41. Chapter Forty-One
Chapter Forty-One
Elowen Briar
The Dreaded Visit
The waiting room smells faintly of bleach and self-tanner, the kind that sat too long on someone or was forgotten about and not washed off.
I rub my hands together in my lap, flexing my fingers like that will do anything to stop the pins-and-needles sensation running through them.
It’s worse today, but it’s probably my nerves.
Some mornings I wake up and can’t even button my blouse without fumbling.
Basic motor skills are becoming harder every day, and honestly, it embarrasses me.
“Ms. Briar?” The nurse calls my name, and I follow her back into the exam room.
She records my weight, then my blood pressure, then my height.
She collects every vital that is beneficial to them.
It’s protocol. I understand, but I wish I could live without being reminded of my weight.
I’ve been doing so well with managing my eating habits, eating balanced meals, or at least attempting to hold myself to a schedule to eat.
I know the number is higher now than the last time I was here.
It means I’m doing a good job. I know starving myself isn’t the cure-all answer to my problems.
The paper sheet lining the exam chair crinkles under me when I sit on the table, the kind of sound that makes you feel less like a person and more like a package waiting to be unwrapped.
A minute later, the doctor sweeps in, white coat flaring behind him like he’s too busy for my appointment.
Not a greeting in sight. How professional.
“So, numbness in your hands?” he asks, already flipping through my chart.
“Yeah. It’s been getting worse,” I explain.
“It started with tingling at night, but now it happens during the day too. I type a lot for work, but it feels like more than that. Sometimes, it feels like my grip just gives out.” My weight shifts on the seat and I kick my dangling feet slightly to manage my nerves.
He nods, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “Sounds like a case of classic carpal tunnel. Happens all the time to people who use a computer as much as you do. Just sitting behind a computer all day will do that to you. Nothing urgent. Schedule a follow-up a month from now and we’ll reassess to see how it looks then.
I would also recommend setting up a decent diet regimen.
Your weight has fluctuated fifteen pounds since your visit last year.
It’s best to keep a closer eye on those sorts of things.
” He clicks his pen repeatedly, almost as if he was attempting to clicker-train me. He’s such a bitch.
I attempt to discard the statements he made over my weight, but my stomach drops.
“A month? What if it gets worse before then?” He doesn’t care about my hands or the numbness leading into my forearms, the shaking, the slurring.
He only saw my weight shifting and decided that was the problem.
My height-to-weight ratio had always been oddly distributed.
I was too short and too curvy for doctors to see past the areas that carried what they considered excess, even though it was exactly where weight naturally settles.
Their precious BMI calculator can go straight to hell.
I would never say that out loud though. Instead, I sit as meek as a fawn atop the examination chair.
“Then we will discuss physical therapy, possibly a brace. For now, just keep an eye on it.” He taps his pen against the chart, throwing me a half-assed smile and turns toward the door.
I lean forward, desperate. “But what about tests? What if it’s not carpal tunnel? Shouldn’t we rule some things out?”
You are not a hypochondriac. Your symptoms are real. You are struggling. You made the appointment because you are desperate for help. Something is wrong. You can feel it.
He smiles, still dismissive, his hand already on the doorknob.
“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. A month from now.
” I can almost smell how conniving he is.
He genuinely believes it’s nothing. Doctors see women as fat, crazy, or pregnant.
Or whatever Grandma wrote down in that journal. And then he’s gone.
I sit in the hollow quiet, staring at the empty doorway.
My hands burn as if mocking me, and frustration tightens in my throat, not just for myself, but for the way he brushed me off without a second thought.
Like I was wasting his time. Beau was right.
I deserve better than what this world has offered me.
By the time I leave the building, I’m holding myself together by a thread.
The hallway outside the exam rooms buzzes with people rushing from one appointment to the next, clipboards in hand, phones out, children whining.
I keep my eyes forward, willing myself not to cry.
When I arrive halfway to the elevator, a man barrels around the corner and slams into my shoulder hard enough to jolt me sideways.
“Watch it,” he snaps, as if I’d been the one in his way.
That’s it. That tiny impact, that careless tone.
It’s enough to send me right over the edge.
My eyes burn with rage. It feels like the entire world is suddenly full of people who are too busy or too important to treat anyone else like a human being.
For a moment, I stand there trembling, surrounded by bodies and noise and fluorescent lights that hum like they’re crawling under my skin.
All I can think is how different it is from Beau’s bookstore.
The only place I know where time slows down instead of speeding up.
Where people speak softly and linger instead of shoving past. Where the air smells like paper and dust and cinnamon tea.
Where I can breathe. I need that quiet like oxygen.
Walking through the door of my home, my body is wound tight enough to snap.
I push open the door to my room and drop my bag on the floor.
