Page 19 of We Can Stay
“Eleven,” I admit before I can stop myself. “Maybe twelve.”
They squeal like teenagers. Even Hannah cracks a genuine smile.
“Details,” Maya demands. “Hair? Eyes? Does he have that sexy veterinarian thing where they’re super gentle but also strong?”
“Dark hair that does this thing where it falls across his forehead.” My fingers itch to brush it back. “Blue eyes. Like, unfairly blue. And he has this way of focusing completely on whatever he’s doing—whether it’s examining a kitten or untangling yarn.”
“Yarn?” Alexis perks up.
The memory warms me from inside. “Cat got into my chenille stash. He spent two hours helping me untangle it. Said it was relaxing.”
“Marry him,” Devin declares. “Immediately.”
“We haven’t even—” Another chest pain, sharper. I cover it by dropping a stitch and swearing creatively.
“Language,” Hannah teases, but her eyes stay worried.
I focus on fixing the mistake, counting stitches like prayer beads. The pain recedes to a dull ache. Manageable. Everything is manageable if you just push through.
Guilt, though. Guilt is something else entirely. I don’t like lying to my friends, especially Hannah. We’ve already been through so much together and I feel like I’m letting her and our friendship down by keeping this to myself.
I know if I shared the pericarditis diagnosis with the others, they would be nothing but supportive and sympathetic. They would understand completely. That’s what this group wasfounded for after all. We’re the Chronic Pain Crafters, here to support one another through the ups and downs of living life with chronic conditions. Conditions that are sometimes silent, conditions that come with challenges and emotional upheavals that many people, even those closest to us, can’t understand.
I also know that they’d do their own research. They would find out just how painful it is, how much worse it can get, how it can even lead to the heart not functioning properly. And, being my friends, they would encourage me to cut back on work.
That’s not something I can do.
Rheumatoid arthritis has already taken so much from me. Adding this new diagnosis, temporary or permanent, I can’t let this take anything else.
My phone buzzes again. This time it’s an Instagram notification. @JustRaveled1018 has liked seventeen posts in the last hour. All of them. Every single post from the last week. The username seems familiar, but I can’t place it. Probably just an enthusiastic follower. I’ve been getting more of those lately.
“Earth to Flick.” Maya waves a hand in front of my face. “Where’d you go?”
“Sorry. Thinking about my streaming schedule.” Another lie. They’re getting easier.
“You work too much,” Hannah says quietly. It’s an old argument, worn smooth with repetition.
“Bills don’t pay themselves.” Neither does specialized healthcare. Or the medications that keep me functional. Or the emergency fund I’m building for when—if—things get worse.
“Sebastian owns his practice,” Alexis offers. “Plus he does emergency clinic shifts. Bet he understands the hustle.”
Too well, maybe. What happens when two workaholics try to date? When neither has time for those Sunday mornings and shared passwords?
“I should go.” I pack up my project, movements careful. The last thing I need is them seeing how stiff my hands have gotten.
“Now?” Hannah asks, concern in her voice. “You’ve only been here about thirty minutes.”
“I know. I need to get ready for my date, though.”
“The date!” Maya claps. “What are you wearing?”
“Clothes?” I haven’t thought that far ahead. Most of my wardrobe involves dye stains and comfortable shoes.
“I have a sweater,” Hannah offers. “That blue one you borrowed for the craft fair? It’s in my car.”
The olive branch hangs between us. I take it gratefully. “That would be perfect. Thank you.”
We walk out together, the others calling good luck wishes after us. Hannah’s quiet until we reach her sensible mom-car, complete with dog hair and Katie’s soccer gear.
