Chapter 4 Pike #2
“I’ve felt this bad for months,” she says. “It’s how I knew it was time to start my meds again. Those little bastards are messing with me too. Today, it’s muscle fatigue, air hunger, and this damn tingling. The potassium pills should help with the latter, once I can get them down.”
Now that she’s mentioned it, I do notice her heaving breaths. I thought she was nervous, but drug fuckery is something I’m unfortunately familiar with. I shift, and my cane crashes to the floor.
Skylar winces. “Really sensitive to loud noises too.”
“Sorry. It falls all the time. No matter how I position it.” To avoid another bang, I leave it down there.
“It’s called idiopathic intracranial hypertension, by the way,” she says. “You should know the name of my condition if we’re going to pass for a real couple.”
“Yeah, I’m gonna need you to write that down.”
“IIH for short. An older, outdated name for it is ‘pseudotumor cerebri.’”
“You can’t throw Latin at me before I’ve properly eaten.”
“Well, I’m not hungry, so you can have my food too.
” She pushes her pitas over. I can always eat more, so I dip one in the garlic hummus as she continues, “‘Pseudotumor cerebri’ means ‘fake brain tumor.’ Essentially, my brain acts like it has a tumor without a tumor present. It’s caused by too much cerebrospinal fluid pressure.
Think of the brain as a sink and the cerebrospinal fluid as the water level. ”
Never thought of a brain that way in my life, but sure. “Brain plumbing issues, got it.”
She cracks a tiny smile, not quite the one from her profile pic, but it still makes me lean forward a little.
“The faucet could drip too much or the drain could clog—or both—and you get a buildup of pressure from CSF that can’t flow out properly.
Besides the other symptoms I mentioned, it can lead to swelling of the optic nerves, so there’s a big risk for vision problems and blindness. ”
“Shit,” I say. “What’s the cause?”
“‘Idiopathic’ means they don’t know. They’ve discovered a lot of secondary causes, but it’s still a rare disease with little research and no cure. High intracranial pressure also causes full-body problems you can look up when you’re bored. I’ve written about it extensively in our group.”
“I’ll look it up tonight,” I promise, though it’s daunting to think about sorting through all her posts. A lot of the active members post every day.
“And remember, it’s pressure, not ‘a headache,’” she says. “Even if doctors often dismiss and reduce it to that. It’s not a migraine, either, though it can trigger one alongside the pressure pain. The meds only lower cerebrospinal fluid production. They’re not painkillers.”
I pull out my phone. “Is there anything I should know that a boyfriend would take care of?”
Her eyebrows shoot up. “I can take care of myself.”
“But a supportive boyfriend should be prepared.”
“Pretend boyfriend. Real boyfriends don’t want to hear about those issues.”
Her voice is steady, but how detached and clinical she sounds catches me off guard. It makes me wonder what kind of men she’s dating. Why wouldn’t they care? Shouldn’t her health be one of their top priorities?
“It seems important if it’s as miserable as you described.”
“That doesn’t mean they want to know. I’ll try to think of some things, I guess, but you’re not allowed to complain that I’m high-maintenance.”
“Cross my heart,” I say, making the motion across my chest.
“What about you?”
“Oh, I’m very high-maintenance.”
That gets me a laugh, and it feels good, like something I earned.
“Anything specific I should know about you?” she asks.
I spread out my legs. My sciatica’s making my left foot tingle. “I need to know what I’m doing ahead of time so I can map things out.”
Aside from my rigorous training, I went from a life where I could just go with the flow—ride hard, party harder, and not think twice—to being hyper-vigilant about every step I take.
A sudden move the wrong way? Splintering pain.
Spend too much time engaged in certain activities? Can’t move the next day.
“Do you know anything about snowboarding?” This is when I find out the truth.
“No?” Her nose makes this cute crinkle. “Why?”
“I had a snowboarding accident. Messed up my back, shattered my pelvis, hurt my legs.” There’s a lot I’m leaving out, but when you’re disabled, you learn to cut to the chase. I don’t like seeming—how did Skylar put it?—high-maintenance either.
“A snowboarding accident?” She sits back. “I guessed injured biker.”
“Was it the hair?”
“The hair and the mountain.”
I reach for my former bangs, finding only barely there strands. “I cut it short recently. Still getting used to it.”
“I like it.” Her freckled cheeks bloom with a rosy hue. “It looks good.”
Interesting. I’ve never had trouble getting attention from women, but I haven’t tested the market since I cut it.
Skylar props her chin up with her fists. “Snowboarding’s an expensive hobby, isn’t it?”
“Depends.”
“Am I into you because you’re rich?”
“If you’re meeting my mother, I really hope not.”
“You said you dated supermodels. They don’t usually hang around us regular-income folks.”
I scan her, wary. “Ever seen the snowboarding events at the Olympics?”
“Like the snow pipe?”
