, deep breaths. “How’s that doing now?”

My right shoulder ached a little as I sat there, but like most days, it was overshadowed by my hip pain. “Better.”

“Good, good.” He moved his stethoscope to my chest, “Deep breaths again.”

I inhaled and exhaled slowly, staring at the white tile floor. A moment later, Doctor Boyd removed the stethoscope from his ears and returned to the computer, scrolling through all the notes about me on the screen.

Was the word “hypochondriac” in there somewhere?

“I see you’ve been on the same dosage of citalopram for two years now,” he said.

“Oh, yeah. I still have anxiety, but it’s manageable, I guess.”

He peered at me, dipping his chin toward his chest like he didn’t quite believe me. “Sometimes, over time, a low dose isn’t quite enough. Especially under times of stress. So, we could bump your dosage up to fifteen milligrams and see if that takes the edge off?”

“Um,” I said, folding my arms on my lap. “Yeah, that might not be a bad idea.”

Dr. Boyd turned back to the computer and began typing. Sitting there on that exam table, it felt like my head was about to explode, but it wasn’t from the pain or pressure this time. I wasn’t here to talk about my fucking anxiety. I was here because I woke up every morning feeling like I’d been hit by a speeding dump truck. If anything,thatwas the root cause of my anxiety, and no amount of antidepressants would fix that.

I pressed my palms against the white paper. “What about my chronic pain and fatigue, though?” I paused for a couple of seconds, waiting for him to look at me, but he didn’t. “Could I possibly have an autoimmune disease? Like lupus, fibromyalgia, or—”

He cut in with a raised hand. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.”

I shut my mouth.

“I’d like to get some blood work done,” he continued, clicking the mouse. He still wasn’t looking at me. “We’ll run a basic panel and see if anything jumps out. But from what you’re describing, stress and anxiety could easily be the main culprit here. What kind of shoes do you wear?”

I blinked at him, completely dumbfounded, as he turned to me with his arms crossed. How was this relevant? “Heels or sandals, usually, but I have the tendency to go barefoot in the studio a lot.”

Dr. Boyd shot me a smug grin like he’d just cracked the case. “There you go. I’m going to recommend some more supportivefootwear. Poor arch support can cause pain to radiate up your legs and back, like you’ve described today.”

I stared at him, unsure whether to laugh or scream. I nodded, but I already knew I’d be leaving that place feeling just as confused as when I walked in. Maybe more.

And just as predicted, I walked out of the office with an order for labs, another opioid prescription I didn’t ask for, and an increased dosage of my anxiety meds. None of it felt like a solution.

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