Chapter 12 – Maggie
Clay agreed to help me find a hobby for the summer, and for the first time since my diagnosis at sixteen years old, I feel excited about starting a new day.
Well, maybe it’s mostly because I’ve just had the best sleep I’ve gotten all summer, stretched out like a starfish in a bed that smells like him everywhere I roll.
Semantics.
When I was first diagnosed with Lupus, I’d thought that my life was over.
Not to be dramatic, but I was a teenager – and though that wasn’t all that long ago, there’s a stark contrast between the thinking of a sixteen-year-old girl in her sophomore year of high school whose simple interests are boys and sports, and the twenty-year-old woman that I am today who understands there is a lot more to look forward to in life.
It’d been a beautiful spring day when the butterfly rash had first shown up on my arm. I’d thought nothing of it at first. I was an active highschooler and played multiple sports while also spending time around town exploring the cornfields that dotted our hometown with my friends.
Occasionally we’d stumble across a briar bush or patch of poison ivy and end up with a bad case of scratches and bumps. I’d figured it was an allergic reaction or even an irritation to the new laundry detergent that I’d started to use.
But then the fatigue set in.
Suddenly, any excitement I had about getting out of bed vanished, and my mood plummeted.
That sophomore year I’d been unable to play soccer during the spring season because of the intense knee pain and the swelling that I was experiencing. That was the tipping point that caused me to finally tell my dad I thought something might be wrong.
A trip to the doctor revealed swollen lymph nodes, aching joints, the butterfly-shaped rash, and painful ulcers that I hadn’t been able to explain. After running blood tests and a urinalysis, they confirmed the diagnosis: Lupus, an autoimmune condition that changed everything.
I’d been devastated, but after moving past the initial shock, I’d spent the next four years finding a new rhythm.
I took my diet seriously, did my best to reduce stress and rarely indulged in alcohol which always left me feeling terrible anyways. For the most part, with the combination of anti-inflammatory medication and routine monitoring, I felt I had things under control, and I was back to living again.
Lupus has no cure, so managing it is crucial, but my doctor has always reminded me that with Systemic Lupus Erythematosus, the form affecting multiple organs, life expectancy can be impacted. And unfortunately, of the four types of lupus that exist, that’s the kind that I have.
I roll over in Clay’s bed, fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt that I’d slipped over my bikini before falling asleep last night. It smells like him—hickory and leather—a comforting reminder of where I’m at.
Hopping out of bed, I catch my reflection in his bathroom mirror and smile.
My chestnut brown hair is a wild mess, but I still feel beautiful today.
My curves have filled out more recently, mostly due to the extra weight that I’ve gained from my condition, but after a long, restful night of sleep, I feel good—better than I have in a long while.
And for the first time, I’m excited about the summer months at home.
I shake my head at my reflection, allowing the waves to fall around my face.
What are you doing Maggie?
It had been impulsive, asking him for help last night.
I was feeling emotional, imagining what it’d be like to have a mom who was excited about me coming home for the summer, or a dad who isn’t always working.
That’s what led me to ask Clay to help me brainstorm a summer hobby.
He’d made it clear he wouldn’t be getting involved, which is fine—I’d already let go of any hope that he’d ever see me differently.
I thought I’d moved past it. But then he went and cared for me.
Offered his apartment. Gave me his bed. Showed real concern about how I was feeling.
Of course, he did that. He’s just a nice guy. The nicest. He’d do that for any woman who asked him.
I glance at my watch, realizing I need to be at the town’s Co-op in just a few hours.
So, I strip off his t-shirt and toss it into the waste basket feeling a little sad about parting ways with his delicious scent.
Then I slip into the jean shorts I’d brought with me.
Stepping into the living room, I call out, “Clay? Are you here?”
No response.
My feet take me to the kitchen island where I switch on his coffee maker as if I belong here. A sticky note attached to the bottom catches my eye.
**********
M-
Left for work.
Help yourself to whatever you want.
Hope you’re feeling better.
Wasn’t sure if you had cash. Here’s some money if you need to pay for a cab to get your car back at Lucy’s. Sorry I couldn’t take you myself.
C –
***************
My heart flutters slightly before I stop myself from going there.
He’d do this for anyone.
You’re not into him anymore.
You guys are just friends, mere acquaintances, at that.
He’s made that abundantly clear to you on one too many occurrences.
I nod my head at my reflection in the coffee maker after I finish my pep talk.
Glancing around his tidy apartment, I take survey of the place he calls home.
It’s cold, almost clinical, nothing at all like the mismatched patterns at Cameron ranch or Clay’s personality, though I guess most days I really don’t know who he is or what version I’m going to get of him when we run into each other.
Well, he didn’t say no snooping.
Curiosity always gets the better of me, and I’m dying to know what secrets Clay keeps hidden in his closet, but I resist the urge, knowing better than to snoop after he’s been so generous with his bed.
Instead, I fill a mug with coffee to go, call an Uber, and leave the cash on the counter before heading home to change.
Thirty minutes later, after a long, steamy shower, I have a plan.
I’ve figured out how to fill my free time between interning at the hospital, and online classes this summer and I can’t wait to share it with my dad.
