Chapter 24 Skylar
Skylar
I wake to burning light seeping through my eyelids. I pull the covers over my face, but my eyes still threaten to burst from their sockets. The pressure in my skull is unbearable. Sharp, deep nerve pain pierces my body.
But I’m not throwing up.
My tinnitus is a relentless Weedwacker in my ear, and it only heightens my anxiety. How did everything deteriorate so quickly? Even my hair hurts.
I need a lumbar puncture. I need a higher dosage of medication.
When I reach for my extra pillows to elevate my head, I hit a solid mass instead. It groans.
Pike.
Pike is in my bed.
Fragments of last night crash back. I threw up all over him. It was embarrassing enough before Kalle showed up. I don’t remember if I threw up on him too.
Squinting, I see Pike snuggled on his side, a soft gray shirt clinging to his firm shoulders. His mouth is parted, but he doesn’t snore.
I don’t remember why he’s in my bed.
“Are you awake?” I whisper.
His eyes stay closed. “I am now.”
“Was the guest bed uncomfortable?”
He shifts a little, as if testing his limbs, then stretches out his legs. His toes brush mine, sending a pleasant tingle rushing up my body. Forget that. After all this, there’s no way he’d ever think of me sexually again.
“Dunno.” His lashes flutter against his cheeks. “I didn’t have enough spoons to make up the guest room, but I didn’t feel comfortable leaving you alone. Sorry. I’ll do that tonight.”
“No, no…it’s fine.” Guilt twists my stomach. He overexerted himself helping me. “You don’t have to be here.”
“You don’t want me here?”
“I’m sure you have better things to do.”
“I don’t, actually.”
I press my eyes shut. “Liar.”
“Will you please just let someone help you?”
“You’re not just someone. You’ve helped more than anyone ever has. It’s too much.”
A gentle hand finds my shoulder. “When I moved back here, I said the same thing to my mom. She had to do everything for me. You know what she told me? Helping someone you care about shouldn’t be transactional.”
My heart pangs. “Your mom seems decent about some things.”
“She is. But, Skylar, I’ve been here less than twenty-four hours. If that’s your standard for too much, raise the bar.”
A lump forms in my throat. It’s less about my standard and more about what others have told me is too much.
“Do you need anything?” Pike asks. “Kal brought my wheelchair so I can roll you to the bathroom.”
“Could you close the blinds?”
“Give me a sec.” When “a sec” turns into ten minutes of stretching and groaning in pain, I feel worse. Eventually, he shuts the blinds, and I open my eyes to blissful dark. But I can’t shake my guilt.
“I’m not trying to use you,” I say.
“What?”
“Calling you only when I need help. I didn’t call you back before because it hurts to talk. Physically.”
“So don’t talk.”
“I mean in general. I’ve barely even chatted with the girls. I don’t want to do anything when I’m in this much pain.” But I also don’t want to be alone with my thoughts. “I couldn’t think of anyone else to call.”
“I’m glad you called me. Really.”
Me too, but I wish I had more people to call. I wish my family made me feel safe when I’m sick.
“I was caught off guard,” I whisper. “In Whistler. When you stopped. I wasn’t trying to get you to fall back on bad habits. But you also didn’t have to make me feel like I was one of them.”
“Skylar? We can talk about it, but not when you’re hurting this much.”
I nod miserably as another wave of nausea overtakes me. Besides my pain, I’ve thought of nothing but Pike since we returned from Whistler.
“I just can’t believe this is happening again,” I burst out. “I’m doing everything I’m supposed to be doing.” Unwelcome tears cascade down my cheeks. I press my fingers into the grooves beneath my eyebrows to redirect some of the pressure. “It’s all so unfair.”
“Can I hold you?” Pike asks.
I slide back, succumbing to what’s become a weakness: his arms. He draws me close to his chest and spoons me. It makes my head worse, but right now, I’d rather be comforted than comfortable.
“I’m sorry, sweetheart,” he murmurs. “I wish I could make it better.”
“You do,” I insist. “You’ve been great.”
As much as Pike’s support means to me, I wish Analia and Emy were here too. I wish they weren’t just online friends but people who could also stay with me while I go through this shit.
It’s not that I doubt they’d come. But what if it’s uncomfortable without the natural pauses that being online affords? What if they find something about me that’s too overwhelming, the way everyone else always does?
“Do you want to tell me what happened at the ER?” he asks.
