Page 39 of One Hotlanta Night
“He seems to have a good head on his shoulders. And you just gave him the ‘in’ he needed.” Michael winks at me, brushing his thumb across my knuckles. This connection, the way he needs to always be touching me feels soothing instead of suffocating. Another first.
“Hmm,” he says as he flips the menu over, looking at the long list of entrees on the back. “This isn’t going to work.”
I arch a brow at him. Sure, it’s notmygreat-grandmother’s recipes or anything like that, but we still make some damn fine barbeque.
What I don’t expect is for him to get out of his side of the booth . “Scoot over,” he says, gently sliding me further into my side. These can seat three full-grown adults across so there’s plenty of room, but I’m so surprised that I comply without thinking. He quickly sits down next to me, so close that our thighs are pressed together. “That’s better.” He eyes the menu again and rubs his hands together. “So, what’s your favorite thing on here?”
I sit there gaping.
“What? I was lonely.” He smirks.
Shaking my head, I can’t help but grin back at him. Michael:1, Vivan:0.But not for long…
“Youarea smooth one, aren’t you?” I quip over a sip of my drink.
“Tell me. Is it working?” He wiggles his brows at me, and I laugh at the unexpectedly cheesy gesture. He continues to peruse the menu, and drapes his arm over my shoulder.
And that’s when the pain hits.
The backs of the booths are a little too high, and I wince as his arm rests right on top of a particularly sore spot directly between my spine and shoulder blade. Guess the long nights this week, plus the stress of making sure Raelynn was okay is catching up with me, and I can’t hide my sharp inhale at the sudden ache. I had hoped he didn’t hear, but Michael’s eyes fly up from the menu and latch on mine.
His eyes narrow. “What’s wrong, mi amor?” he asks softly. He looks me over carefully, as if he’s trying to locate the source of the pain.
“Nothing, I’m good.”
“Vivian…” He huffs out a breath of frustration, and I eye him warily. We’ve shared so much in just the past few days. I feel like I can tell him almost anything, like I can trust him with all the broken parts of me. And I’ve never had that kind of security before.
But this is a literal pain point with me.
Doctors don’t even know if fibromyalgia is real, or at least not much has been written about it. Even my own physician wrote it down with a question mark when he couldn’t figure out what was causing all the aches and fatigue and sleepless nights. I’m grateful he didn’t give up on me. Didn’t just sweep it under the rug or tell me it was all in my head. He worked tirelessly to find a combination of treatments so I could live a normal life. Or at least what passes for normal these days.
I’ve accepted that this painful condition is part of my life now, but it’s not easy explaining it to others. Even when I tried to talk about it with close friends, their heads nodded yes but their eyes belied their skepticism.
What if Michael looks at me like that? Will he understand that even though my body looks normal, there are days when I can barely get out of bed? “Tell me,” he commands, his eyes fiercely pinned on mine.
If I’m going to stand a chance with this guy, I’ve got to be open and honest. Remembering the words I could’ve sworn I heard out loud that night—If you miss out on this, you’re missing out on something big—I take a deep breath and will myself to be transparent.
“So, you know how I told you about that car accident?” He nods. “A few years ago, I started having a lot of pain out of nowhere. First I couldn’t sleep, and then I had this creepy crawly sensation on my legs.”Thank you, restless legs syndrome, one of the worst things I’ve ever experienced in my life. “Then mymuscles started to hurt, like really bad cramps and soreness. It doesn’t happen all the time, but when it hits—”
“Fibromyalgia?”
“Wh–what?”
“Do you have fibromyalgia?” he asks again. “Because that’s what that sounds like.” He shrugs nonchalantly. “My mother has it.”
“Y-yes,” I breathe out, staring at him. We talked about seemingly anything and everything, but this didn’t come up. Not that I blame him, given how I feel about opening up about my health issues.
“Where does it hurt the most right now?”
“My… my shoulders.”
He immediately removes his arm, cursing under his breath.
“Hey, it’s okay, you didn’t know,” I tell him softly.
“Let me make it better,” he responds just as quietly. Looking in my eyes, he waits until I give a small nod. Gently he positions me so I’m facing away from him and my back is to his front. Sweeping his hands lightly over my shoulder blades, my muscles tense and then loosen, and his fingers zero in on exactly the right spot. My whole body exhales as he starts to lightly massage the tender muscles.
“Do you like it soft or rough?” At my startled breath, he lets out a low chuckle. “Okay, let me try again. Is this too much or do you need more?” His breath tickles just below my ear and his words send tingles up my spine, distracting me from the sore pressure points he’s expertly working.
