Chapter Twenty-One – Fawn
Delilah has been at Cal’s for two days. I know she’s alive because she’s video-called twice — once from his kitchen sporting his Wolves hoodie, and once from his bed while he was fast asleep.
She’s jumped full-on hot and heavy, which, honestly?
Good for her. Maybe it’s time she did settle down.
She told me Cal’s decided to take her to see Sabrina Carpenter at some point.
Lucky. Well, at least I don’t have to buy her tickets now.
Meanwhile, in the last two days, I’ve managed to catch up on my sleep. I’ve completed the outline of my book. And today, I will begin writing.
Coffee in hand, I find myself at the kitchen window, staring out at the front garden, waiting for more ideas to spark.
The grass has reached the uninspiring shade of yellow it does when the rain has been teasing us for weeks.
The New England Aster I planted last year — Mother of God, even though I watered them last night, they’re no less limp.
It’s the first time in weeks I actually want it to rain.
Not for me — it needs to rain for Ivywood. The whole area needs a soak.
I tip the mug to my lips, taking just a little at a time. It’s the first real drink of hot liquid I’ve had access to in the last three days. The rush of caffeine revives me.
Honestly, Torin and Dylan? They’ve definitely been in my thoughts — more than once — but I’m determined to shove them as far back in my brain as possible and focus on my book.
Before I can begin writing, the kitchen needs my attention.
And of course, it’s been left the usual mess of chaos by Delilah.
Clearly, she’s been whipping up pancakes for Cal when he was last over — it wouldn’t surprise me if she cut one in the shape of the middle finger when she was done.
Instead of being angry about the crime scene of dishes, I put my coffee down and begin stacking the mess in the sink.
Halfway through sorting the plates, a low, aching cramp begins to curve through my lower stomach. I try to ignore it, push through it. A second, sharper cramp follows, and I find the counter with my hand and hold on, breathing through it.
Shit.
Leaving the dishes, I rush to the medicine cabinet, rummaging through the boxes and packets of medications with increasing desperation. Finally, when I do find the bottle of medication . . . it’s empty.
“Fuck,” I whisper as another cramp racks me, this one deep enough to cause my thighs to shake. I already know what’s happening. The cysts on my ovaries: they’re playing up, and they’ve been waiting until the worst possible moment.
I stagger back to the sink on instinct, in the same moment a cramp seizes me. My hands fly into my stomach, bearing down, as though I can hold the pain in place.
“Owww!” I cry out, the sound cracking on the last note as my body folds in on itself.
The kitchen blurs. My breathing stutters.
Not today. Please, not today.
The next cramp tears through me with enough force to take my legs out, and the kitchen floor comes up fast. On instinct, I drop to my hands and knees and begin to rock back and forth.
It’s as if someone is twisting a hot knife inside me. I know this pain too well.
No doubt, the cyst has ruptured — it did before, back when I lived with Jason. I can hear his voice in my head: Get up! It’s just your period. Stop being a baby. Try getting hit in the balls. As if I weren’t shaking. As if I weren’t hanging on by a thread.
Another cramp hits me — sharper than ever this time. My eyes cloud with stinging tears that refuse to be blinked away. The warmth of them meets the cold tile of my palms.
Squeezing my eyes shut, I remind myself to breathe through the pain. Slow and controlled. Then, the memory of the doctor’s order from the last time comes to mind: only come to the hospital if there’s bleeding or vomiting along with the pain.
So far . . . neither.
I swallow a lump. My body coils tight preparing for the next wave. The next cramp starts to develop; it builds and ramps up, as if winding itself up to lash out. I grit my teeth, trying to relieve the pressure by rocking my hips from side to side faster now. It does no good.
Then, it hits.
The sound that erupts from my throat isn’t controlled or hushed or something I can swallow — it’s a full scream that rips right out of me before I can stop it. The only thing I can do for a short time afterward is drop forward and catch my breath.
On all fours, I attempt to crawl. I stretch one hand toward the table and my phone, which sits tantalizingly out of reach. If only I could get hold of Delilah; she’d bring me the pain medication.
I haven’t moved an inch before a cramp hits again — deeper this time, hollowing me out from the inside.
My arms lose the fight and I fold — knees to chest, everything caving inward.
All I can do is remain where I am, in tears, on the cold tile floor, rocking from side to side as the waves of pain roll through me.