I tense, torn between wanting to shut down and knowing he deserves a straight answer. He’s dealing with his own pain—pain he never talks about—but he’s here anyway, holding me like my world hasn’t fallen apart.
“I’ve never had a positive experience,” I say. “Most doctors are clueless about IIH. Usually, they’re just assholes. I always leave feeling traumatized and gaslit. They say there’s no way my pressure’s the issue—it must be a bad period or anxiety.”
Most doctors just tell me it’s all in my head.
Yeah. Literally.
Pike’s thumb caresses the inside of my wrist, coaxing me to share more.
“That’s the hardest part about invisible disabilities,” I say. “Learning to exist with pain when no one acknowledges its existence. I’ve tried therapy to have less anxiety about it, but none of that matters unless I have a doctor who actually helps me.”
Pike draws me closer, his arms tightening.
“I need a lumbar puncture,” I say miserably. “I wote—wrote Dr. Wharton to prescribe one, but that appointment’s not until next week. The ER will defer to his prescription. And he won’t authorize an emergency LP.”
Emergency LPs are notoriously traumatic. Scar tissue in my back and a fried nerve in my butt that took six months to heal are proof. I always request guided LPs with fluoroscopy now.
“I’m sorry I made you come to Whistler,” Pike says.
“You didn’t. And it’s not your fault, so don’t even go there.”
“I’ll admit I don’t fully understand,” he says. “You’re taking your medication. Why won’t your pressure regulate?”
I remind myself he doesn’t doubt me. “It’s called ‘idiopathic’ intracranial hypertension because it’s brain pressure of unclear hause—cause.
We know some underlying causes, but it can be more than one thing or something still completely unknown.
” I pause. Whenever I talk, the pain doubles in my head.
“I’m constantly battling the pressure increasing.
Just because one day it reacts well to medication, another day it might not. ”
“I hate this for you,” he says quietly.
I reach back, sliding my hand along his arm until my fingers find his. I hold on tight.
“Do you want more meds? Something bland to eat?”
“Soon.” Right now, I just want him to hold me a little longer. But I can’t sit in this heaviness forever. Luckily, I know just the topic. “Can you believe we have friends in common?”
The girls and I screamed when Analia found out Kal is actually Kalle. Turns out the man never goes by his full name because everyone sucks at pronouncing it.
And now I’ve met him twice without really meeting him. Last night, Kalle apparently dragged Pike’s wheelchair up the stairs, half carried me into bed, and brought me nausea remedies.
“It’s funny how small the world is,” Pike says.
“Is Kalle in love with Analia?”
“Ha. He’s never outright said that, but the way he talks about her, it seems obvious. Why? She in love with him too?”
Analia’s also never admitted it. When we push the topic, she withdraws. I’m tempted to share Pike’s insight, but it could end badly. Their decades-long friendship might not survive unrequited feelings.
“Emy and I just ship them,” I offer.
“What kind of Scandinavian is he?”
“Pike! Seriously?”
“Two things always come up with Kal. His heritage and his girl. Didn’t realize he meant Analia the whole time, so yeah, I suck.”
His girl. My heart.
“He’s Swedish.”
“Thanks,” he says sheepishly. “Felt rude to ask when I should remember. Also, why doesn’t Analia like his friends?”
I hesitate, but if Pike knows, Kalle must’ve mentioned it. I press my eyes shut against the unrelenting pressure. “I don’t think she likes who he becomes with them.”
“Huh. He’s always been cool around me.”
“That’s good. It’s nice you have disabled friends.”
“Just Luis and Cyrus.”
“And Kalle.”
Pike pauses. “Kal’s disabled? He’s never said.”
“Maybe it’s mental health.”
“I don’t know him well enough to say. He’s a childhood friend, but we’ve only seen each other a few times since I moved back. I’ve been terrible at keeping up with friendships.”
“Never too late to reconnect.” Kalle driving to Naples for Pike speaks volumes. But Pike remains silent, prompting me to moisten my parched lips. “We’re okay, right? You and me?”
“Of course,” he says. “And you’re not a bad habit.
You’re probably the best thing that’s happened to me in a long time.
I don’t want to risk our friendship by having a one-night stand.
” He sighs into my neck. “Speaking of. You rest. I’ll make up the guest room.
We can discuss it more once you’re back to baseline. ”
He plants a soft kiss against my skin before releasing me.