“Halfpipe. You know how they do tricks in the air? I could do some of those tricks.” To put it lightly. “Some women find that attractive. If they’re supermodels…who am I to judge?”
“Oh, please. Stop smirking.”
“Am I?” I bite down on my lip to come off less cocky, but internally, I’m brimming with relief. This isn’t some desperate attempt to wriggle into my life. I could tell her who I am, but if she doesn’t recognize the sport, she’s not in that circle.
She gestures in the general vicinity of my torso. “Are most snowboarders this…ripped?”
“You should see my legs.” It’s a line, and it rolls off my tongue like a bad habit.
I sit up self-consciously as Skylar actually ducks down. It’s not like she can see evidence of my surgeries through my jeans, but I’ll never forget how my thigh looked when it atrophied after surgery. Took me eleven months to go from skin on bone to something resembling muscle.
Multiply that by six other body parts, and you’ve got my last year and a half.
“Snowboarders have strong glutes, quads, and calves,” I clarify. “Lots of squatting. Lots of shifting from heel to toe.”
“Strong legs are good,” she murmurs. “In a very general sense.”
“I’m still working on rehabbing mine. I’ve been more successful at building up my upper body.
Also doing lots of core work.” My abs will never again be where they were, but I won’t complain as long as I never have to sleep with an SI belt again.
Skylar’s peering at me like I might unzip my hoodie and give her a show at any time, so I quickly add, “Other things to know: Don’t assume I can’t do something.
Ask me. Don’t walk close to me on the side I use my cane. ”
“Noted. Any other hobbies or interests I should know about?”
“Nothing interesting. I’ve only been done with rehab for six months.
When I’m not working, I do physical therapy with my trainer, Ranielle.
She hands me my ass three days a week, but she works with disabled athletes, so I trust her to know my limits.
” When Skylar only nods, I continue, “The most important thing to get across for my mom: I’m happy. I’m doing great.”
“Are you?”
“What?”
“Happy. Great.”
I squirm in my seat. “Can’t complain.”
“I read your poem, Pike.”
“It was New Year’s. I was drunk.”
“Hmm.” There’s that disbelieving hum again.
And fine, I wasn’t drunk, but I thought I’d remain a random name in a group. “What should I memorize about you beyond your IIH? What should I say about us?”
Skylar twists a curl around her finger, her gaze moving to an elderly couple at another table. She thinks for a while, and I like that she doesn’t rush to fill the silence.
“I work as a regional college admissions recruiter,” she says.
“I spend half my time traveling around Ohio, PA, and upstate New York, mostly by car. The other half is at home, working from bed. As for what you should tell your mom about us…” She ticks off on her fingers.
“We watch reruns of game shows like The Price Is Right together and you secretly love it. When we’re not together, we chat online until at least midnight because we can’t get enough of each other—”
“I go to bed at, like, nine thirty—”
“—and when we spend the night, you always bring me coffee in bed.” Color creeps into her cheeks, but she barrels on.
“But not too much. Caffeine can raise intracranial pressure. Sometimes you accompany me on road trips because work pays for the hotel. You get along great with my best friends, Analia and Emy. Have you seen them in the group?”
She pulls out her phone and shows me a picture, only to hastily swipe away a new notification, which, if I’m not mistaken, says, IS HE BEHAVING!? Do Not Disturb is switched on.
Then she shows me her friends. The first one, Analia, looks vaguely familiar.
She sits at a desk in her profile picture, her hand running through her purple, angled bob while looking to the side, seemingly deep in thought.
The other one, Emy, I’m sure I’ve seen post before.
Long hair frames her tan face, but most memorably, she’s blowing a kiss while winking at the camera.
Skylar says she immigrated to the US from Italy when she was fifteen.
“You can say they helped you pick out the diamonds on this ring.” She points to her septum piercing. “What else? You come to my doctor’s appointments with me so I’m not alone. And we met snowboarding. How’s that?”
I sit back, dragging a thumb over my lower lip. “We didn’t meet snowboarding because I don’t board anymore. And diamonds seem premature.”
“Are you sure?” Her lips curl into a cute smirk. There’s the woman from the profile pic who knows that look will get her anything she desires.
“They’re too much if we’re ‘pretty new.’”
“But you’ve never had a serious girlfriend before. And if anyone deserves diamonds, it’s me.” When I stare at her, she laughs. “Just realized you can’t see me batting my eyelashes at you.”
“We should think of some flaws,” I say. “Reasons we’re not perfect for each other so my mom’s not shocked when I tell her we broke up later.”
“Flaws, right.” The playfulness drops from her face. “That won’t be hard. There’s something I need to tell you anyway.” She becomes fascinated with her nails.
I knew it. I fucking knew it. She’s known who I am all along. “Let’s hear it.”
She grimaces. “I have…issues.”
Yeah, you do, sweetheart.