Chapter 30
DECLAN
Knock knock knock.
I tell myself this will be quick. A short mission and then back to work.
Knock knock knock.
I’ve never been one to tap on someone’s door. If I need to get in, I’m going to demand attention; I’m not some polite delivery-man. My hands are already sweaty in the sterile gloves, which pinch at my wrists. I can’t wait to take them off.
“I’m coming,” a soft voice calls from the other side of the door.
Good.
Through the door, I hear the chain slide and the bolt unlatches. She opens the door and I act quickly. I reach into my jacket. I grip the handle, my finger resting on the trigger. I’m careful not to squeeze too soon.
Charlie Ross stands before me in her doorway.
I aim for her forehead and pull the trigger.
Doot doot doot.
A pleasant chime indicates that the handheld thermometer has given her a passing temperature. She rolls her beautiful blue eyes at me, but I can’t be too safe.
“You don’t have a fever,” I announce, my words muffled by the mask. “Is it intestinal?” Involuntarily, I move backwards. Only a slight lean just in case.
Charlie crosses her arms and shakes her head.
“So you aren’t sick,” I respond.
“I am,” she corrects.
I remove my mask and gloves and enter her apartment, brushing past Charlie.
I don’t mean to, but the soft fabric of her blue pajama set caresses my knuckles as I pass.
When she opened the door, I could tell she wasn’t prepared for company.
Still in pajamas at 10 a.m. Her long hair is piled high in a bun on top of her head.
“Why are you here?” she asks, as she closes and relocks the apartment door, a weariness to her voice.
“I wanted to make sure you were actually sick. Not being intimidated by members of the Order or that you didn’t lock yourself in.” The last option was meant to be a joke. Sort of.
I do a quick scan of her apartment. Charlie has her curtains closed; the midmorning light that filters through them casts a soft pink glow over her living area.
There is a bookshelf next to her entertainment center bursting with books, the spines arranged in rainbow order.
Her place is tidy and warm, with bright pops of color here and there.
The furniture isn’t just the standard post-college cheap stuff everyone buys because it’s all they can afford.
There are some stylish pieces that give her place a level of sophistication I hadn’t expected. It’s welcoming; it looks like a home.
“No, I’m just too tired to function. And I’m in pain, but I can only take Tylenol. And, by the way, Tylenol is the shittiest pain reliever ever.” Charlie isn’t one to complain so I’m shocked by her rant.
“So that’s why you’re out today?” I’m tired too. I’m sore from my training ride and I still clocked in. I didn’t take Charlie for the type to use her sick days unless absolutely necessary.
“I didn’t call out. I’m working from home,” she says, sauntering over to the side table, shuffling in her fuzzy slippers. I take a seat on her couch, which is deep and comfortable. “Besides, I told Oliver.”
“No, you texted Oliver,” I correct her. “Charlie, anyone can incapacitate you, unlock your phone, and send a text.”
Charlie looks at me, fear in her eyes. I can’t believe I have to continue to explain these things to her. She turns away, her expression uneasy.
“Charlie, you have access to the schedule, personal and business, for the entire executive team. Of course the Order would be keenly interested in you,” I remind her.
She shakes her head, as if that could keep my warning from settling in her mind. “I’m not much in the mood for company,” she says, abruptly changing topics.
“Well, can you tell me what’s going on?” I ask. I came all this way to make sure she was OK. I expect some answers.
“I’m sick, Declan,” she says.
“We’ve already ruled out a fever. Did you take a COVID test?” I regret removing my mask before confirming.
Charlie lets out a sigh and turns to face me again. “No, Declan. I have a chronic illness. I have an autoimmune condition.” She shakes her head again and continues her slow shuffle to the far corner of her apartment.
Oh. I didn’t expect that. Autoimmune? I don’t know much about this class of illnesses, but my aunt has psoriasis.
I think that’s one. I do another sweep of the room.
There’s a heating pad next to me on the couch, warming one side of my body.
There are balms and creams on the coffee table.
“I know people with autoimmune conditions, which one?”
Charlie bends down to get something. I realize I should offer to help, but before I can, she stands and in one quick motion takes aim at me. “I could tell you, but I’d have to kill you,” she says before pulling the trigger.
BUUZZZZZZ.
A massage gun. I let out a huff of laughter. She moves the device to her left shoulder, her face relaxing as the motion eases her muscles.
“Try me,” I say.
Charlie raises her eyebrows in warning. “Eosinophilic fasciitis,” she says with the practiced pronunciation of someone who has had to explain this many times before.
“Gesundheit,” I respond, hoping a small stupid joke will lighten the mood. She gives me a pity laugh. I process this new information along with everything else I know about Charlie. “What does that mean?”
Charlie removes the massage gun from her shoulder and begins to explain. “The fascia is the layer between the skin and the muscle. My immune system attacks it like it’s an infection.”
I nod my head, following along, realizing this has to be the reason she quit running. This is why Oliver said she wanted a low-stress job.
“When it flares up,” she continues, “it’s like I have a sunburn on the inside of my skin. If I keep ignoring it, it can lead to my limbs not working altogether.” Her expression is blank as she delivers this explanation.
I wince at the thought of it. “Ouch.”
She resumes her massage gun and works on her right shoulder as she walks over to the couch. When she sits next to me, her sweet, fruity aroma surrounds me. I long to comfort her. My fingertips itch to caress her skin, to alleviate whatever stress she is feeling.
She pauses the massage gun. “You know that ache? That pain that comes after a great workout?”
