Chapter 4 #2
“It really is. The guy was…” He trailed off, and I could tell he wasn’t going to talk about that.
I wouldn’t push him either. “Back when everything happened,” he started, and I knew he wasn’t talking about the accident today, “if I’d listened when I was warned, your brother wouldn’t have gotten hurt the way he did. Neither would Bean. Or Tam.”
“I know for a fact that wasn’t your fault,” I told him. Creek had never once—not ever—blamed Nash.
He sighed and shrugged. “Sometimes I don’t listen to my gut when I should. And sometimes I do, and it still doesn’t work out.”
“I mean, that’s kind of life, right?” I said.
He laughed softly, sleepily. He was fading, and I realized in that moment, so was I. We should probably move—get off the couch and attempt to go to bed. But this felt way too good. His hand was in mine, his head resting against my shoulder, the scent of him all around me.
Had I ever felt so at peace?
“Mm, you feelin’ better?” he asked, words now a little sleep-thick.
I hummed, breathed out, and felt the rise and fall of his chest start to even out. His grip on my wrist tightened, then went a little loose, and his fingers drifted across my palm before twisting up with mine.
Darkness was pressing in on all sides—but this time, it was the good kind. The easy kind. The kind that meant I’d get to rest.
“Nash?” I whispered.
But there was no answer. He was out, and it took no time at all for me to follow him into the dark.
Three days went by in three minutes, it felt like.
I managed to do all my work from home, and I hoped that as I rotted either in my bed or on the couch, time would slow down.
The closer it got to the appointment, the closer I was to knowing, and I would no longer be allowed to remain ignorant of what was wrong.
Early intervention was always better, but the idea of understanding what was wrong with me and facing all the things it could be was terrifying.
I spent the morning throwing up and hoping Nash didn’t hear, though when I found him in the kitchen waiting for me with mint tea and some dry toast, I knew I hadn’t been very subtle. He was kind though. He didn’t bring it up.
He made sure I was mostly hydrated, then ushered me out the door and didn’t say a word as he followed the quiet GPS instructions all the way to the neurologist’s office.
Everything was foggy from my cluster panic attacks, but Nash kept his hand in mine the entire time as I got checked in, then waited to be called back.
Once again, it felt like a time dilation, and I couldn’t tell if things were moving too slow or too quick.
But before I could catch my breath, they were calling my name and bringing me back.
The nurses were a little sharp-edged as I was triaged, but the doctor came in quickly. His voice was a soft, soothing kind of rumble, which was a balm to my nerves. I half-wished I’d brought Nash in with me, but if it was bad, I wanted to be able to process it on my own first.
“I’m scared,” I said after going through a brutally honest list of symptoms and events that had been going on for nearly a year and a half. “Can I ask…?” I trailed off.
He looked at me with warm mahogany eyes. “You can ask me anything.”
Licking my lips, I glanced away. “What are the chances this is something terminal?”
His brows were up when I found the courage to look back at him. “Like cancer? Or something else?”
“A brain tumor? ALS? I mean, my symptoms are weird.”
His lips twitched into something like a smile. “They are weird. That’s a great way to put it. And in my professional opinion…”
I held my breath.
“It’s not in your best interest for me to make a guess until we rule some things out.”
Dammit.
“But,” he added, “from what I’ve seen so far, your symptoms match those of FND.”
I frowned. “FN…D?”
“Oh, I assumed you might have known what that was, considering you’re a WebMD expert,” he said with a wink.
“I— Oh. Oh my god, come on. Everyone does it,” I said.
He burst into laughter and reached out, patting my knee.
“They do. Relax, Forest. I’m giving you a hard time.
It’s Functional Neurological Disorder, and we’ve seen a lot of cases popping up in recent years.
There’s no one real reason for it developing, but it can cause a lot of issues,” he said, ticking the list off on his fingers.
“Tremors, fatigue, muscle weakness, inability to walk, non-epileptic seizures, bowel and bladder issues…the list really does go on and on.”
“Is it… I mean… Will I…?” I swallowed heavily, unable to get the word out.
“Die?” He waited a beat. “Yes, but probably not from that. You’re more likely to get crushed by a meteor than to have FND be the cause of your death.”
“I hate you.”
He laughed again. “I have terminal patients, Forest, but I don’t think you’re one of them. And I’m only saying that because my confidence in this hypothesis is very high. But we’re going to do more tests than you’ll want to cope with, and we won’t stop until we have answers.”
“Are there treatments?”
At that, his face fell. “Some.”
I knew what that meant. It meant only a few. Which would mean mostly just managing symptoms and learning to live with a new normal.
But I could do that. Really. I could. I had no idea how it might affect my job or my ability to function day to day, but at least we had somewhere to start.
I couldn’t be angry about that.
“When do we start?”
He got a look in his eye, and I almost groaned. “Today sound good?”
No. It didn’t. But I was ready to start ruling stuff out. “Considering my go-to is procrastinating until I have no choice, you’d better bully me into it.”
He chuckled and winked. “Then get your ass up to the twelfth floor, and we can start with the poking and prodding. And I will see you in a few weeks, hopefully with some solid information.”
I wobbled a bit as I stood, but righted myself quickly.
He eyed me, then said, “I’m also going to write you a script for a cane. And if you want one, a wheelchair.”
