9. Austin
NINE
Austin
I stand in Bex’s living room, my gaze wandering over the photos she’s hung up on the wall. Each one tells a story—her life captured in moments of laughter, adventure, and the people who matter to her.
My eyes drift to the photos beside it, each one pulling me deeper into Bex’s world. One is of her standing on a beach, the wind whipping through her hair as she laughs at something off-camera. The sun is setting behind her, casting a golden glow that makes her look almost ethereal, like she belongs in that perfect, carefree moment. The other photo shows her in a cozy bookstore, curled up in an oversized armchair with a book in hand, a contented smile playing on her lips. The warmth of the place seems to seep out of the image, making it easy to see why she loves it there. Each picture reveals a different side of her—a woman who finds joy in the little things, who’s lived a life full of these quiet, beautiful moments.
But then, one photo stops me cold. It’s Bex and Georgie, arms wrapped around each other, both smiling like they don’t have a care in the world. They’re at that game— the game where everything went sideways for me, where my Achilles snapped and my whole life flipped upside down. Seeing them so happy, completely unaware of what was about to happen, sends a jolt through me. It’s like looking at a moment that’s been etched into my life, only now with a connection to Bex that I never saw coming.
“Chamomile or peppermint?”
“Chamomile, please,” I say, keeping my focus on the photos on the wall. The hall light flicks on above me and I turn around to find Bex standing with a mug in her hands.
“Here.” She passes it to me. When I thank her, I notice how pale she is. I hadn’t been able to tell before when we were outside, but now indoors and under this light, I can see she doesn’t look well.
“Thank you,” I mumble, watching as she walks away slowly. Her gait isn’t the energetic, snappy one that I’m used to. I’d say she seems defeated, but that’s a stretch. Tired maybe?
“I’m still quite curious why the evening visit, Austin,” she says as she grabs a prescription pill bottle off the counter, opening it and popping a pill in her mouth. I’m both shocked and impressed when she swallows without any hydration. “Last time I saw you, I was plotting how to come back and destroy you, which I know sounds dramatic. You can bet I was at least trying to figure out how soon I can sue my new employer for injuries sustained on the job my first day.”
“I know, I’m sorry.” I take a sip of the chamomile tea, which is delicious, forgetting about her coloring for now. “I am. It’s been a rough year. Actually, more than that, but that doesn’t matter. What does matter is that I’ve been horrible to a lot of people. My family can handle it, but doing it to someone like you, or even Emma or Georgie…”
“Who’s Emma?”
I really hope that’s a little jealousy I’m detecting. “My physiotherapist. She’s had to deal with me being moody, but lately she’s had to bear witness to my bad attitude with my family and she’s gotten an earful or two about you as well.”
“Wow.” Bex folds her arms in front of her and smiles. “Guess I got under your skin.”
“Guess so,” I say, returning the smile. I keep my sights on her, watching as Bex steadies herself and closes her eyes, her right hand floating to her chest as she inhales sharply. “You okay?”
“Oh, my foot?” She flexes it. “It’s sore, but I’m fine.”
“No,” I say as she rubs her chest again. “That.”
“Palpitations,” she whispers, opening her eyes slowly. It’s only now that I can tell those usually bright hazel eyes are dulled. “I’m in the middle of having an onslaught of them and it’s wiping me out.”
“I thought you looked like you weren’t feeling well.” Concerned, I put the mug down on a table nearby and walk to her side. “Can I do anything?”
She shakes her head. “I have an auto-immune disease and it likes to rear its head at inopportune times. This is one of them.”
Bex pulls out a chair at her kitchen table and gently lowers herself into it, with what I can only describe as a relieved breath of air escaping her lips as she does. She closes her eyes again and sits still.
“It’s Graves’ disease,” she says after a few moments of silence. Well, except for the sound of that dog in the other room scratching itself. I can hear the tags jingle on its collar, the sound of metal on metal swaying through the air and reverberating around us.
“Okay,” I respond, pulling out a chair and sitting down myself. “That sounds…”
“Horrible, right?” She laughs, her eyes flicking open. “It’s the worst name for a disease ever. People always think I’m dying when I tell them, but lucky for me I’m not.”