“Mmm.” I nod and my hand reflexively reaches for my bicep, sore from yesterday’s lifting session.
“There’s nothing like it,” she says wistfully. “Or I thought there wasn’t. That soreness you wear like a badge of honor. The sign that your muscles are growing; you can feel them getting stronger.”
I wait for her to continue; I can tell she has more to say. In my line of work, listening is an asset, but Charlie isn’t a witness I’m trying to extract information from. She’s someone who deserves my patience and attention.
She lays the massage gun in her lap and sighs. “I had that burn, all the time. All over. Even when I hadn’t been particularly pushing it in the weight room. I thought it was a sign I was doing my job. I was pushing myself but in the wrong direction.”
The pain in her voice, the disappointment, is clear. “You couldn’t have known,” I remind her.
“That’s what scares me the most,” she snaps, and then she softens her tone.
“That I didn’t know what was going on in my own body.
That it betrayed me so completely. No one knew.
The first three doctors assured me the ‘fainting,’ as they called it, wouldn’t happen again.
I was a perfectly healthy athlete. But it wasn’t fainting.
I was fully conscious, aware that my limbs had given out on me. ”
I give into my instincts, ignoring the part of my brain telling me to refrain, that I should be professional.
That I should keep my distance. Because Charlie is hurting in more than one way.
I reach for her hand and she welcomes mine, interlacing our fingers.
I give her a reassuring squeeze. You’re not alone.
“When they did more tests and more scans and finally learned that muscle pain was actually my body having an allergic reaction to itself, I stopped working out. Stopped eating anything inflammatory. Started one medicine, then another. The first morning when I woke up and the pain was gone was the morning I saw one of my former teammates win the gold in the steeplechase. I got my health back.” She says this as if it was the worst outcome.
As if fighting for her health wasn’t the ultimate goal.
I realize why and finish her thought. “But it cost you your dream.”
I won’t say it aloud because this moment is about Charlie, but I picture myself in her shoes.
If I had been forced to take a medical discharge from the navy before I was ready to separate.
If I had been told to walk away, to give up on what I’d worked for.
The frustration, the weight of the what-ifs must be infuriating.
“Yeah,” she says, and I give her hand another squeeze. I want to pull her to me, to wrap my arms round her. I promised myself after Copenhagen that I would keep my distance. Now I’m dangerously close to breaking my own rules.
Because I cannot and should not say what is on my mind, I switch back to practicalities.
“What does your doctor say?” I prop my free elbow on the side of the couch, getting comfortable. Still not removing my hand from hers.
“I have an appointment with who I hope will be my new rheumatologist next week. My doctor back home recommended him.”
“Could you do an online consultation with the old one?” I ask before realizing she probably already considered this.
She shakes her head. “This is the protocol we decided on. Once I got out of the last flare and we saw the damage the medicine did, we decided to manage with lifestyle and diet. There is no long-term medicine for this condition. The big-name autoimmune diseases have some, but often people have to switch out after a few years. My trigger for this condition is exercise-based. If I get into a flare, we decided I’d do a short round of steroids to reduce the inflammation and then discuss if it needs more monitoring. ”
I’m starting to understand. “You’re hoping you’re better by the appointment next week?”
Charlie’s eyes open wide. “Yes!” She nods her head with emphasis.
“I’m desperately hoping this muscle pain is the good kind.
Not the bad kind. Because I need to be able to maintain muscle if I want quality of life now and into my golden years.
It will just take longer and there will be some setbacks. ”
This is heavy. I can’t imagine what the pressure of this must feel like.
To have to question every action, every piece of food, to avoid losing her delicate grip on her health.
I want to console her, though I’m not sure my preferred method would be appreciated at this moment.
I chastise myself for thinking naughty thoughts when Charlie is in pain.
I break our hands and reach for the massage gun in her lap. My fingers graze her thighs and I have to tamp down the excitement in my blood. I examine the device carefully. “You had me going there for a second that this was going to be a very different conversation.”
“You pointed a thermometer at me before you even walked in,” she reminds me. “Besides, this is for muscle release.”
I raise my eyebrows and give her a wolfish grin. Because there is one set of muscles I would specifically like to help Charlie release. “Oh, I mean, that is a muscle too, so that’s fair.”
It takes Charlie a second to riddle out what I am implying. I can tell when she does because that smart mouth of hers drops and forms a shocked “o.” Her cheeks turn a beautiful shade of pink.
“It specifically says on the instructions to not use it for that,” she rushes to correct me. The mortified look on her face is priceless.
“Oh, so you were thinking about that use, then? Had to check?” The idea that Charlie would ever think about that is hot as hell. I want to know more. I’m walking a fine line between flirting and trying to lighten the mood.
For once, Ms. Chatty seems too stunned to speak. I wonder if she is going to think about this conversation the next time she uses this, or another device, on herself.
“I’m giving you a hard time,” I say, and then look back at the device in my hands.
The double meaning isn’t lost on me. In my periphery, Charlie licks her lips, debating what to say next.
I give her an out. “Also, you need a better massage gun. For starters, this isn’t the brand that sponsors FIRE, and this has only five settings. ”
She grabs it back from me. “I don’t use it much.”
“You need a better one,” I repeat.
She rolls her beautiful eyes at me and I know I’ve pulled her out of her darkest thoughts.
“It was your shoulder that was bothering you?” I ask.
She nods and I gesture for her to turn round.
“Let me try to help,” I say.
As my hands get to work on her shoulders, I can tell I’m falling for Charlie. I’m going to need some serious restraint to keep myself from losing control.