Chapter 6 Pike #2
But it’s interesting that Skylar has thought about anything related to me and Maria—really, anything related to me at all outside of fake dating.
“What’s the drama in the group?” I ask quickly. Skylar’s a bit too perceptive, and I need to pivot before she can dig any deeper into my nonexistent relationship with Maria.
“People are fighting over diets,” she says.
“There’s always someone who thinks only natural approaches work for chronic pain.
I’m glad that helps them, but I can literally go blind if I stop taking my medication.
And since doctors push dieting on people like me who are overweight, it easily becomes a heated topic. ”
I’ve seen lots of women in the group get treated badly by doctors due to weight. Skylar’s not thin, but I wouldn’t have guessed she’s “overweight” either. Even I know BMI is arbitrary, and it pissed me off when I read about her neuro-ophthalmologist badgering her about it.
“Is it hard keeping up with all those posts when you’re sick?” I ask.
“Yes, but I built that community from nothing, so it’s worth it. It gives me a sense of purpose even when things are shitty.”
Just like when we met at lunch, I feel like a jerk for threatening to report her.
She managed to pick up on a problematic comment from my mother out of a group with more than a thousand members.
When I thought she was a stalker, I flagged notifications on her activity, and it turns out she’s just kind.
Smart. Helpful. It’s clear she cares by how often she jumps in to validate people.
I turn my wipers up a notch to keep up with the snowfall. The forecast says we’ll get another foot by tomorrow. “How’s your health this week? Do you still have…” I trail off. A million symptoms. “The same amount of pain?”
“My eyes aren’t seeing double as much. I’ll find out how they’re doing at my follow-up on Monday.”
My hand tightens on my spinner knob. “With the douche who wrote a bad comment in your chart?”
“Yes. But let’s not talk about him. How are you?”
Lately, I’ve come to hate that question. But considering Skylar dumped all her symptoms on me, she’s probably not expecting the usual fine, thanks, you?
“There was a time I thought eating only unprocessed organic food was the answer,” I admit. “I take oxycodone for pain now. It’s working pretty well. Doesn’t matter what I eat.”
“Is that your way of saying you’re doing okay today?”
I huff out a laugh. “That’s my way of saying I rely on opioids to function. Not addicted, just necessary.”
“You’ve given this speech before.”
“More times than I can count. But I have a pain management doctor,” I add, even though Skylar’s unlikely to be shitty about it.
“That’s good.”
“I mean, it’s not. I’m always worried they’ll change the rules, and I’ll be left unable to function. Doctors have tried to take my meds away before.”
Patients with chronic intractable pain are supposed to have access to opioids, but it’s a witch hunt out there.
I’m luckier than most, only having to piss in a cup once a month.
But the results have delayed my prescription refill up to five days because of paperwork.
After going through that nightmare once, I forced myself to stay in bed with blackout-inducing pain in order to ration pills for future disruptions.
“Does weed help?” Skylar asks.
“It takes the edge off, but it gives me the spins.” Eventually, I’d like to transition, but it takes a lot of trial and error to find the right strains, and I don’t have the energy right now. “Does cannabis help you?”
“My university gets federal funding, and they’re in an illegal state. Fail a drug test and you’re out.”
“That’s so shitty.”
“Tell me about it.” Skylar picks up her phone again as we turn onto the first of many small roads that’ll take us to Naples.
“What should our backstory be?” I ask. “How did we meet?”
“It’s up to you. Whatever we say, she’ll believe. No mother suspects her son is bringing home a fake girlfriend to impress her.”
“It’s not to impress her.”
“Right, so she won’t think you’re depressed. I’ll make sure to reiterate that your beautiful poem was a vent.”
“You thought it was beautiful?”
“Honey.” She puts a hand on my shoulder. “I think half the group got pregnant from your poem. Do you write a lot?”
I ignore the way every nerve ending awakens where she touches me.
“I journal. Therapist’s recommendation after my first surgery.
She told me to chronicle how I felt. Pain levels.
Moods. Med reactions. Wasn’t my thing, but I started jotting down thoughts at night, especially during painsomnia.
” Now I write when everything feels impossible, too, but I don’t need to elaborate.
This past week was particularly rough, so I’ve filled up a lot of pages.
“I bet it wasn’t easy to share,” she says.
“I doubt I’ll ever post again.”
“Aww, Pike. No. We’ll get your mom out of the group.”
“It was a wish,” I explain. “The poem. Being grateful for no longer—”
“—‘holding myself to your toxic standards of positivity,’” Skylar recites.
