11. Adriano
There are very few situations I walk into without immediately understanding the shape of them.
This is one of them, and I don’t fucking like it.
Not because there’s nothing to observe—there’s too much of it, in fact—but because none of it aligns cleanly with the explanation I was given, and I don’t like working without a clear structure.
And I really don’t like seeing her in so much pain.
She’s not sick in any way I recognize.
There’s no fever in her complexion, no congestion, no signs of anything contagious that would justify her removing herself from the house entirely. What there is, instead, is something far more controlled and far more deliberate.
I can’t fix this with ice-blocks, dad hugs, and love. This is something bigger than I know how to handle. It leaves me feeling helpless, and I hate feeling that way.
She’s managing it, which means she’s had to deal with this before and I hate that thought too.
The heating pad is already in position when I turn back from the kitchen, plugged in and warm, the cord trailing across the side of the couch in a way that suggests it’s been moved more than once today.
There’s medication on the counter—nothing prescription from what I can see, but enough to tell me this isn’t the first time she’s needed it.
Her tea has gone cold, untouched. Uneaten toast sits on a plate on the coffee table. Which means she made it with intention and then didn’t have the energy to follow through.
I set a fresh glass of water on the table within her reach before she has to ask for it, then glance briefly at the mug, considering it for a second before discarding the idea of reheating it. It isn’t what she needs, so I tip it down the sink and dispose of the toast in the trash.
Water is boiling, for what I don’t know. I just needed to do something with my hands.
“How long does a flare usually last?” I ask, turning back toward her.
She shifts slightly at the sound of my voice, adjusting the blanket without opening her eyes, her hand pressing briefly against the heating pad as though to anchor it in place.
“It depends,” she says after a moment, her voice quieter now, thinner around the edges than it had been when she opened the door. “Sometimes a day. Sometimes longer. Don’t worry, I won’t miss work. I can still take care of Letty.”
Irrational anger flares inside me that her brain would go there. “I don’t give a fuck about you looking after anyone but yourself right now. I just don’t like to think of you suffering.” My voice is gruffer than I want, but I’m out of my comfort zone here.
“Okay.”
“Is this kind of pain typical? Should I call a doctor?” I press.
A small exhale leaves her, something that might have been a laugh under different circumstances. “Unfortunately, it’s normal, and no, a doctor won’t be able to do anything to help. I just need to ride it out.”
I study her for a second longer, taking in the way she’s holding herself—not curled tightly, not openly distressed, but contained in a way that suggests experience and I hate it intensely. “You should have said something,” I say.
Her eyes open at that, not fully, just enough to fix on me. “And what would that have changed? It isn’t exactly the easiest conversation to have. Oh, by the way, my body hates me and when I bleed, I get excruciating cramps. No man wants to hear that, believe me,” she says, deadpan.
The statement isn’t defensive. It’s how she feels. It makes me wonder if she’s had bad reactions from partners in the past. I immediately want to find every single man who’s diminished this and shove my fist down his throat until he chokes on his own teeth.
The answer, however, is not one I can give her. “Information is useful,” I reply instead.
“For you,” she says.
“Yes.”
She holds my gaze for a second longer, then lets it go, her attention drifting back to the ceiling. “I didn’t need it to be a conversation,” she adds quietly. “I just needed to deal with it.”
The phrasing sits with me for a moment.
Deal with it.
Alone.
Of course she did.
I don’t respond immediately because there isn’t a version of that I find acceptable, but I also don’t have the full parameters of what I’m dealing with yet, and I don’t make decisions without those. Instead, I reach for my phone and head for the door.
She notices. “What are you doing?” she asks, her tone sharpening slightly.
“I have to make a call. I’ll be back.”
“You don’t need to—”
“I do,” I say, not looking at her as I scroll through my contacts.
Because I don’t operate without understanding the problem.
And I don’t understand it yet.
I step into the hallway between her annex and my kitchen as the call connects, not going too far but giving her enough space that the conversation isn’t directly over her.
Isabella answers on the second ring.
“Everything alright?” she asks immediately, her tone shifting from casual to alert without hesitation.
“Define alright,” I reply.
There’s a brief pause, then a soft exhale. “You saw her.”
“Yes.”
“And?”
