Prologue #2
The rest of the day was a blur of panic, a small emergency room filled with too many healthcare workers all at once, an MRI, a rushed spinal tap, more needles in my arm than I could count, and finally, a hospital bed.
By the time the neurologist strode into my room later that evening, I was exhausted and had forgotten all about Josh leaving me stranded at the airport.
Dad held my hand when she’d told me I had multiple sclerosis.
“This isn’t the typical pathway to diagnosis,” she’d said gently. “Usually, people wait weeks to see a specialist, and even longer for insurance to approve the diagnostic tests. I won’t tell you you’re lucky—but at least we were able to spot it quickly.”
I’d just stared at her.
I knew people with MS. It was one of those words people said with a grimace, a whisper. Like they’d catch it if they spoke too loudly.
Did you hear Jerry has MS now? So sad.
That was it.
The beginning of the end.
You’re on the prayer list now. Only the first of a tragic series of updates until people you used to know merely smiled at you in passing because they didn’t know what to say anymore.
“But… Like, are there more tests? Could this be something else?” I’d asked, stunned.
Dad wrapped his arm across my wide shoulders. He was stony-faced.
The neurologist gave me a sympathetic look and pointed at the pictures of my brain up on the computer screen.
“We can see lesions here, here, and here. Different areas of the brain. These two are active, increasing. We’re starting you on a course of IV steroids immediately to knock them back.
This one, here,” she’d pointed to a vague blotch on the screen toward the center, “could be what’s causing your diplopia.
The steroids will help. You’ll be protected from further relapses—flare-ups—for a month or so.
You should schedule an appointment with the treating neurologist right away to figure out what course of treatment is best for you moving forward. ”
I didn’t remember much of the conversation after that. I cried, too, once she’d left. Holding on to my dad like I hadn’t since I was a boy, we both wept.
Josh had found my hospital room sometime later, clothes rumpled and disheveled, and just stared when I stumbled through an explanation.
He didn’t give one of his own.
I was discharged the next afternoon and given a prescription to continue the steroids orally.
Josh’s voice brought me back to the present. How long had I sat in silence, mind drifting?
“Reece. You’re a fucking mess. Once you finish the steroids, we can talk more. Talk about what we both want. Go to couples therapy. Until then, you need to try and relax,” he said, crossing and uncrossing his arms.
Ah, there was a feeling other than exhaustion. Anger burned my cheeks. “Tell me,” I said, teeth gritted, “what about any of this is relaxing?”
I breathed through the rising tide of rage, the neurologist’s words banging around in my skull.
Intense stress can trigger a flare-up, yes. But we have no idea of really knowing what caused this one, or how long the pre-existing lesions have been there. MS looks different on everyone. It’s good that your symptoms presented so early, so we can start you on a course of treatment.
“Well, it’s not like anything can happen right now,” he said, dismissing my question with a wave. “You shouldn’t be alone. We can research diet plans together after you’ve rested. I did some reading, some people say the carnivore diet is great for MS. It might help you with—”
“Get out.” My words cracked like a whip between us.
Josh looked up, surprised. “Excuse me?”
I studied his features. When was the last time I really looked at him?
His freshly highlighted hair was perfectly styled, short, with one strand falling just over his brow so naturally I was certain he’d placed it there on purpose. Wide, hazel eyes gaped at me in shock, soft, moisturized lips parted in disbelief. His cheeks reddened.
He was objectively gorgeous. A foil to my messy light brown hair, sun-weathered face, and five o’clock shadow that appeared around eleven in the morning. My pulse used to quicken every time he glanced my way, baffled that someone who looked so perfect could actually want me.
None of that existed between us anymore.
“You heard me. I don’t need your help. I don’t want you to tell me what I should do, or eat, or how I should deal with this. I can’t stand looking at you. Maybe Brock will let you sit on his dick in exchange for a spare room. Leave.”
