Page 24 of Our Long Days
“I’ll look into it,” I interrupt, then wince in apology.
She studies me. “Ignoring it isn’t going to make it go away, Dexter. You need to prepare for the possibility that your condition may become bilateral. It doesn’t mean your life stops.”
My rebuke sits on the tip of my tongue. “Anything else, Doc?”
She shakes her head. “Not today. Don’t forget to schedule an appointment with the front desk. I’ll see you in three months.”
With a muttered thanks, I stride out of the office, bypassing the front desk. It’s rare I lose control of my emotions, and though she’s used to my attitude, it doesn’t make it okay.
Raindrops pelt against my Carhartt jacket as I jog across the parking lot into my pickup. I make no move to start the engine. Melancholy skies reflect my mood.
It doesn’t mean your life stops.
A humorless laugh floats through the cab. Some life I’m living.
Doctor Accetta is wrong. I’ve been preparing for the worst for over two decades. It’s why my circle of friends is small andmy dating life is non-existent. I’m not abstinent, but relationships aren’t for me.
What I’ve refused to accept is how my condition could eventually impact my job.
I live to work. Without it, I have nothing.
College wasn’t for me, and on a whim, I applied for an internship at the local lumberyard. The rest is history.
Fifteen years later, Moore Lumber is one of the leading construction companies in Maine, specializing in log cabins. The demand has increased tenfold in the last five years, allowing me to expand and employ a small team. With expansion comes less time on site and increased administrative work, much to my chagrin.
I’m working sixty-hour weeks, fucking up reservations at my rental cabins and double-booking meetings with customers. We’ve got a huge project coming up, and I can’t risk my absence impacting that. It pains me to admit, but I need someone on hand to cover me when a severe attack strikes.
Which is why, after months of debate, I’m hiring an assistant.
A bunch of resumes are waiting for me in my inbox. I requested the recruitment agency redact all personal information, giving me only the necessary details. I don’t have time for interviews or to sift through applications. If they know how to use a computer, aren’t afraid to speak to people, and are happy to live in the small A-frame behind my cabin, they’re hired.
Free housing, benefits, and a good salary. The dream job.
The drive home takes longer than usual because of an accident, and by the time I drag my feet over the threshold, I’m ready to collapse.
Then, my phone vibrates.
Momflashes on the screen. I’ve been avoiding her calls all day, but she won’t relent until she receives an update about my appointment.
“Hey.” I press the phone to my right ear. “Sorry, it’s been hectic around here.”
“Too busy for your own mother?” she warns, though the woman wouldn’t hurt a fly. “Give me the cliff notes.”
I grimace, even though she’s giving me the easy way out. She knows I hate discussing my condition. After relaying what Doctor Accetta said and informing her of my decision to hire someone, her tone turns hopeful. The woman’s an optimist who sadly birthed a realist.
“It’s not bad news,” she offers.
“It’s not good news either, Ma.”
She sighs. “An assistant will be helpful, but you can’t hide your condition from them. Your health is a priority.”
I grumble a half-hearted agreement.
“Just like your father, stubborn as a mule.”
“Hey!” a deep voice calls in return, making me smirk.
My parents are about to celebrate their 45th wedding anniversary and are still as in love today as they were in high school. Both raised in small families, they had no more kids after me. They’ve weathered some bumps in the road like any couple, but they face them together, head on and stronger than ever.
