Page 58 of We Can Stay
“Good. Because we don't need you anyway.”
A laugh escapes despite everything. “Your bedside manner is truly inspiring, Rach.”
“Sebastian, turn off your phone. Between Nancy and me, we have forty years of experience. I'll only be calling you if someone brings in a pet unicorn.”
“Noted.” The amusement fades as I pull into a parking spot outside Flick's condo. “Thanks, Rach. For everything you do.”
“Talk to you later, lover boy.”
She hangs up before I can protest the nickname. Not that it matters—I'm already jogging up to Flick's door, knocking perhaps too urgently.
“Flick?”
Her response barely carries through the wood. “Come in.”
I open the door and enter to an empty living room. My gaze sweeps left into the kitchen, and my heart drops. She's on the floor, spine pressed against the radiator like she's trying to absorb every bit of warmth through her clothes. Her eyes are red-rimmed, swollen from crying, and the tight line of her mouth tells me everything about the pain she's fighting.
This is so much worse than I imagined.
Rushing over, I drop to my knees beside her. The floor is cold through my jeans. “What do you need? Tell me what to do.”
A ghost of her usual smile flickers across her face. “Get me a heating pad. Fill up a hot water bottle. The—” Her breath catches, face contorting. “The weed brownies. Get one from the freezer.”
“Of course.” I press my lips to her forehead, her skin hot under my mouth, then push to my feet. Cat winds around my ankles with a pitiful mew, like she understood what Flick was saying.
“And feed Cat,” Flick adds, voice rough as sandpaper.
I move through her kitchen with purpose, grateful for the clear instructions. Plugging in a heating pad and handing it to Flick, then I collect the hot water bottle I passed on the couch, filling it. The freezer yields a Tupperware container labeled “Special Brownies - DO NOT SHARE” in Flick's careful handwriting. I place one on a plate to thaw while refilling Cat’s small bowl with dry food and then set it on the kitchen floor.
“Would you like to move to bed?” The words are out before I consider the distance. “Or the couch?”
“Um...” Her eyes squeeze shut, and I count the seconds—one Mississippi, two Mississippi—before they open again. “I don't think I can get up.”
“I can help you.”
She nods, just barely, and I bend to take her arms. The hiss of pain that escapes when she stands cuts straight through me. We move like we're crossing a minefield, each step measured and careful. The journey to the couch might as well be a marathon for how much it takes out of her.
Getting her settled on the cushions is another production. She clutches the hot water bottle to her chest like a lifeline while I arrange the heating pad behind her back, adjusting pillows until she stops wincing.
I perch on the edge of the coffee table, close enough to smooth damp strands of hair back from her forehead. “I'm sorry I wasn't here.”
The look she gives me suggests I've sprouted a second head. “Why would you have been here?”
“Because...”
Because I’m crazy about her. Because I think about her all day, wonder what she’s doing while I'm elbow-deep in treating animals and doing paperwork. Because if my schedule wasn't packed with the clinic and side projects filling my time, I'd find excuses to show up at her door every single day.
Good thing I'm so busy. She'd probably change her locks by now.
“So, this is what a flare is like, huh?” I trace gentle circles on the back of her hand. “Is there something that caused it?”
She fixes her gaze on the ceiling like it holds the secrets of the universe. “It could happen even if I've been resting, but doing a lot of work increases the chances.”
“I'm sorry.” The words feel inadequate, but suggesting she slow down would be hypocritical at best, insulting at worst. We're cut from the same cloth, Flick and I—always pushing, always working, always convinced we can handle just a little bit more.
“Rheumatoid arthritis really sucks, huh?”
Her bottom lip trembles before she catches it between her teeth. My stomach flips. What did I say?
