22. Zara
ZARA
My phone alarm chirps from the bedside table, cheerfully telling me to get my ass out of bed. I will myself to move and turn off the noise, but my arm is now heavy, immovable concrete. And it aches.
Fuck , my entire body aches.
That’s nothing new. But the intensity of the pain is stronger than usual, as if I had traveled at high speed and slammed into a brick wall.
The flu? No, it doesn’t feel like the flu.
I just don’t feel…right. It’s like fog has rolled into my head overnight.
The fog of exhaustion that hits after I’ve spent the night tossing and turning, trying to get comfortable.
Chirp. Chirp-chirp-chirp. Chirp.
Someone…anyone…please turn off my alarm.
No magical beings heed my wish, and I inch my arm from under the cover, kill the noise with the tap of a finger. But that’s as far as things progress in terms of getting up.
I lie motionless in bed, like roadkill, eyes closed, waiting for my mental cheerleader to wave her pompoms in my face. To rah-rah at me to get going. But she’s having a nap, and I can’t find it in me to move even a fraction of an inch .
My thoughts drift to five days ago, to last Thursday, and the kiss with Garrett that wasn’t a kiss. I can’t stop thinking about it.
I can guarantee, though, Garrett hasn’t replayed it like I have. Why would he?
He certainly didn’t bring it up Friday night—thank the Lord—when he showed up for Game Night. He seemed his usual self—other than being a little stressed. But that wasn’t surprising with everything he has on his plate. He didn’t stay long. Forty minutes at most.
No, Garrett hasn’t given the kiss a second thought.
Now, if only I could stop thinking about it.
A hot shower. That’s what I need. A hot shower and ibuprofen and then I’ll be fine.
I have lots to do today, including getting the space that was formerly Mountain Lore ready for the renovation.
That’s why my body aches so much. I hung brown paper on the windows and the entrance to the store last night, so people can’t see the work being done before I’m ready to reveal it.
And now my body is paying the price.
Are you positive that’s what it is?
Ignoring the whispered voice in my head, I focus on the large painting on the wall of five women, dancing in brightly-colored traditional dress, and draw strength from it. I push up to sit and slowly swing my legs over the side of the bed.
I sit like that for a moment, searching for the additional inner strength needed to get up.
Once I find what I’m looking for, I shift my body weight forward until I’m on my feet and slowly unfold to my full height, my joints moving like rusty metal.
My hips, the base of my spine, and my shoulders are stiffer than normal.
Even my neck and knees seem more pissed off at me than usual.
Ibuprofen. Hot shower. In that order.
I shuffle to the bathroom, the stiffness easing slightly, like it does every morning. But usually, I’m a lot less stiff by the time I get there.
Why the hell does my body feel like it belongs to someone twice my age?
Dr. Cole initially mentioned, if the symptoms didn’t disappear in three months, I should schedule another appointment with her. It’s been a lot longer than that since I last saw her. Maybe…maybe the ache has nothing to do with an overuse injury like I’ve been assuming.
I fill the glass on the counter with cold water, swallow the ibuprofen, and switch my bonnet for the shower cap. Once the shower water is hot enough, I carefully climb into the bathtub. Then I stand under the stream of hot water and wait for the benefits to kick in.
Sitting on the medical-exam table, I check the social media accounts for Picnic & Treats while I wait for Dr. Edwards to enter the room.
Dr. Cole, my usual family physician, is away for the week due to a family emergency, but the clinic was able to fit me in today with her temporary replacement.
I remember Dr. Evelyn Edwards from the last time I saw her.
I liked her, so I’m good with seeing her instead of Dr. Cole—who I also like and admire.
Someone knocks on the closed door. It opens before I can say, “Come in.”
But it’s not Dr. Evelyn Edwards who steps into the small room.
It’s a man whose skin is a shade darker than skim milk.
He looks to be in his early sixties, his tall frame less muscle than mass.
His thinning gray hair is short on the sides and missing on top of his head, which shines in the stark overhead lighting.
“Hello, Ms…” He types on the computer keyboard next to the exam table.
“Thompson. I’m Dr. Shane Edwards.” He looks back at the computer screen.
“It says you’re dealing with pain that hasn’t gone away since it started five months ago.
” He slides the rolling stool away from the exam table and sits facing me.
“That’s right.” I describe the shoulder pain that has been coming and going over the past five years, and how I started to have pain in the base of my spine and my hips and knees at the beginning of the year.
How the pain has its ups and downs, but it was especially bad this morning when I woke up.
“I thought it was the result of my job, but I’ve been careful with how I lift heavy objects.