My stomach hit my feet. “Will I need that?”
He tilted his head to the side. “That’s up to you. But my philosophy is, if those things exist to make your life easier, why live harder than you have to?”
He was right, and I hated it. He was right, but how was I supposed to handle everyone staring at me if I had a cane or a wheelchair? How could I face Creek? He would freak the fuck out. I took a breath, then nodded. “Thanks. I actually do feel better.”
It was only a half-lie, but I couldn’t deny that I was grateful we had somewhere to start—and that it didn’t look like I’d be staring the grim reaper in the eyes for a good, long while.
Staring down at the bowl of soup Nash was holding, I blinked. “I don’t have the flu.”
“No shit. If you had the flu, I’d be pushing this into your room with a broom handle,” Nash said with a smirk. “This is my grandma’s recipe, and it’s sacred, so eat it, enjoy it, and don’t complain.”
That was most definitely an order, but it was a hard one to ignore because it smelled amazing. Dipping the spoon in, I took my first bite, and flavor erupted across my tongue. “Oh my god.” It was heavenly. I shoveled several bites into my mouth before I was brave enough to look back up at Nash.
“Told you. You want more, Oliver Twist.”
Glaring at him, I shoveled several more molten lava-hot bites into my mouth, not caring that it was searing my tongue. “I might.”
“The fact that you’re eating at all makes me happy.”
My appetite had been whittled down to almost nothing, so I understood what he meant. I felt hungry. Bean would come over sometimes with recipes he was trying out for his restaurant, and my stomach would rumble, but three bites in, I was done.
I’d lost weight.
And I was tired all the time.
And right now, I felt wrung out like an old washcloth squeezed too many times.
The tests had been long, terrifying at worst, and painful at best. I had bruises on my arms from the blood draws, and there were still remnants of sticky adhesive on my temples and chest from where they’d taken all their readings.
I hadn’t understood half of what they were saying and not a quarter of what they were doing. All I knew was that I felt like I’d been scanned from head to toe.
Nash had pragmatically not asked me what the doctor said, but I could tell it was eating at him now. We were on the couch with tea trays on our laps, with some show about overseas real estate playing. The volume was so low I could barely hear it.
And he was tense. The least I could do was put him out of his misery.
“He doesn’t think I’m terminal.”
Nash’s spoon clattered into his bowl, and he cleared his throat. “Was that a possibility?”
“I mean, it’s always a possibility. I was thinking ALS or maybe brain cancer.”
He swore a long string under his breath. “Forest, I didn’t know it was that bad.”
My cheeks heated. “Yeah, sorry. It’s…been weird. Really bad some days and totally normal others. I was afraid to acknowledge it.”
“For how long?”
I swallowed heavily. “A while.”
“Forest,” he warned.
“Since before I moved. That’s why I moved. I thought it was stress, but it’s been getting worse.” I finished the soup, then set the tray on the coffee table and pulled my legs up, curling into myself a bit. I felt a little judged.
Nash seemed to notice because he set his food aside and gripped my ankle with tender fingers. “Hey, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to get so aggressive.”
“No.” I offered him a smile. He’d been so kind. “It’s just me. I was freaked out, and I still kind of am because at this point, they’re trying to rule everything out before telling me what’s wrong with me. It could still be bad.”
“But it also might not be,” he said. I had nothing to say to that. It was true. It was a penny in the air, and I had no idea which side it was going to land on. “Will you tell your brother?”
“When I know something. He’ll freak out and mother me to death, and I don’t think I can handle that right now. I need to figure this out before he knows, so I have answers when he asks me ten thousand questions.”
Nash looked at me sideways, but eventually he sighed and leaned over, resting against me once more. It made me think of the other night when we’d done this. When sleep had settled in, and I’d stopped being so afraid for that little while.
I’d woken up alone on the couch the next morning, but there’d been breakfast on the counter and a note from Nash letting me know he’d gone out to the store. The space beside me had been cold, but the echo of him still so comforting.
I wanted that again. But I wouldn’t ask for it.
He wasn’t mine.
This wasn’t a thing.
He was just…being nice.
“I should get to bed,” I told him. I wasn’t going to torture myself with the fantasy of him any longer.
For a moment, I swore I saw disappointment flash across his face, then he nodded and sat up. “Need help up?”
“I think I can manage.” I stood and started away, but he caught my hand by the tips of my fingers with his own. Looking back at him, there was something in his eyes I couldn’t read.
“Tomorrow, we’ll start moving your stuff.”
“My…stuff?” Oh god, was he kicking me out?
“We’re swapping rooms so you can be down here,” he said.
My eyes widened. “Nash! This is your house. I’m not putting you out just because—”
“Sorry, no. You’ve got shit going on.” He pointed to my legs, which were a bit wobbly, if I was willing to be honest. “I’m not going to be responsible for you breaking your neck on the stairs, okay? I couldn’t live with myself.”
I could tell he wasn’t going to be moved by anything I said, so instead of arguing, I shrugged and gently pulled away from him. “If you insist.”
He stood and looked down at me, directly into my eyes. “I do. Goodnight, Forest. Sweet dreams.”
My mouth felt so dry. God, I wanted to kiss him. I swallowed the words back and nodded. “Goodnight, Nash.”
And as the distance between us grew, it took all my effort to fight the urge to run back and collapse in his arms.