“Noted.” I watch as she takes a few more deep breaths. “But you are okay?”
She waves a hand in the air. “It’s fine. I have an overactive thyroid, so it likes to work at a fast speed.”
“Have you had it for a long time?”
“Ten years, maybe eleven?” She shrugs. “I was diagnosed after a really hard and stressful stretch of time in my life. I was losing a lot of weight but eating well over my calorie allowance, had hair falling out, anxiety was through the roof. Oh my gosh, don’t even get me started on the brain fog. I was a multi-tasker who could spin plates and platters while tap dancing if I needed to, but that’s no more.”
“I had no idea,” I start to say, and she interrupts with laughter.
“How were you supposed to know? It’s not like we had time to talk or get to know each other.”
“To be fair, you also don’t look…” As soon as the words are about to fall off my lips I want to take them back. Shove ‘em right in my mouth and forget I thought them.
“I don’t look sick?” she says with a guffaw. An actual guffaw—then she sighs the heaviest sigh I think I’ve ever heard. “That’s what most folks say to people like me and it’s super annoying.”
“I know.” I groan. This quick visit to say I’m sorry is going downhill fast. “Can I add that to my list of things I’m sorry for?”
“It’s becoming a long list, Austin,” she manages with a wry smile.
“I can handle it,” I retort.
“No doubt you can.” She chuckles. “Not to change the subject, but did you call those people?”
“Not yet, but I will. I’m going to do it tomorrow.” When she looks at me with a stern expression, I reach over to pat her hand. It was meant to be a kind gesture, albeit pandering, but the moment my skin touches hers, I freeze. The softness of her hand surprises me as I feel the roughness from the callouses on the tips of my fingers as they catch on it. So smooth and soft, a suppleness that’s telling of how she takes care of herself. The opposite of the guy who sits in front of her.
There’s a moment where I want to let my fingertips trace their way across the back of her hand, allowing them to dance up her arm, but I stop myself. I snap my hand back, feeling the cold in the air as I do. Which is going to happen when you step away from the sunshine, isn’t it?
“Trust me,” I say as I clear my throat. “I am going to call all of them. I heard you yesterday. I’ve been absent and I need to show up more. In all ways.”
Her mouth opens, her jaw slack as she watches me with a look I’d describe as judgmental curiosity. “Okay. So, this apology tour you’re on. You serious?”
“Yes,” I say, smacking my hands on the table and drumming my fingers. I have no idea how much time has passed since I arrived on her doorstep, but I’m liking the fact that I have no clue. That time is standing still and it’s not just me. Or her, alone, in her house across the field.
It’s us.
“Okay,” she says, throwing her hands in the air. “I’m not going to question it anymore. I’ll just say thank you.”
“Thank you?”
“And you’re forgiven.”
My eyes almost jump from their sockets. “It’s that easy with you?”
“Yes,” she responds, looking at me quizzically. “Should it be harder?”
“Well, no, but…”
“Austin, do us both a favor and let it be okay.”
The fact it’s so easy for her to forgive and move on fills me with a feeling that’s foreign, one that I’d forgotten until this moment. It’s hope.
I turn my attention back to her. “How are you feeling now?”
She shakes her head. “I should go lie down.”
“Do you have a doctor we can call?”
“I haven’t had a chance to find one locally, at least not yet. But I saw my endocrinologist before I left LA. He reminded me that moving can cause a ton of stress and since I’m still getting my symptoms under control, I need to make sure I steer clear from as much stress as I can.” She smirks. “Because that is so easy to do.”
Laughing, I push my chair back and get up from the table. I hold out my hand for Bex to take. “Let’s get you to the couch.”
She eyes my hand for a moment before sliding hers on top of it. It feels nice to hold someone close like this, even if it is only the skin of our palms touching. For good measure, I wrap an arm around her waist to help guide her as we start our way across the room together.
When I get her to the couch, she literally pours onto it, falling over and landing on her side. She pats the top of the couch and I follow her path, seeing a blanket just out of her reach. Grabbing it, I snap it open and cover her with it as I kneel beside her.
“What do you need?”
She shakes her head. “Nothing right now. Just to chill out, I think.”
