Chapter 18
“Intraocular? Wait, does that mean into the eye?”
I’m trying to Google the word while remaining on the phone to my mother. She’s in the waiting room of the specialist retinal surgeon while Cait is having an angiogram or some other such test.
“I think so.”
“Mom, you had better work it out because she’s having a test to determine her suitability for intraocular injections. Where else would the injection go if not in her fucking eyeball?”
Both of us are silent for a moment while we contemplate a needle piercing my sister, her youngest’s, eyeball.
The pinch and squelch of pierced tissue as the medication would be delivered to where it is needed most has me almost ready to faint.
I keep reminding myself I’m a front-seat passenger to this, not the driver.
Cait is the one suffering from those wretched jellyfish.
She needs our support, not us collapsed on the floor.
“Intravitreal,” she continues, sounding out each syllable. “It delivers the medicine directly to the vitreous gel at the back of the eye. That’s where her abnormal blood vessels are. The ones that are leaking.”
“That’s gotta hurt like a motherfucker,” I wince, delivering the obvious.
“They use local anesthetic first,” she clarifies.
“Is that also by needle?” I ask, panic surging.
“I don’t know, love. I’m here on me own and it’s so much information to take in.”
I feel like an ass for badgering her with questions.
She’s doing her best. She always does. The woman works her backside off cleaning other people’s urine from toilets and bathroom floors, deals with four sons and a husband, and still puts the brightest sunshine face on for all of us.
I desperately wanted to accompany her and Cait to this appointment too, but my boss, the sweetest, swooniest romance hero in private who morphs to a clipped, cantankerous villain among company, said no.
No Bri, you may leave, Bri. You are free to go.
Is this a challenge he expects me to rise to, or an invitation to quit like EPAs before me, sick to the back teeth of his emotional whiplash?
“Oh, Bub, she’s coming out now. I’ll call you when I know more, alright?”
“Alright, Mom. I love you. And Caity Cat too. I’m going to come over on the weekend. We can eat pizza and play Trouble and watch St. Elmo’s Fire again.”
“Aye. Bye, Bubble. Love you more.”
Helen is already at her desk by the time I arrive to make the breakfast smoothies.
She shares Mason’s loathing for absences, knowing that vacation time is important, but the pile of work waiting for you when you get back dims a holiday glow pretty damn quickly.
Trys and I did our best. Actually, we did pretty damn well, all things considered.
If the planets hadn’t aligned to bring a massive collaboration project on top of several others already active, we might have enjoyed the luxury of semi-normal working hours.
As per our shared calendar, Mason extended his personal training from two hours to three this morning, citing concerns about how the cocktails and surplus calories from the wedding had messed with his metabolism and balance.
Pfft. He still looks absolutely sinful to me.
Not one ounce of excess fat clings to his athletic frame.
He is a vision both in and out of his three-piece suits.
“Helen’s back! Thank God. We went through hell and back without you. He’s been super pissy, roaring at everyone. Poor Bri is going prematurely gray!”
“Am I?” I shriek, clutching at strands of hair and inspecting them for a silver hue.
Which is stupid because any silver would grow from my scalp and not manifest in the mid-lengths.
But still. As I’m walking through the space from the kitchen, I stop by Helen’s desk where both Trystan and Mason have formed some impromptu conference.
Helen’s face is pinched, and it’s only 7:40 a.m..
Oh, fuck, what have we done wrong this time?
“Bri, you managed the main calendar, yes?” she quizzes, tapping at a key.
“Yes, why?” Unease begins roiling through my gut like spoiled food.
“Did you confirm the delivery for the first?”
My throat sticks on a swallow. No, I did not. But she continues regardless.
“Because I can’t see any evidence that they were delivered here, and there is no charge on the bank statement. Trystan has confirmed that nothing arrived. Bri?”
Three sets of eyes turn to me. What should be a joyous reunion is more like an impromptu firing squad. Trystan looks from Mason to me, and back again, jaw tight. Ever the professional, Mason stands there cooly in his trousers, shirt, tie, and vest, his jacket drips limply from an index finger.
Inhaling, I begin my counterargument. “I didn’t confirm the delivery because they were unnecessary. A lovely thought. But no. No thank you, I mean.”
Flowers for an employee's birthday are as regular as celebrities in the elevator. Each department oversees a bouquet or fruit basket to commemorate the special day. It’s also great to advertise your resulting lap around the sun, and most people celebrate by going out for lunch or post-work drinks with coworkers.
I didn’t confirm my delivery because I felt stupid doing so.
I also saw the pending invoice amount and practically shuddered.
The money could be put to better use elsewhere.
All I’d wanted was to be free to leave by 6:30 p.m., thinking a twelve-hour day would suffice.
But no—Mason had to go all alpha hole and send that plan to shit.
Semantics, all of it. I caught up with Ed for a coffee a few days later, and the phone calls, texts, and video chats from my family meant more to me than expensive flowers or tacos and tequila.
“I didn’t confirm because I felt silly confirming flowers for myself, and didn’t want to make it a big deal. ”
“Twenty-five is kind of big, Bri,” she counters. “One quarter of a century.”
When my face wrinkles at the realization, both Trystan and Helen chuckle while Mason continues to stare cooly. His face is the epitome of root canal surgery.
“All I can hope then is that these two gentlemen treated you well on your special day,” she teases. “I hope you celebrated in some capacity, Sabrina. Now, fill me in on everything else I missed while I was away. Other than your birthday.”
Hertio is busy walking circles on the path when I come to visit them for a long overdue update on my charcoal piece.
He’s waving his arms around like one might want to fight off an approaching bear, rather than a handful of small birds.
Yusef, oblivious to his friends’ shenanigans, or deliberately ignoring them, rests his chin on his hand, studying the board.
“Hey, you. It’s getting cold. I brought you something,” I announce with a wink.
The thermos of Helen’s homemade soup peeks from my satchel.
Also tucked inside are two gooey mocha brownies, crusty perfection on top with an almost molten middle.
Hertio stops his dances with pigeons and turns, his eyes alight with glee.
Yusef looks up, then back to the board, disinterested.
After a beat, both men accept a cup of the still piping-hot soup with gracious nods and crinkled eyes, nodding thanks while blowing over the steaming offering.
I pull my personal cell from my back pocket and flick to the latest photographs of the charcoal drawing of the two of them locked in battle.
There are laughs and good-natured shoulder slaps while each man stares at the image of themselves lost to the battle of 64 squares, ivory pitted against ebony.
This moment in time is one I wish I had the foresight to photograph as well.
The two of them sipping steaming soup and smiling while the battle behind is on hiatus.
Even a hurricane has a moment of calm before the wind returns from an opposite and equally destructive direction.