Page 23 of Our Long Days
As menacing as a mouse, she steps forward and shoves the chocolate bar into the back pocket of my jeans. Then, she pauses, her chin inches from resting on my chest. I’m invaded by her tropical scent.
Not good. Retreat.
“Did you rob the store?” she asks quietly.
Gently, I grip her shoulders and put some much needed distance between us. Reaching into my pocket, I retrieve the Twix she assaulted me with—and the Snickers I bought for her.
Her brow wrinkles. “You…you bought it for me?”
Discomfort at her promising tone makes my skin prickle. It wasn’t supposed to be a big deal, considering the plan was to drop it in her tote bag when she wasn’t looking.
I scratch my chin. “You still stuck to your budget, so this doesn’t count.”
The early evening sun glitters in her eyes.
“But what about you? I didn’t get you a present? I totally forgot.” She winces. “I feel awful.”
Heart as beautiful as her.
My jaw cracks, realizing the admission, even if it was internalized.
“Nah, don’t.” I press the chocolate bars into her hand. “Please.”
My arms don’t know where to go when she wraps herself around me like a koala, hugging tight and pressing her face into my chest. I barely make out her mumbled, “Happy Birthday.” Willpower weak, I return her embrace, holding my breath the entire time.
I try to ignore her glazed eyes and flushed cheeks when we pull apart.
“Well, have a good birthday, lumberjack. Thanks for my sweet treat,” she says bashfully, retreating slowly. “See you around.”
Once her back is turned, I turn, refusing to watch her walk away.
It’s not that I regret Florence. No, it’s that I regret not preempting the strange sensation brewing in my chest every time we run into each other.
I climb into my truck, ready to head to Pat and Jo’s, when something jostles in the pocket of my Carhartt. It crinkles when I dip my hand inside.
The Twix.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
dexter
MAY
Denial has beena companion of mine for a long time.
It sits with me during lonely evenings, keeping me company after a grueling day.
I’m not completely obtuse to my condition and the accompanying symptoms, but for the last three years, I’ve pretended nothing has changed. In fact, the aural fullness is worsening, the tinnitus is more intense, the dizziness more debilitating. It's pure coincidence that five days following a vertigo attack, I’m meeting with my ENT.
She didn’t hide her surprise when I walked into her office. “Well, four months overdue is better than not attending at all.”
Her bedside manner could do with some work, but it’s one of the reasons she’s my doctor. There’s no bullshit or coddling. Plus, if I don’t attend, I can’t renew my Benzodiazepine prescription.
“You’ve got eighty percent hearing in the right ear currently, but considering you had an attack last week, the symptoms might be lingering,” Doctor Accetta says, her scrutinizing staremagnified by the thick lenses of her glasses. “How long did the symptoms persist?”
“Too long. I couldn’t move for hours afterward, and even then, the dizziness didn’t go away for a few days.” I resist the urge to clench my fists at the reminder of last week’s episode. I’d been working on a custom table, something I do in my spare time, when it hit me. Fortunately, I was only planing and had switched the table saw off minutes earlier.
“We’ll monitor it. Let’s arrange a follow-up in three months to run some further tests. It might be time for a second hearing aid and to discuss additional treatment.” She catches my somewhat annoyed expression. “I know it’s not the news you’re hoping for. There are other options and adjustments you can make—steroid injections, low-sodium diet…”