“Are you sure?”
“Wow, when you come back from being a turd, you are Austin 2.0, aren’t you?” She rolls over and faces me as she pulls the blanket up under her chin. “I’m okay. When you get diagnosed with Graves you have a choice to get your thyroid removed or not. I decided not to, so I took the chance that I could have to deal with this every now and then.”
And here I’ve been sitting in my farmhouse feeling sorry for myself.
“Okay, well…” I scan the room, my eyes landing on the TV remote in the center of her coffee table. “How about I put on a movie for you?”
“A movie for us?”
“Us?”
She nods, eyeing the dog who is now curled up on the floor beside her. “Yes. Us. Me and Harley.”
“I knew it.”
Her lips twist as she fights a smile. I’m starting to realize I like that she smiles so much. I’ve not had this much goodness and sunshine in my world in a long time. Or maybe I haven’t been open to letting it in. Until now, that is.
“If you’re going to find a movie, Notting Hill pops to mind…if you’re going to stay to watch it, that is.”
“I can stay for a bit,” I acknowledge, pressing the power button as I land in the recliner next to her sofa. Don’t want to appear too eager, but let’s be honest: this is the closest I’ve come to a night out in a long time. I press a few more buttons, find the movie on one of her streaming services, and hit play.
In no time, I’m pulled in. Immersed in a neighborhood in London where Hugh Grant and his salty roommate make everything okay. Bex, who had been laughing away as well, has gotten quiet. I glance over, thinking she’s probably simply lost in the movie, but then I notice the steady rise and fall of her chest. Her eyes are closed, her breathing slow and even. She’s asleep.
For a moment, I just watch her—taking in the way her lashes rest against her cheeks, the slight parting of her lips, how peaceful she looks. Something tightens in my chest, a feeling I can’t quite name but that I know means trouble. It’s like I’ve been hit with a realization I didn’t see coming, and suddenly, the world feels different.
“Nope,” I mumble to myself, shaking it off as I grab my phone and sneak out to the porch, dialing our family doctor. It’s after hours, but that’s the good thing about small towns and personal connections. If the doctor knows you, he’s going to chat with you.
Dr. Bloomfield picks up on the first ring. “Austin, everything okay?”
“I’m well, but I have a question about a friend who isn’t if you have five minutes?”
“Of course. What’s going on?”
I quickly run through what Bex has shared with me, while also expressing my concern. Dr. Bloomfield listens, clicking his tongue on the roof of his mouth. It’s a sign of his thinking when I’m done talking.
“Honestly, Austin, it sounds like she knows what she’s doing. She’s calming herself when she feels her symptoms ramping up, and she’s taking medicine. Unless she’s got a fever or is experiencing symptoms that make her think a thyroid storm is evident, then she’s good for now.”
I understand what he’s saying, but it doesn't change the fact I’m worried. I’d go so far as to say I’m scared, but I’m supposed to be the tough one here. “So, she’s okay?”
“From what you’ve told me, yes. Graves is complicated, but it is treatable and can be addressed in a myriad of ways depending on the patient and the doctor. Let her lead you with this, and know she’s fine. Graves is complicated. Okay?”
The sound of someone in the background talking to him reminds me that this man is at home and he’s done me a huge favor taking this time to listen. I say a quick thank you, hang up, and then fire off an email to remind myself to call his office in the morning. Dr. Bloomfield won’t bill me for that time, but that doesn’t mean I can’t pay him.
I let myself back inside Bex’s house, closing the door quietly behind me as I enter the kitchen. Harley must have heard me as she jogs in with her ears perked up, watching me with those soulful, questioning eyes. I give her a quick scratch between the ears as I walk past, heading back to the living room.
Julia Roberts and Hugh Grant light up the flat screen, their banter filling the cozy space. I look around, taking in the warmth of the room, the way it feels like home. Then my gaze lands on Bex, curled up on the couch, fast asleep. Her soft breathing is the only sound other than the movie, and that little smile still lingers on her lips, even in sleep. I feel a warmth spread through me, something solid and sure.
This—being here, with her—feels right in a way I can’t fully explain.
I could get used to this.