The floorboards creak under my steps as I kick off my shoes.
Somewhere in the kitchen, the refrigerator hums its old rattling complaint, and in the living room a stack of unopened mail waits on the coffee table.
Bills, flyers, reminders that life never pauses for anyone.
Genie lays on the couch, just popping his head up to verify who’s here.
I pour a generous glass of wine, one I don’t plan to savor so much as cling to, and pad barefoot across the living room.
Twice! Twice in the past two days, a man has driven me to drink.
Unhealthy, especially as a medical professional.
The couch cushions sag where I sink into them, and the soft ticking of the clock on the mantle feels louder than it should.
The couch smells oddly like wine, probably from a spill last night.
I don’t even remember how many glasses I had, much less where the bottle ended up. That’s a battle for a different day.
My hands still fumble. Which is the exact opposite of how I anticipated today to go.
I thumb my phone until Beau’s name fills the screen.
He answers on the second ring without hesitation.
“Elowen.” His voice was the kind that made me unclench without meaning to.
“Good morning. Or, good afternoon? How’s the hangover? ”
“Do you ever just need someone to actually listen?” I blurt out, ignoring his question accidentally in my distraught nature.
“Because doctors don’t. He brushed me off today.
Said it’s carpal tunnel and to come back in a month.
A month! Like I’m supposed to sit here and wait while my hands fall apart.
He even brought up my weight. I’ve been waiting on this doctor’s appointment and now that it’s come and gone, I deeply regret even scheduling it.
” The words pour out of me as I stare at the half-empty wineglass.
“I can’t afford to take time off. I can’t afford physical therapy.
I can’t even afford to think about affording it, and still he tells me to wait.
I just—” My voice cracks as a lump forms in my throat, and I swallow it down with another gulp.
“I just need someone to talk to. I’m sorry. ”
There’s a pause, and then Beau’s voice, low and certain.
“First of all, no task in the world prohibits me from answering a phone call from you. I have a thing about managing priorities. Secondly, your weight has nothing to do with the onset of your symptoms. It doesn’t take a genius to figure that out.
Talk to me, Elowen. I’ll listen. Always. ”
I press my palm over my face, suddenly warm. “I sound ridiculous.”
“You sound human. More human than...” He trails, and I can picture that crooked smile through the phone. “I hate that you feel brushed aside. You deserve more than that.” There it is again. Talking about how I deserve more. Setting standards unlike anyone I have ever met before.
Something flutters in my chest, equal parts comfort and unease. “Thank you. Really. I said the same thing to myself. You have officially reaffirmed my affirmation.”
Silence stretches, but it isn’t heavy. It hums with possibility. Beau’s voice comes softer across the call. “The only way I can fix this is if I see you in person tonight. I much prefer to hear you in front of me anyway, where I can see you. Do you have plans tonight?”
I trace the rim of my wineglass with a fingertip, the ache in my hands forgotten for a mere moment. “Beau.”
“Yes?” His voice warms at the edge, like he already knew what I was about to say.
“What time?” I ask, trying to keep my giddiness at bay.
There was no hesitation. “Whenever you would like. You know where I live.” Beau snickers across the phone call.
The flutter in my chest turns into a full thrum. “You’re very right, sir. I’ll see you then.”
“Until then, Elowen.” I end the call and stare at my reflection in the dark glass of the screen.
My hair is messy from the day, my lipstick half-faded, and my pulse is racing like I’ve just agreed to something monumental.
Which, in a way, I have. I drain the rest of the wine in one swallow and march to the bathroom.
The shower steams quickly, and I set about my ritual like I’m preparing for battle.
Shampoo, conditioner, scrub. Razor in hand, I shave every inch, contorting myself into poses that belong in a circus act.
One leg hooked awkwardly around the tub, bent over like a pretzel, I think, if anyone could see me now, I would die of shame.
But by the time I step out, towel wrapped snug and skin soft and slick, I feel like a new woman!
My dog, of course, unimpressed as usual.
I pad across the hall to my bedroom, queue up a playlist, and let the music thrum through the speakers.
The hottest pop hits slide across the room, the sort of songs meant for summer drives with the windows down.
I can’t help myself. I dance in front of the mirror, towel tucked under my arms, hair dripping, and mouth the words like I’m headlining a concert and this is my warm-up.
The next track shifts into a sultry ballad, and I switch instantly, dragging the towel dramatically across my shoulders and winking at my reflection. A laugh bursts out of me, unrestrained and ridiculous, and I twirl once before collapsing backward onto the bed.
For the first time all day, my hands don’t feel like dead weight. My whole body buzzes with anticipation. Tonight, I am going to see Beau. And tonight, if things go the way I hope, I am going to get lucky.