Now I’m not so sure it’s an overuse injury. ”
“I agree. At this point, I question if it is one, especially because it involves more than one joint.” He spends the next few minutes examining me, checking for swelling, redness, and warmth around the affected joints—signs of inflammation—as well as testing my reflexes and muscle strength.
“It’s possible you’re dealing with early symptoms of rheumatoid arthritis,” he says once he’s finished the examination and his questions.
I stare at him blankly. Arthritis?
“I’ll make a referral for you to see a rheumatologist to confirm things and to decide the next course of action.
Their office will contact you shortly with the appointment.
For now, take things easy, rest as much as possible, and continue taking the ibuprofen.
I can prescribe a stronger painkiller if you’d like. ”
Dr. Edwards’s words repeat in my brain like a loud, never-ending echo. Arthritis. I might have rheumatoid arthritis. “That’s okay. I’ll manage.” The pain and stiffness isn’t as bad as it was this morning. And I’d rather not rely on stronger painkillers. I don’t like how they make me feel.
I focus on his recommendations. Rest? Take things easy?
How the hell am I supposed to do that now that I’m renovating the space next door?
The expansion—it’s my dream. I can’t give up on that now.
But I also don’t have the luxury of spending more money on the renovations to get someone else to do the tasks I’d planned to do.
I thank him, pay for the visit, and return to Picnic & Treats, my thoughts on his recommendations.
“Anything happen while I was away?” I ask Keshia, not alluding to where I just came from. She’s measuring flour into the industrial mixer.
I didn’t tell anyone I had a doctor’s appointment. Everyone is like family here, but that doesn’t mean I want to dump my health problems on them.
Arthritis. I might have rheumatoid arthritis. I don’t know a whole lot about the disease, other than the few things I’ve heard—mostly that you don’t want to get it. The disease is a nightmare.
“Nope. Everything’s been good. I’m just making another batch of caramel brownies. The first batch went so quickly, and the girls out front are getting lots of requests for them.” She’s practically bouncing on the spot at this news .
I smile, the movement genuine and effortless despite what Dr. Edwards told me a short time ago.
I can’t tell her that I’m getting a referral to a rheumatologist. I don’t want anyone to know what’s going on with my body. The brain fog from this morning has disappeared. The achiness and stiffness have returned to their normal daytime level.
And I have way too much to do to waste time taking a break.
“That’s great. We’ll have to add them to the regular offerings. I’ll let you get back to it. If you need anything, I’ll be next door, dismantling the shelves,” I tell her and head for the staff room. I have jeans and a T-shirt on, so I lock my purse in my desk drawer and get to work.
I step into the old store. The wall that divides this space with P&T will eventually be torn down, but not until most of the other renovations have been completed. Otherwise, I’d have to close P&T for longer than I want while the renovations are being done.
My phone vibrates in my pocket, and I check who’s texted.
Garrett: Want to come over this evening? And go with Peony and me to the playground?
Garrett: I told Athena that she’s taking the evening off. No arguments.
I smile, typing out my reply.
Me: And you need someone to go with you who Peony trusts? [smiley face emoji]
My smile fades, the truth of the words squeezing my heart like a chew toy being mauled.
Peony showed up in Maple Ridge almost two weeks ago, and she still hasn’t warmed up to Garrett.
And neither has Athena when it comes to me.
It’s not like she’s being cold to me. She comes off friendlier than that.
Friendly enough that Garrett doesn’t seem to notice anything is off.
Garrett: That’s partly it. And I haven’t seen you since Friday.
Me: That’s only because you and your brothers were away.
On their first Wilderness Warriors excursion of the season.
Me: What time are you taking her to the playground?
I’ve missed both him and Peony, so there’s no question about me joining them. They’re the distraction I need from Dr. Edwards’s earlier words about my possible rheumatoid arthritis diagnosis.
Garrett: 6 p.m.
Me: Okay. I’ll drop by your house then. Now get back to work. No more using me for procrastination. [silly face emoji]
Garrett: Yes, ma’am.
I snicker, and my thoughts shift in a new direction. To the accidental kiss. Nope. Nope-nope-nope. Not happening. With a not-going-there huff, I get to work removing the shelves from the walls…while not thinking about Garrett’s lips on mine.
While not thinking about the way my body tingled in response to the kiss.
While not thinking about what it would feel like to kiss him once more but longer. Harder. Deeper.
Because what happened five days ago, when my lips accidentally touched his, can’t happen again. He doesn’t feel that way about me.
But what if he does?
I push the thought aside. He hasn’t given me any reason to think there’s anything else between us. And the last thing I want is to read into something that doesn’t exist.
So. No more kissing Garrett.
Even if I want to.