“What the fuck, Reece? You’re sick. You’re sweating, you look half-dead, and you nearly choked on your own spit, swallowing all those pills a few minutes ago. You can’t—”
“GET OUT!” I roared. Suddenly upright, I strode toward him, lurching as I reached for one of the bedroom doors to slam in his face.
He recoiled.
I was bigger than him. He reminded me of it often. I was taller, over six feet, and had one of those guts that never stopped looking soft, no matter how much I strode up and down mountains and swung an axe and heaved heavy packs of field gear through the forest.
He’d tried to high-protein, gym-bro-macro it off me ever since we met.
It never budged.
Still, looking at me in fear was a low blow. I’d never raised my voice at him before, never touched him with anything other than gentleness. Love, once. Maybe.
It was a reminder of how much we’d grown apart. How little we actually understood each other.
“I’m sorry for yelling,” I said, blowing out a breath.
I kept my voice low, with one hand braced on the door.
Exhaustion wrangled my anger back in as quickly as it’d lashed out.
“I would never hurt you. But you do need to leave my house. We can sort out a time for you, or whoever you want to hire, to move your things. This is over.”
Something sharp sparked in his eyes, and I wondered if he had wanted my rage, after all.
If he’d poked and prodded for it, all this time.
“I don’t understand you. Aren’t you going to ask me why?
Aren’t you going to ask me to stay? To go to counseling together?
Show me you feel something, Reece, for fuck’s sake. ”
Genuinely confused, I shook my head. “Why would I do any of that?”
The pleading in his eyes fell away, replaced by the cool mask of the corporate lawyer. “I’ll have someone call to arrange picking up my things.”
He turned, padded down the stairs, and walked out the front door, keys jingling in his hand. I crashed back onto the bed, rolling so I could pull the covers over me, sweatpants and all.
Great. Life-changing diagnosis and long-term breakup done, within forty-eight hours of each other.
The last few days had been an efficient bitch.
I stared at the ceiling. Who was I kidding? This wasn’t my house. I’d bought it, sure, but even if I stripped the place of everything Josh, it would still be full of reminders of him.
Even more than that, though, it would be full of reminders of me, from before.
This bed was for the Reece who didn’t know his future might be significantly more difficult and painful than he’d thought. This room was for the man who didn’t worry about things like MRI results, phantom limb pain, stumbling over words, and hands that stiffened and ached.
He planned research fieldwork trips around things like weather, terrain, and the gear he’d need to pack. I couldn’t even imagine planning one at all. What if I panicked, shoved myself into a flare-up, and couldn’t hike to safety?
I didn’t know how the Reece I was now, the Reece after, fit anymore.
In this house, or in this life.
You don’t, the Thing hunched at the end of the bed rasped. You don’t fit anywhere anymore, with anyone.
I turned away, unable to look at the truth in its words. It’d crawled into my life the day I was diagnosed, plucked the fears from my deepest, darkest hidden thoughts, and whispered them back to me at my lowest.
I hated it. I hated it so much.
My phone rang from where it charged on the nightstand. Pulled from my dark spiral, I checked the caller ID and silenced it upon seeing the unknown number. Maybe Josh had forgotten something and called from Brock’s phone, hoping I’d actually pick up.
Probably whatever product he used to style his hair in that annoyingly, perfectly imperfect way.
He could wait.
But when the voicemail notification chimed, I reached over to check again. Who the fuck left a voicemail instead of just texting?
Brows creased, I hit the speaker button on the recording.
“Reece,” a familiar voice said. “It’s Leonard, your Dad’s buddy back in Ponderosa.
Got a new number a while back. I tried calling him the other day to get hold of you, but I haven’t heard back.
Anyway, there’s a fire lookout position open in the national forest, and I thought I’d see if you’re available for the season.
I’d need you here by the last week of May.
It’s been a dry winter so far, and the summer weather pattern predictions are making everyone nervous—could be fiery, so we’re filling all the towers. Give me a call if you’re interested.”