Chapter 31 Skylar
Skylar
That’s it,” Pike says with a happy moan. “Don’t stop.”
I rub the Voltaren gel more vigorously into the left side of his spine and drop a kiss on his shoulder blade. “It’s tough, touching your beautiful back, but it’s a sacrifice I’m willing to make.”
“I would’ve asked you to be my girlfriend sooner if I knew you’d get all these hard-to-reach spots.”
We’re having a slow morning before work. Watching The Price Is Right on my sectional is soothing my soul.
After I apply a lidocaine patch to his right back dimple, I unwrap my legs from his waist and get up to wash my hands. My phone pings with another article. I can’t help but read the headline aloud as I return to the living room.
“‘Trouble in the Bedroom for Snow Playboy?’”
I laugh at the snow playboy part, but Pike scowls.
“Fuck them,” he mutters.
My grin fades. “What’s wrong?” He’s usually—almost annoyingly—unfazed by anything they write.
“Boo-hoo, Brandon Pike is disabled. Boo-hoo, Brandon Pike can’t walk. Boo-hoo, can Brandon Pike still fuck?” His expression darkens. “They wish they were hitting this.”
His cockiness catches me off guard. Pike’s amazing in bed, the kind of generous lover every woman dreams of finding, but he’s always humble about it.
“I’m sure it’s trash,” I say, reading the subtitle.
Does Brandon Pike’s Girlfriend Have Too Many Issues for Him to Handle—Even in Bed?
My heart thumps in my chest. It’s like someone’s uncovered my deepest insecurities. Pike’s been great about all the complaints Owen had, but it’s hard to let go of the residual worry I carry with me from that relationship.
The accompanying picture is from the Shred Awards. Pike’s laughing with Grace, his hand brushing her wrist, while I sit in the background looking murderous. I recognize my resting pain face, but to everyone else, I must seem like a jealous bitch.
As I read, my pulsatile tinnitus whooshes to an alarming level. My own words, some of which are from over three years ago, leap off the screen.
Skylar King: How do I tell my new boyfriend that orgasming sometimes hurts my head? He doesn’t know I have health problems yet.
Skylar King: My hair came out in a clump when my boyfriend tugged on it during sex. Despite explaining it’s from my meds, he was super grossed out.
Skylar King: I know, right? How do I tell a guy I sometimes get a headache from farting?
Skylar King: It feels like a pickaxe is cutting out my eyeballs, so I asked my boyfriend if we could skip a party. He said it’s boring to stay in all the time and that I’m using pain as an excuse not to meet his friends.
It’s all Owen. My sex life. My health.
But everything’s framed to make it seem like I’m complaining about Pike. It goes on and on.
Until I get to the next set of screenshots.
Skylar King: The National Association for College Recruiters has this ableist rule that recruiters must stand during fairs. What the actual fuck is wrong with them?
Skylar King: Sometimes I hate my mom. I feel like I’m trapped in a borderline-abusive caregiver situation even though I don’t live with her.
Skylar King: I think I’m becoming allergic to underwear. Has anyone else experienced this?
Skylar King: Has anyone else essentially blacklisted all nondisabled people from their lives? If not, how do you stand being around them?
Skylar King: TMI alert. My kidney stones are so bad I’ve lost bladder control, to the point where I’ve had to sneak out of work fairs early.
My knees give out.
“Whoa.” Pike catches me before I hit the floor and gets me on the couch. “What happened? Your head?”
I point wordlessly at my phone. He sits down and pulls my legs over his thighs, massaging my feet while he reads. “This is so unserious,” he says. “Grace and I never…” He trails off, and soon there’s only sharp intakes of breath that seem to go on forever.
I want to rip my phone away so he won’t see all the embarrassing questions I asked. Every intimate detail I shared. All my problems.
“This is from our group?”
I figured Pike had internet-stalked me like I did him, but I used to post daily. It’s a lot to catch up with. Someone clearly went through all my posts to find the most humiliating ones.
“They’re not about you,” I say quickly.
“Obviously,” he says. “I’d be thrilled if you never wore underwear again.
” But as he keeps reading further, his jaw tightens, and his eyes darken with anger.
“They leaked my posts too. Fuck, now everyone knows I take opioids. Hey! They posted my poem!” The indignation in his voice makes me sit up.
“‘Commentators believed Pike to be suicidal, including his own mother. Is it possible his girlfriend’s problems are too much for him?’” His fists clench. “I can’t believe they posted it.”
“That’s what you’re concerned about? People are going to love your poem.”
“Well, I resent them outing my mental health issues.”
His comment stops my anger short. It’s the first time Pike has ever truly acknowledged out loud that he struggles with mental wellness. He always skirts over the topic.
“That’s not fair of them,” I agree. “But they’re only speculating about your mental health. They’re twisting my words to make it seem like I’m the reason for your poem. Like I’m the one making you depressed!”
“You’re right. At least my poem doesn’t mention bodily functions.”
“If you laugh right now—”
“I’m not laughing. I’m going to call my lawyers and have them file a takedown notice. Then I’m going to sue this magazine for violating our privacy.”
“How long does that take?”
“I’m not sure. I’ve never done it before.”
I take his hands, finding we’re both shaking. His lips brush my cheeks, nose, and forehead, lingering at my mouth before we pull each other into a long hug.
“I’m so sorry,” he murmurs. “This is why I didn’t think we should go public.”
“I didn’t realize they’d leak our support group chats! Oh, fuck. I need to talk to the other admins immediately. Someone fake is in our group!”
“Or someone sold us out.”
“You have to make a statement. Tell them support groups are for venting. You’re allowed to be negative and get support.”
“Commenting on it publicly will only fan the flames. If we leave it alone, no one will care in ten minutes.” He gets to his feet.
“People will care.” I scramble up after him. “I’m not a hot athlete. I’m the one who’ll suffer from all of this.”
“I have to go.” He tugs on his shirt and shoes faster than I’ve ever seen. “I’ll call my lawyers on the way to work.”
“But what about a statement?”
A muscle jumps in his jaw. “It’s not a good idea.”
“But—”
“It’ll make it worse, Skylar. Trust me.”
He gives me another kiss, grabs his wide-brimmed baseball cap from my key rack, and leaves without another word.