Chapter 22 #2
Vince skims the notes about how his mornings are harder, how his legs cramp more in the evenings, and then the half-dozen entries about the nights our sex was cut short, or nights when he wanted to participate but couldn’t. I’d even mentioned his need for additional stimulation.
For a long moment, he just stares at the screen. Unblinking, unmoving. “You did all this?”
I shrug. “I figured if you’re living with this every day, the least I can do is help carry it.”
His eyes shine, and he looks away fast, like he doesn’t trust himself to speak. Finally, he hands the list off to the doctor.
Dr. Benson is very impressed, taking his time to read each line or ask questions about certain events. “This is helpful. Very helpful, in fact. I wish everyone had a partner as attentive as you. Would you mind emailing this to me? I’ll add it to his file.”
“Sure.”
I watch Vince swallow, overwhelmed—but not in the way he usually is. He wipes his eyes with the back of his hand before reaching for me, finally threading our fingers together. It’s the first chance I’ve had to breathe all morning.
The rest of the visit passes in a rush. The doctor goes over some medication, how soon he’ll start, and what kind of side effects he can expect—each one is terrifying.
But if the medicine works? If there is any chance it can slow the progression down and give him—us—more time? It’s all I can hope for.
Everything feels distorted and… off when we leave. Like the world has tilted and we’ve officially entered the next phase.
And if I’m feeling it, I can only imagine what Vince is feeling.
As I study his face, the relief isn’t there. Instead, there’s a heavy sense of dread and an even heavier sense of uncertainty.
I brush a thumb over the back of his hand. “You okay?”
He doesn’t reply.
Outside, the air is warmer than I expect. Vince walks a step ahead of me, already retreating into his head. It hurts more than I expect it to, like he’s shutting me out.
My phone buzzes when we pull up to a stoplight.
Darren: no rush to reply, just wanted to know if you’re coming in after Vince’s appointment. Both Carlos and Jose are out sick.
Fuck. Of all the days to be shorthanded. And on a big job, too.
I reply: Should be there in a couple of hours. Appointment’s done, but I’m making a couple of stops before heading home.
Darren replies instantly: How’d it go?
Me: No real answers yet. But it’s a step forward. He’ll be okay.
I hope.
It’s all I can do—hope.
I swipe my phone again and quickly send off a message to Declan. I keep it vague, since Vince should be the one to decide how much he wants others to know, including his boss.
Declan doesn’t reply.
When we finally pull into the driveway, Vince doesn’t move right away. Neither do I. I sit with him in the silence, wishing I knew what to say.
He rubs a hand over his thigh, staring out across the yard. “I think I feel worse than when I went in.”
I reach for his hand, but stop. “We just need time to figure it out.”
“Yeah. I guess.” He sucks in a breath. “I think I want to lie down for a bit.”
“Of course. I’d join you, but I’ve got to head in to work.”
Vince walks slowly inside, his feet dragging a little in pain.
“I don’t know when I’ll be home, but dinner’s already in the fridge. Just needs baked. Instructions are on the cling wrap. Georgie can throw it in, too, if you don’t get to it.”
He nods once, but it’s like the information goes right over him. My heart aches for him. Vince is definitely drowning in information overload. Thank God that forum recommended recording the appointment. It’ll help later, when he can process it.
Vince turns toward the bedroom, shoulders hunched like the weight of the day has already settled somewhere permanent.
I reach for his arm. “I’ll see you tonight, okay?”
He touches my back lightly before closing himself off in the room.
Bones whines at the door until I pull him away.
“Come on, big guy. Your favorite human needs sleep.”
Deep down, panic is starting to settle in.
This isn’t about me. I know that. But I’d gone to the appointment with some hope that Vince would find what he needed and we’d be able to move forward.
Instead, all we got was more questions. Sure, the doctor set us up with more resources and even gave us a general timeline, but he made it very clear that it’s all contingent on how Vince’s body responds to the medication. The most we can do is hope.
But how can we hope his illness will stabilize when there is still a chance it won’t? When his body could fail him faster than either of us are ready for?
I lean against the counter and let out a long, shaky exhale. I thought I was ready for all of this. I thought I was able to handle it—and I am. But I also just need a minute to sit with it.
Vince is sick. The man I love is truly sick, and he might not get better. How am I supposed to handle that?
Eventually, I force my feet forward, lock the door behind me, and head back out into a day I don’t have the energy for.
Six hours.
Six hours and I’ll be able to come home to him again.
I just hope he won’t be totally withdrawn by the time I get back.