****
Torin
I’ve checked the address three times. It’s written in the notebook that this is the house.
I could just stick it in the mailbox or maybe I could be a regular human being and knock on the fucking door.
For the fourth time, I flip the notebook open, just to be sure.
Yep. The same address. Even has a cute little doodle of a coffee mug inside the cover.
What the hell am I doing standing beside my truck?
Dylan told me she freaked out when she saw him at the nursing home, and the last thing in the world I can allow to happen is her thinking I am stalking her.
The notebook must have fallen out of her purse in the truck.
That’s it. That’s the end of the story. I could have waited until she showed up at the rink, but she might need it.
Plus, I want to see her again and apologize if I was blunt in the truck the other day.
The truck door closes behind me as I clear my throat.
“Stay here,” I tell it, as if it can hear me. I’m losing it.
Slowly, I walk up the path and take in the yard. The purple flowers lining the walk are pretty, though the garden could definitely use a good watering. I can imagine Fawn planting them, or maybe Delilah bossing her around while she did.
As I approach the door, I square my shoulders.
“Drop off the notebook, say hi, and fuck off. Simple,” I mutter.
I raise my hand to knock—
Then freeze.
There’s a noise inside. I tilt my head, listening harder.
Screaming.
My head snaps back half an inch. Shit, am I about to hear Delilah and Cal fucking?
And then there’s another sound, another scream. It’s not sex, and definitely not pleasure. This scream comes from pain; I know it too well.
I stand for half a second, running my hand through my hair, and then instinct takes over.
Swiftly, I shift to the window and curse the fact that this is going to be utterly ridiculous looking if anyone sees me. My hands go to my face, shading my eyes, as I squint through the window.
My stomach lurches.
In the kitchen, Fawn is lying on the floor in the fetal position. Her face is flushed and twisted in anguish. Tears streak down her cheeks.
Fuck! Shit!
Tapping on the glass, I call out. “Fawn . . . can you get to the door?”
She doesn’t look up, not even a twitch. She’s lost in her own world of pain. I feel it before I understand it — a tightening in my chest, a need to step in.
No way in hell am I staying out here. I have to get in there. She’s hurting, and she’s alone.
I make a dash for the door and my boot connects with it before I can think twice. The doorframe shudders but doesn’t budge. Again, I grimace, kicking hard, and this time, the door flies open.
“Fawn!” I shout, rushing inside, dropping the notebook.
She’s in the kitchen, on the floor where I saw her seconds ago—trembling violently, her face distorted from the effort of holding back the agony. My knees hit the floor before anything else registers.
She doesn’t even glance at me. She only cries out, and the sound punches right through my chest.
My palms finds her face and I lean close. “I’m here, I’m here,” I reassure her.
“I . . . I . . .” she stutters, her breath catching on each word.
Staring down at her body, I’m afraid to touch anything. “You don’t think you’ve broken something, do you?” My voice comes out rougher than intended. “Did you fall?”
She manages a small shake of her head, arms folded tight over her core.
“Could it be your appendix?” I ask, hoping that it’s not.
“It’s . . . it’s . . . PCOS,” she manages to get out.
PC what?
My mind goes blank. I do not know what the fuck that is. I want to look it up, see how I can help her, but she lets out another cry, and the thought dies.
Her chest rises and stutters. “I’ve got a problem with my ovaries.”
I swallow hard. “Do you need me to call an ambulance?”
She attempts to move but winces instead. “No. No, it’s just very bad cramping.”
“I won’t let you suffer,” I whisper urgently. It’s not right — that she’s lying there the way she is, curled up and shuddering on the cold tiles.
“I ran out of pain medi—” she tries to say, but she has to stop. A scream rips out of her, and I don’t hesitate.
My arm goes around her waist and I pull her in, easing her up until her head finds my knees. “It’s okay. I’ve got you,” I whisper to her as the next wave rolls in.
She reaches out blindly, her hand shaking until she finds mine. Even when she squeezes hard, it’s desperate — as if she’s grasping through the pain.
“I’m so . . . sorry,” she moans.
She needs to stop apologizing; this is not her fault. My fingers find a strand of her hair and I move it aside. “Hey,” I say softly. “I’ve heard you puke. This isn’t stuff I can’t handle.”
Her lips twitch — barely — but it’s something.