“You memorized it?”
“That killer beginning? Of course I did.”
It’s hard not to feel a little honored. “Thanks, but I’m not there yet. It would’ve been more appropriate to write ‘I’m hopeful for the day I’ll no longer hold myself to…’ Future tense.” I clear my throat. “Need a bathroom break? This is the last gas station for a while.”
She nods, then puts her phone in the cup holder while she zips her coat. A notification pops up, and I’m not looking at it, not exactly, more trying to avoid looking at the flash of skin below the hem of her dress. She’s got great legs.
Emy: IT’LL BE FINE. HE’S PROBABLY…
Analia: Be over-polite.
I smile to myself. They’re talking about me, but not because I have a murder face.
The notifications come in lightning succession.
Emy: just tell him ur shit with paren…
Analia: She might not be shit!
Skylar snaps up the phone. I drum my fingers on the steering wheel while she’s in the bathroom. Emy thinks Skylar should tell me she’s shit with parents. Awesome. Unless, of course, she’s shit with parentheses, because that’s the only other word I can think of that starts with paren.
Skylar comes back with a bottle of water.
“Be honest,” I say. “Are you nervous about this? You seem totally fine.”
“Why wouldn’t I be fine?”
I can’t push without admitting I saw her notifs, so I don’t.
Way too soon, we arrive at my mom’s house. I ease up the long driveway at a crawl, the pines sagging under fresh snow, my chest tightening with every lie I’ll soon have to tell.
Skylar checks her appearance in the sun visor. “Well, this is as good as it’s going to get.”
At least I think that’s what she says. Because I’m staring at the newest notifications on her phone as I park.
Emy: is his name brANDON PIKE?
Emy: because i stalked brandon pike
Emy: AND OMG
Emy: there’s something u should know
Her messages send my stomach plummeting. Shit. This is not the moment for Skylar to find out I’m a washed-up, B-list celebrity. C-list, even?
Analia: Is he a serial killer!
Analia deserves a medal for responding so quickly. Emy’s message disappears.
“I was hoping for some reassurance, buddy,” Skylar says.
“You look great,” I say hastily, my mind racing. How can I buy more time? I’ll tell her the truth on the way home. “Uh—my mom thinks checking your phone around company is rude. Could you keep it in your pocket?”
Miraculously, she obliges. “Honestly, my parents say that too.”
I struggle to exit the car, bracing with my cane to find secure footing on the steep step down and the slippery, snow-covered driveway. Mom comes into view through the windows, and for one terrifying moment, I think I might throw up.
“Last chance to come clean,” I say. “Is this really an elaborate prank? See how I’ll react if caught on camera? If it is, I’d rather know now.”
“It’s—” Skylar starts, but I slip.
I flail, my free hand shooting out for balance while I desperately grip my cane, but Skylar’s just come up next to me, and I…
I grab on to her boob.
Accidentally.
Only for a millisecond.
But it’s there, full in my hand.
Skylar gasps and meets my gaze, her pretty hazel eyes unobscured by sunglasses for the first time, revealing a glint of green. “Pike!”
“Shit! Fuck!” I steady myself, turning to grasp my car instead. If any other damn thing messes with me tonight, I’m going to skid again, and with how things are going I’d probably land with my entire face in her chest. “I’m so sorry, shit.”
She raises her hand, and I flinch, expecting a slap. Even without PDA rules, it’s crossing a line. But instead, her touch is gentle, tracing a path along my cheek with a chilly yet soft thumb. I freeze in place.
“Calm down,” she whispers.
“I didn’t mean—”
“I know.” Skylar shoots me a wink. “And it’s not a prank. Smile, boyfriend.”
By the time Mom bursts out of the house, and Skylar turns on the charm in greeting, I’ve cycled through more emotions than I usually feel in an entire week.
“Hi, Laurie! Gosh, I feel like we already know each other from our talks online!”
Talks? Has there been more than one?
Mom envelops Skylar in a big hug. “I am so excited to have you here.”
Ollie, our old yet still hyperactive Yorkie, comes charging out the front door with her screech-yaps. She skids on the icy driveway, re-collects herself, and barrels at us, jumping at me first.
“Hey, Olls.”
She gives my palm a few kisses before Mom scoops her up and tucks her under her coat. “Come on, baby. You’re going to get sick out here.”
She rushes back inside, leaving Skylar and me to trudge up the driveway. Wet snow melts on my tongue, and a familiar lurch of anticipation pools in my stomach. There will be amazing powder tomorrow.
And I’ll get none of it.