Chapter 6
Ellie
Istand in line at the pharmacy, head pounding, my stomach churning.
Everyone is staring at me. Probably because I’m dressed like Elsa from Frozen.
I don’t care though. At this point in my life, I’ve learned how to stop giving a crap when I have to go out in public dressed in my party princess garb.
I had just finished performing at a kid’s birthday party when this headache kicked in, so I rushed to the pharmacy to pick up my new medication.
I usually have my prescription migraine medication filled so that I can take it whenever a bad headache hits, but this month, my insurance switched up its coverage terms, and I couldn’t request a refill at the pharmacy until I had completely run out.
Irritation simmers underneath the pain of my headache. I freaking hate insurance companies.
I’m so sick of the crap they constantly pull. Changing eligibility requirements. Jacking up premiums. Saying they cover a medication or procedure, but then refusing to pay for it.
I’ve spent my whole life dealing with them, and it’s only gotten more difficult, more frustrating, more demoralizing.
I clutch the side of my head and hold back a groan as the line moves at a snail’s pace. My anxiety kicks up at how long this could take…and how it could make things so much worse.
I close my eyes and take a slow, deep breath. I quietly exhale. It’s a short reprieve from the harsh fluorescent lights above. Being around bright lights can sometimes turn a bad headache into a migraine, and I can’t have that happen right now. Not when I’ve got a full schedule at work.
My phone starts to ring. When I look and see that it’s my ex, Damien, calling, I silence it. A minute later, he texts me.
You can’t ignore me forever, Ellie. You owe me money for breaking our lease. One thousand dollars. Don’t think you can just stiff me and I’m going to just sit there and let you.
I grit my teeth, upset at Damien for the way he’s going after me over this. That ache in my head gets worse, so I relax my jaw and close my eyes. I refuse to let Damien be the reason for this headache turning into a migraine.
I still can’t believe I stayed with him for as long as I did—and I can’t believe I moved into his apartment after dating him for just three months.
That was so stupid of me. But he was my first relationship—the first guy I ever kissed. I was smitten with him. He was so sweet and funny and charming.
Until he wasn’t.
When I think about how quickly he lost his patience with me in bed…how he flipped out on me when I was the most vulnerable and scared….
I start to feel sick.
I can’t believe I fell for someone who was so cruel and mean.
Who convinced me to move in with him and then kicked me out of his apartment when I wouldn’t do what he wanted in bed.
Who blamed me for getting kicked out of his apartment, even though he was the one at fault.
And now he’s coming after me for money I don’t actually owe him. Money I don’t even have.
I think about explaining that to him for the millionth time, but I know he won’t care. He’ll just yell at me and demand that I give him cash, like always.
I swallow back that sick feeling and push Damien out of my mind. A few more slow, deep breaths ease the sharp pain at the back of my skull. My head is still aching, but it takes the edge off.
I dig in the pocket of my massive, ice blue gown for a piece of ginger candy and pop it in my mouth. The longer I suck on the citrusy and spicy candy, the more my stomach settles.
The line moves ahead a few, and my nerves start to ease. Just a few more minutes in this line and I’ll pick up my medicine and stave off this migraine.
One good thing about this headache is that it’s taken my mind off how embarrassed I was after hanging out with Camden this weekend.
I’ve been obsessing over it, mortified at how awkward I was…and how weird Camden probably thinks I am.
It started as such a fun night. We were chatting and laughing. But then Camden made a joke about how boring he was, and I gave him a hard time about it, which led to him joking about the wildest places he’s had sex…
And then I started asking him questions about it, even though I shouldn’t have.
But Camden was so open about it, and I couldn’t help my curiosity.
Because I have no idea what any of that is like. I’ve never done any of the things he’s done.
I’ve kissed one guy in my life—Damien. That’s it.
And the few times we tried to take things further, it was a complete disaster. The most humiliating and hurtful experience of my life.
I’ve been too nervous to try to date and be intimate with anyone since then.
I think about that vague comment I made to Camden about having sex outdoors before I practically sprinted away from him.
Total lie. I’ve never done that. But I panicked and didn’t want to tell him the truth.
That I’m a twenty-four-year-old virgin who’s terrified at the idea of ever having sex.