Though he means well, he’s always worrying about me and wants to see me live a full life.
I want that for myself too, of course, but party of that worrying extends to me not having much to look forward to outside of work and school.
I pick up my car from Lucy’s and drive back to town to put in a few hours of work at the co-op before stopping by the firehouse for dinner with my dad later.
Nourish Co-op is a non-profit started by Jovie Cameron, Clay’s sister-in-law. It provides free produce and other essentials donated by neighboring farms and ranches in Lonestar Junction to families in need.
I’ve volunteered here often throughout my childhood, and for the summer, Jovie had offered me a part-time job between my internship shifts at the hospital—an opportunity to make a little extra cash while home.
The work is straightforward and repetitive—mostly bagging produce, sorting through goods stored in the freezer from previous seasons, and labeling boxes for the delivery drivers to pick up.
Since today’s Friday, I’m focused on quality-checking all the crates before the scheduled six p.m. pick-up time.
“How are you doing, sweet girl?” Jovie asks in her kind, always gentle voice.
Today she’s wearing a pair of simple jeans and a soft, yellow T-shirt but I can’t help admiring how beautiful she looks.
When I was younger, I used to think she looked just like Belle from Beauty and the Beast, a beautiful Disney princess in real life, married to a beast of a man like Nash Cameron.
She and her sister Stevie Cameron, married to Clay’s oldest brother, managed the co-op and truly have a heart for the community of Lonestar Junction.
“Pretty good,” I smile, “school’s going well. I’m interning at the hospital and hoping to graduate in December. Hopefully the hospital will hire me full time after graduation.”
“That’s wonderful. The town misses you. How’s your dad doing? I know he misses you, too.”
“I think he’d love for me to move back for my last semester but the time away has been good.”
She nods knowingly. “Sometimes you need to leave to discover who you really are. Nothing wrong with taking some time to gain your independence.”
“Exactly.”
And to not be constantly reminded of your diagnosis.
One of the main reasons my father wants me home is because of his concern about how I’m handling everything. Despite his demanding schedule at work, he’s always tried to be present more often when I’m around, even though his inclination is to just keep on working.
It’s always been this way—he sought solace and distraction from the pain of watching his daughter suffer and the lingering ache of losing his wife so young by immersing himself in his work and I curbed the loneliness of not having him around by trying to fill my time with my studies.
But I don’t need a babysitter anymore. I’m responsible and fully aware of the risks associated with my diagnosis, including the importance of routine checks, even if I occasionally delay them for my own mental well-being.
During our last dinner together, he’d once again asked how I was managing—whether I was keeping up with friends, maintaining a social life, and engaging in hobbies. His constant concern about my ability to maintain normalcy sometimes feels overwhelming and suffocating.
I know it stems from the fact that he’s a single parent, and I have no siblings, but I wished there was a way to quelch his concerns and show him that I’m going to be okay. I’m already okay.
The door to the shop jingles, drawing our attention as Dallas Golden enters, carrying a large wooden crate brimming with freshly picked blueberries and strawberries.
Dallas moved to Lonestar Junction just over ten years ago, and I still remember his arrival vividly.
It was a significant event when he bought and restored the old Evergreen Farm that neighbored Cameron Ranch, renaming it to Golden Farm after his name.
His unexpected friendship with the Cameron family and his marriage to Dove Hart, the town’s beloved famous rockstar, had quickly made an impression.
He's a handsome man closer to Nash and Wylie’s age with a buzzcut, striking eyes, and muscles so big it looks like he’s still on active duty. We’ve interacted mostly in passing but I’ve always been a little intimidated by his looming presence though I’ve heard he’s a cinnamon roll on the inside.
“Hi, Dallas!” Jovie greets him with a warm smile.
“These probably won’t make it into today’s delivery,” Dallas says, gesturing to the bushel, “but I just picked them.”
Jovie’s smile widens at the sight of the vibrant fruit. “Maggie can separate them out into individual containers, and we’ll freeze them for next week’s orders. Dinner soon while Dove is in town?”
Dallas gives a curt nod as she turns with a wave, heading back out towards the front of the shop.
“Maggie,” he nods in greeting.
“Hi Dallas. How are you and Dove doing?”
“Pretty good,” he replies, casually leaning against the metal table as he observes me with a scrutinizing gaze.
When he’d first arrived in town, his intense way of studying people felt unsettling, almost as if he was mentally dissecting each interaction like a mission. But now, I’m used to it and continue to busy myself with the blueberries while I let him do his thing.
He reaches into the giant bucket of sunflower seeds by the counter and pops a few into his mouth while my mind spins.
My curiosity is getting the best of me again, and I know I might be treading on thin ice if Dallas realizes that I’ve seen Clay’s medical paperwork, but I’d noticed that Dallas had been listed as the emergency contact for Clay’s recent hospital visit instead of one of his siblings, which had struck me as unusual as the time.
Since I’ve spoken to Clay, his secrecy has only gotten more suspicious.
Given their friendship, I wonder whether Dallas knows more about what Clay’s up to then his family.
I take a deep breath, prepared to ask even if that means a scolding from Dallas.
“So... what are you and Clay up to tonight?”