Page 89 of Best Year Ever

EPILOGUE

Ido a double take. This orange sticky note wasn’t on the exam room door a few minutes ago. I look toward Kimberly’s desk, but she’s studying something on her computer and decidedly not looking at me.

But we both know what the orange sticky note means. And how it got there.

I knock twice and open the door, like I always do with every patient. But my heart is beating a little faster than usual. Sage is here right now. She came into the clinic. To see me. And I can’t pretend I’m not thrilled.

Yes, I saw her yesterday. Yes, I talked with her this morning and I’m planning to see her later tonight. But something about the surprise of her coming into the clinic makes it impossible to stop smiling. I want to run over to her.

When I step inside the room, she’s not smiling. In fact, she looks so serious that I stop midstride.

“Hey, Sage,” I say, reaching out a hand toward her.

She holds up her hand, palm flat out toward me, like it’s a stop sign. “I’m here to talk to Dr. Mercer,” she says, her face pale.

“Of course.” It’s not like flipping a switch, but I give it my best shot. If she needs Dr. Mercer, Grayson can wait his turn. Does it make me feel like I’m practicing for the day I develop multiple personalities? Maybe a little. Would I ever say that to her? Not a chance. First of all, I don’t joke with her about any medical maladies—hers or anyone else’s. Second, she’d probably worry she was going to get diagnosed with it soon.

I sit on the wheeled chair as far from the table as is normal and open my tablet, ready to pull up her chart, but she shakes her head and makes a closing motion. I shut the lid and give her my full attention.

She’s wearing a thick white sweater, the kind with the knitted cables that make her look like a model for some woolen mill in Ireland. Her hair is pulled back in a knot with those amazing escaping curls. Her eyes are shining, and I wonder if she’s been crying.

“Something’s happening to me.” Her voice is hushed, and I have to force myself not to move closer. She’s wringing her hands.

It takes her almost a minute to say more. “I’ve been paying attention to the symptoms for a while now.”

She’d hurry up about this if she had any idea how quickly my brain is filling up with questions and follow-up questions and comforting commentaries.

“There’s the elevated heart rate, which I usually don’t worry too much about, but, you know, my watch alerts me about it pretty much every day, so it’s hard to ignore.”

She’s not looking at me. She’s picking at the tiny scuff on the knee of her jeans, where the fabric is worn artfully thin.

“And the difficulty sleeping, and of course, that’s been a thing for a long time.”

Has it? I don’t think she’s ever told me.

“I’m, like, constantly thirsty and hungry. I can’t get enough. And I’ve lost my focus. I can’t concentrate on my work. I forget to pay attention when people are talking to me. I space out all the time.”

My brain starts to whir as I catalog all these things, which of course are probably nothing, but I’m starting to think they might be something, and that something might not be good.

“Something happens to my face. It’s kind of embarrassing.”

I can’t help it. I have to interrupt. “What happens to your face?” And I don’t ask, why didn’t I notice? Have I spent so much time convincing Sage that nothing’s wrong with her that I’ve missed actual symptoms of some illness?

She sneaks a glance at me and then looks away again. “It will just flush hot all of the sudden. Really hot. And I get this ache, here.” She puts the fingers of both her hands to the joint of her jawbone.

“And I have these weird dreams. Crazy scenarios. Adventures. Walks down long hallways. Flying over mountains. Whatever it is, the one thing they all have in common is I’m spending all my time with you. I mean, all my time. Like, nothing else in my life seems to matter.”

Wait, what?

“And I think I know what’s wrong with me.”

That’s probably a good thing, because I have no idea what all this could possibly add up to.

“Okay,” I say, trying to keep my voice even. “But remember, we try not to use the word ‘wrong’ when we’re discussing symptoms and diagnoses. Why don’t you tell me what you think is happening?”

“Gravity.”

I must have misheard her.

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