That familiar shameful feeling roasts me from the inside out. I focus on my breathing, grateful for the distraction. I’ve spent enough time feeling embarrassed that I’m almost halfway through my twenties and have never had sex…and probably never will.
When I get up to the front of the line, I try to steady my voice, despite how sick and exhausted I feel.
“I’m here to pick up a prescription for Ellie Michaelson.”
I hand the teenage pharmacy technician my insurance card, and she starts pounding away at her keyboard.
“Do you have your co-pay?” she asks.
“My insurance covers the full cost.”
She nods and keeps typing. After a second, she stops typing suddenly and frowns at the computer screen.
“Um…” She goes quiet.
I wait for her to say more, but she doesn’t.
“Is something wrong?” I ask.
She turns to me, a pitying look on her face. “I’m sorry, but it looks like your insurance coverage must have changed recently. It doesn’t cover this medication anymore. You’ll have to pay full price.”
My stomach sinks. “What?” I shake my head, confused and shocked. “But I just contacted my insurance earlier this month. They didn’t mention any coverage changes. They just changed how often I can refill my prescription, but nothing else.”
The pharmacy tech just shakes her head. “I’m really sorry. A couple of the bigger insurance companies have made changes to what medications they cover recently. It’s been a shock to a lot of folks,” she says.
My head is pounding now as I try to figure out what to do. “Is there a different medication that’s similar to the one I’ve been taking that my insurance covers?”
She hesitates. “Yes, but we’re currently out of it. We won’t get it back in stock until after the weekend. I’m so sorry.”
I dig through my purse for my credit card. “How much is my medication without insurance?”
I brace myself to hear some insane cost. When the pharmacy technician doesn’t say anything right away, I know it’s going to be bad.
“Fifteen hundred dollars for a one-month supply,” she says.
I hold back a sob. There’s no way I can afford that. I don’t even have half of that in my bank account.
I shake my head, scrambling for a way to solve this problem.
“Can I pay for just a few pills? Just enough to get me through the next few days. Then I can come back on Monday and get a refill with the medication that my insurance actually covers.” I try to keep my voice steady, but it’s a struggle with how hard my head is pounding and how panicked I feel about my insurance coverage changing.
The pharmacy technician nods. “Yeah, of course. How many pills would you like?”
“Three, please.” I say in a weak voice. That should be enough to get me through the weekend.
I’ll take one pill tonight and one tomorrow.
That should get rid of this awful headache.
But if it lingers or turns into a full-on migraine, I’ll take that last pill, and that should get me through to Monday when I can come back for the full prescription.
“That’ll be three hundred dollars.”
I almost drop my credit card. “Three hundred? But if it’s fifteen hundred for a month supply, shouldn’t it just be fifty dollars a pill?”
The pharmacy technician hesitates. “That’s the agreement our company has with the insurance companies. It’s their policy to price individual pills higher to encourage people to get a full prescription.”
Tears burn my eyes as the frustration inside me bubbles over. Why does the insurance industry make it so hard for chronically ill people like me to even exist?
My brain turns to mush as I work out the cost in my head. I have two hundred dollars currently in the bank…paying for three pills would cause me to overdraw my account…but three is the bare minimum that I need…
I guess I’ll be in the red this month. Again.
I clear my throat. “I’ll take three pills,” I say weakly.
I bite my lip to keep from bursting into tears as I hand over my card to the pharmacy technician.
Behind me, I hear some guy grumbling about how long I’m taking.
“Sorry,” I say in a weak voice.
“Sir, please be patient,” the pharmacy technician says. “We’re all doing our best right now.”
“Well, maybe if some people knew how the hell to use their insurance properly,” he mutters.
If I were braver, I’d turn around and tell the guy that I do know how to use my insurance properly. They just switched my coverage and didn’t tell me. But my instinct is to freeze and clam up. It always is whenever it comes to confrontation.
“And maybe you should be more responsible with your money so that when surprises like this happen, you’re more prepared,” the guy says in that same biting, dismissive tone.
My skin pricks at how embarrassed I am right now. My shoulders hunch, the urge to shrink into myself hitting me hard.
“Maybe you should shut the hell up and mind your own business,” Camden says.