Chapter 27
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Zachary
The little tan bag of apples sits on the back seat, two large pumpkins are safe in the trunk, and the car is filled with the warm, sweet smell of hay and early autumn. It’s the perfect smell. It’s the smell of a perfect Saturday.
Maya is asleep in the passenger seat, her head resting against the window.
The late afternoon sun angles through the glass, catching the red highlights in her brown hair and painting a stripe of gold across her cheek.
Her breathing is deep and even, a soft, rhythmic sound under the rumble of the engine and the tires on the asphalt.
My own heart feels just as steady. I look at her, this incredible woman who fell asleep twenty minutes ago mid-sentence while describing the merits of Honeycrisp versus Gala apples, and I feel a profound, terrifying sense of rightness.
This whole day—waking up early, driving from our seaside town with the windows down, getting lost in a corn maze, drinking hot cider that burned our tongues—has been easy.
She is easy. With her, I'm easy. The knot of anxiety that normally lives in my stomach, the one I’ve carried around for so long I stopped noticing it, is gone.
I let my thoughts drift. I think about dinner, about the apples we’ll fail to turn into a pie, about watching a movie on her couch, about waking up with her tomorrow.
For the first time in what feels like a decade, I’m not mentally jumping ahead, not worrying about the next thing, not planning my escape route.
I’m just here. And “here” is pretty damn perfect.
We’re almost back. I see the familiar green sign for the Pine Island exit, the one that marks the bridge back onto the island. I'm slowing for the off-ramp when Maya makes a sound that cuts through the car’s quiet. It’s a gasp, a sharp, terrible intake of air, like she’s been stabbed.
My foot slams on the brake, and the car lurches. “What? What is it?”
Maya doesn't answer. Her eyes are squeezed shut, but she’s no longer sleeping. She’s rigid. Her entire body is braced, one hand gripping the ‘oh-shit’ handle above the door, the other clamped over her knee.
“Maya?” My voice is too loud. Panic, cold and sharp, shoots through my veins. “What's wrong? Are you hurt?”
“No,” she hisses. The word is tight, brittle. She winces, a violent, full-body shudder. “Just... drive. Please, just... get me home.”
“I’m not driving anywhere until you tell me what’s happening.”
She turns her head toward me, and the woman I was looking at two minutes ago—the one who was soft and golden and peaceful—is gone.
This woman is pale, drawn. There are deep lines of pain carved around her mouth, and her eyes, when she finally opens them, are swimming in tears she refuses to let fall.
“It’s a flare,” she grits out, her voice a strained whisper. “My joints. It’s... it’s just a bad one. Oh, God.” Another wince takes her, and she curls in on herself, her forehead touching her knees.
My heart is a trapped bird in my chest. It’s beating a million miles a minute, hammering against my ribs so hard I’m sure she can hear it.
This is it. This is the thing she told me about, the “bad days” she’d mentioned with a casual, dismissive wave of her hand.
I have lupus, she'd said. Sometimes it just... flares up. It’s no big deal.
This looks like a very, very big deal.
She looks miserable. She looks... broken.
And I am utterly, terrifyingly useless. My mind is a blank, white static.
I can fix a leaking pipe. I can fix a kindergartner’s boo-boo with an ice pack and a Mickey Mouse Band-Aid.
I cannot fix this. I swallow the rock of panic that’s risen in my throat.
My emotions don't matter right now. Hers are the only ones that count.
I pull the car over onto the shoulder of the ramp and throw on the hazard lights. I turn in my seat, keeping my voice as level and calm as I can manage. “Okay. Tell me what to do. How can I help?”
She stays curled over, her breathing fast and shallow. “Nothing,” she whispers. “There’s... there's nothing you can do. It just has to... pass. I just need to get home.”
“Maya,” I say, and my voice is firmer now. “Look at me.”
It takes a long moment, but she slowly, painfully uncurls. She keeps her face turned away, hiding her expression from me.
“Hey,” I say softly. I reach out, not to touch her, but just to rest my hand on the center console, palm up.
An offering. “I know you’re strong. I know you’re the most capable person I’ve ever met.
I know you can handle this. But you don't have to handle it alone.
Not with me. Asking for help doesn't mean you're not strong. It just means you're human.”
Her head snaps around, and her eyes are flashing with a mixture of pain and pure, undiluted fury. “I know that, Zachary!” she snaps, and the word is a hammer blow in the small space.
I flinch. I can't help it.
