Chapter 11
CHAPTER ELEVEN
dexter
MAY
Denial has been a companion of mine for a long time.
It sits with me during lonely evenings, keeping me company after a grueling day.
I’m not completely obtuse to my condition and the accompanying symptoms, but for the last three years, I’ve pretended nothing has changed.
In fact, the aural fullness is worsening, the tinnitus is more intense, the dizziness more debilitating.
It's pure coincidence that five days following a vertigo attack, I’m meeting with my ENT.
She didn’t hide her surprise when I walked into her office. “Well, four months overdue is better than not attending at all.”
Her bedside manner could do with some work, but it’s one of the reasons she’s my doctor. There’s no bullshit or coddling. Plus, if I don’t attend, I can’t renew my Benzodiazepine prescription.
“You’ve got eighty percent hearing in the right ear currently, but considering you had an attack last week, the symptoms might be lingering,” Doctor Accetta says, her scrutinizing stare magnified by the thick lenses of her glasses. “How long did the symptoms persist?”
“Too long. I couldn’t move for hours afterward, and even then, the dizziness didn’t go away for a few days.
” I resist the urge to clench my fists at the reminder of last week’s episode.
I’d been working on a custom table, something I do in my spare time, when it hit me.
Fortunately, I was only planing and had switched the table saw off minutes earlier.
“We’ll monitor it. Let’s arrange a follow-up in three months to run some further tests.
It might be time for a second hearing aid and to discuss additional treatment.
” She catches my somewhat annoyed expression.
“I know it’s not the news you’re hoping for.
There are other options and adjustments you can make—steroid injections, low-sodium diet… ”
“I’ll look into it,” I interrupt, then wince in apology.
She studies me. “Ignoring it isn’t going to make it go away, Dexter. You need to prepare for the possibility that your condition may become bilateral. It doesn’t mean your life stops.”
My rebuke sits on the tip of my tongue. “Anything else, Doc?”
She shakes her head. “Not today. Don’t forget to schedule an appointment with the front desk. I’ll see you in three months.”
With a muttered thanks, I stride out of the office, bypassing the front desk. It’s rare I lose control of my emotions, and though she’s used to my attitude, it doesn’t make it okay.
Raindrops pelt against my Carhartt jacket as I jog across the parking lot into my pickup. I make no move to start the engine. Melancholy skies reflect my mood.
It doesn’t mean your life stops.
A humorless laugh floats through the cab. Some life I’m living.
Doctor Accetta is wrong. I’ve been preparing for the worst for over two decades. It’s why my circle of friends is small and my dating life is non-existent. I’m not abstinent, but relationships aren’t for me.
What I’ve refused to accept is how my condition could eventually impact my job.
I live to work. Without it, I have nothing.
College wasn’t for me, and on a whim, I applied for an internship at the local lumberyard. The rest is history.
Fifteen years later, Moore Lumber is one of the leading construction companies in Maine, specializing in log cabins.
The demand has increased tenfold in the last five years, allowing me to expand and employ a small team.
With expansion comes less time on site and increased administrative work, much to my chagrin.
I’m working sixty-hour weeks, fucking up reservations at my rental cabins and double-booking meetings with customers. We’ve got a huge project coming up, and I can’t risk my absence impacting that. It pains me to admit, but I need someone on hand to cover me when a severe attack strikes.
Which is why, after months of debate, I’m hiring an assistant.
A bunch of resumes are waiting for me in my inbox.
I requested the recruitment agency redact all personal information, giving me only the necessary details.
I don’t have time for interviews or to sift through applications.
If they know how to use a computer, aren’t afraid to speak to people, and are happy to live in the small A-frame behind my cabin, they’re hired.
Free housing, benefits, and a good salary. The dream job.
The drive home takes longer than usual because of an accident, and by the time I drag my feet over the threshold, I’m ready to collapse.
Then, my phone vibrates.
Mom flashes on the screen. I’ve been avoiding her calls all day, but she won’t relent until she receives an update about my appointment.
“Hey.” I press the phone to my right ear. “Sorry, it’s been hectic around here.”
“Too busy for your own mother?” she warns, though the woman wouldn’t hurt a fly. “Give me the cliff notes.”
I grimace, even though she’s giving me the easy way out. She knows I hate discussing my condition. After relaying what Doctor Accetta said and informing her of my decision to hire someone, her tone turns hopeful. The woman’s an optimist who sadly birthed a realist.
“It’s not bad news,” she offers.
“It’s not good news either, Ma.”
She sighs. “An assistant will be helpful, but you can’t hide your condition from them. Your health is a priority.”
I grumble a half-hearted agreement.
“Just like your father, stubborn as a mule.”
“Hey!” a deep voice calls in return, making me smirk.
My parents are about to celebrate their 45th wedding anniversary and are still as in love today as they were in high school.
Both raised in small families, they had no more kids after me.
They’ve weathered some bumps in the road like any couple, but they face them together, head on and stronger than ever.
Their marriage is the blueprint, and long ago, before my plans derailed, it was the future I envisioned for myself.
Someone to share a bed with, to love when we’re old and gray. Kids to chase around the yard and build bunk beds for. A life filled with memories.
Once the destination, now a mirage.
“Have you decided what day you’re getting in for the wedding?”
My mom scoffs at my poor attempt at changing the subject. “We should be in town for the rehearsal dinner. Your father’s looking at hotels as we speak.”
Shoot. If I hire an assistant, the A-frame I built for their visits will be occupied. “You can stay in the main house.”
“You don’t want us cramping your bachelor lifestyle. Either way, we can’t wait to see Patrick and Johanna get married.”
“About time, huh?”
Jo and Pat settled on a date in July, and last week, my oldest friend asked me to be his best man. Shit got emotional, and, obviously, we blamed it on allergies.
We chat some more, my mom telling me about a cruise they’ve booked for after the wedding, and then we say goodbye.
Fighting the exhaustion, I make my way toward my workshop. Built adjacent to the main cabin, the corrugated steel building is where I keep my bespoke pieces, ranging from dining tables to staircases. It’s a nice change of pace from the bigger projects, more of a hobby.
It’s also home to a small office with boring beige walls, a place where I rarely spend any time. A mountain of paperwork and invoices balances precariously on the desk, and more papers spill out of the filing cabinets.
Call me old school, but reading on paper is easier. I open the folder, send the resumes to the printer, then settle into my chair, pen at the ready.
“Fuck’s sake.” They’ve forgotten to redact the applicant details. My hand reaches for my phone, ready to call the agency, when a name catches my eye.
I blink, certain it’s a figment of my imagination. There, in bold, black lettering, is a name I’ve tried my hardest not to think about. A name etched into my brain.
Florence Sadler.
The universe is fucking with me. That, or I’m dreaming, and I’ll wake up any second, drooling over my keyboard. Reading any more feels like a huge invasion of privacy, but like anything with Florence, I’m powerless.
The corner of my mouth hitches. She talks about how being the youngest of four has built character and resilience.
I imagine her saying that aloud, her hands fisted on her slender hips.
There are a lot of great skills on here, and yes, her employment history is short, but I also know how passionate, hardworking, and determined she is.
Red flashes in my vision.
Warning: do not cross.
Too fucking late for that.
My mind is made up, despite my conscience banging against the inside of my skull. Nothing good will come from this, it screams.
A lot of good will come from this.
Your spark hasn’t gone yet, Trouble.
We all need a break, someone to take a chance. She wouldn’t have applied had she known who was behind the ad, and she’s going to fight me on this, tooth and nail. Unless…
I’m already typing out an email to Kelsey at the recruitment agency, ignoring my remaining ounce of common sense.