I glance toward Casey’s door again, thinking of the same details, the same controlled stillness, the same effort to remain unaffected. “She’s not ill in the way you suggested.”
“I didn’t suggest anything,” Isabella says. “She told me she wasn’t feeling well.”
“She’s in pain,” I say, keeping my voice low, controlled. “Significant enough that she didn’t travel. This is not a cold.”
Another pause.
Longer this time.
When Isabella speaks again, her tone has shifted. “Did she tell you what it is?”
“Yes.”
“That’s surprising. She doesn’t tell many people.”
That thought shouldn’t please me as much as it does. “That’s not relevant,” I reply evenly. “What is relevant is that she’s currently in a state that requires management, and I don’t have the necessary information.”
“You’re calling me for medical advice now?” Isabella asks lightly, but there’s something careful under it.
“I’m calling you because you know her better than I do,” I say. “Which means you’re more likely to have context or have seen this happen to her before.”
Silence settles briefly at the other end of the line.
Then I hear Izz sigh. “It’s not the flu. It’s an endometriosis flare,” she says quietly.
“I’m aware.”
“It’s something she deals with,” Isabella continues, choosing her words carefully. “She doesn’t make a big thing out of it, but when it hits, it hits hard.”
“That’s not specific.”
“No,” she agrees.
I let that sit for a moment, not because I agree, but because pushing further isn’t going to get me what I need. “What helps?” I ask instead.
Another pause.
“Heat,” Isabella says. “Rest. Pain relief if she’ll take it properly. And space—unless she asks for something. Oh, and bland food because she can get nauseous from the pain.”
I glance back toward the door.
She’s silent. “Space isn’t the same as isolation,” I say. “She needs someone to take care of her.”
“I know,” Isabella replies. “But she’s used to handling it on her own.”
That aligns with what I’m seeing. It doesn’t make it acceptable.
“She shouldn’t be alone,” I say.
“I don’t think she will be,” Isabella answers softly.
The implication lands because she’s right.
I end the call shortly after, the information limited but sufficient enough to establish a framework.
But I put in a call to my own doctor and get through immediately.
He gives me a little more information on what endometriosis is and what to expect.
Which isn’t a whole lot more information than I have right now.
Basically, I’m pretty useless in this situation, apart from doing what I’m already doing.
When I walk back through her door, Casey hasn’t shifted much from where I left her, but there’s a slight tension in her shoulders now that wasn’t there before. As if she’s aware of the fact that I’ve involved someone else.
“Who did you call?”
“Izzy.”
“I didn’t ask you to do that,” she says.
“No,” I agree.
Her gaze sharpens slightly. “Then why did you?”
“Because you’re not in a position to manage this effectively on your own,” I reply, setting the phone down.
“I’ve been managing it on my own for years.”
“That doesn’t make it optimal or right.”
A flicker of irritation crosses her expression. “It makes it sufficient. I don’t need anyone else.”
“It makes it familiar. I know you don’t need anyone, but accepting help isn’t weakness, Casey,” I correct.
For a moment, I think she might argue further.
Instead, she exhales slowly, her head tipping back again as another wave of discomfort passes through her, the movement small but noticeable.
I watch it happen.
The way her body tightens.
The way she waits it out rather than reacting to it.
The way she doesn’t ask for help.
That, more than anything else, tells me exactly how long she’s been dealing with this.
I move closer without comment, adjusting the glass of water slightly so it’s easier for her to reach, then reach for the blanket where it’s twisted near her legs, straightening it with a brief, efficient motion.
“You should try to rest,” I say, taking a seat on the other end of the couch and lifting her legs over my lap.
“I am resting.”
I begin to massage her socked feet as she re-settles her body again. “Well, now I’m here to help. Tell me what you need.”
“This is nice.”
Good. Finally, something that helps. “See, I’m helping.”
Her eyes open again, just enough to look at me. “You always like to be right, don’t you?” she murmurs.
“Yes.”
That almost earns a smile.
Almost.
She lets her eyes close again instead, the tension in her expression easing slightly now that she’s stopped trying to engage with me directly.
I remain where I am for a moment longer than necessary, my attention still fixed on her, on the situation, on the variables I haven’t yet accounted for.
This isn’t something I can fix.
That’s the part I don’t like.
But it’s something I can help with.
And for now—
That will have to be enough.