The anger vanishes from her face, instantly, as if a mask has been dropped. It’s replaced by a wave of such profound misery that it knocks the breath from my lungs. Her face crumples. The tears she was fighting finally win, spilling over and tracing paths down her cheeks.
“Oh, God,” she chokes, sobbing. “I’m sorry. I didn't mean... I know you're right. I’m so sorry. I’m just...”
“Stop.” I interrupt her, but I keep my voice gentle. “Do not apologize. You're allowed to be snappy. You are allowed to be furious. You are in agonizing pain. You do not, under any circumstances, have to worry about my feelings right now. Got it?”
She gives a wet, hiccupping laugh. She wipes her face with the back of her hand, which I see is trembling. “Got it,” she whispers.
“Good.” I take a breath. “Now. New question. We’re a team. Your body is being an asshole. What is our first strategic move, team captain?”
She pauses, clearly wrestling with herself. Her eyes close. I can see the internal battle. She’s so used to doing this on her own, so used to muscling through.
“Maya,” I say, “just give me a job. Please. I'm feeling spectacularly useless, and it's not a good look for me.”
That gets a small, pained smile. “Okay,” she says, her voice barely audible. “Okay. When we get back to the apartment building will you... will you come back to my place with me?”
“I’m not letting you out of my sight. What's next?”
“I need a bath,” she says. “A hot one. As hot as I can stand. I have... I have these CBD bath salts. And lavender oil. The heat... it helps. It helps the muscles unlock.”
“Okay. Great. We can do that.” I reach for the gear shift.
“Wait.” Her voice is small. She's looking down at her hands, which are clenched into white-knuckled fists in her lap.
“It's... it's my hands, Zachary. When it gets in my hands...” She tries to uncurl her fingers, and they tremble violently with the effort, resisting her. “The faucet. In the tub. It’s one of those stupid, round, smooth-as-glass knobs. Sometimes... I can’t get a grip. I can't... I can't turn it on.”
The confession hangs in the air. The simplicity of it.
The profound, everyday cruelty of a world not designed for pain.
She can't turn on a faucet. All the panic, all the fear, all the uselessness I was feeling evaporates.
In its place is a sharp, sudden, focused purpose.
This is a problem I can solve. This is a clear job.
I'm not fighting an invisible, internal monster. I’m fighting a piece of plumbing. I can win against a piece of plumbing.
A wave of relief, so powerful it almost makes me laugh, washes over me.
“Say no more,” I say, and I let my voice fill with a confidence I haven't felt for the last ten minutes. “I am, officially, the best damn faucet-turner this side of the Mississippi. We’ll have that bath running in T-minus ten minutes.”
She lets out the breath she was holding. “Okay,” she whispers. “Okay.”
I drive the rest of the way to our apartment building, my hands steady on the wheel. I park in my spot, kill the engine, and the ensuing silence is thick. She hasn't moved, her eyes closed, her body still braced.
“How do you want to do this?” I ask.
“I can walk,” she says, but her voice is a thin thread. She reaches for the door handle and her hand shakes, her fingers fumbling with the latch.
I shake my head. “Nope. Negative. Absolutely not.”
I’m out of the car, around to her side, and have the door open before she can protest. “Arms,” I say. “Around my neck.”
“Zachary, I’m not an invalid. I can...”
“Maya. I'm not doing this because you're an invalid. I'm doing this because you're in pain, and it's two flights of stairs. It's just... faster. It's tactical. Now, arms.”
She sighs, a sound of pure, pained surrender, and lifts her arms.
I slide one hand under her knees, the other around her back, and lift. She’s light, but she’s all tension and heat, a live wire of pain. She buries her face in my neck and a small, wounded sound escapes her, the one she's been holding back. My heart cracks.
I carry her up the stairs, my own muscles straining, but it's a good burn. It’s a purposeful burn. I get her keys from her purse, finesse the door open, and kick it shut behind us.
“Bathroom,” she murmurs against my skin, pointing in that direction.
I carry her straight in and set her gently on the closed lid of the toilet. She looks small and broken under the bright, unforgiving light of the bathroom.
“Right,” I say, rubbing my hands together. “Operation: Human Hot Tub, commence.” I become a blur of motion. “Towels. Where are the good ones? The softest ones. The ones reserved for royalty and visiting dignitaries.”
“Linen closet,” she whispers, a tiny smile touching her lips. “In the hall. Top shelf.”
I dash out, find the closet—it smells like her, lavender and something warm—and grab the thickest, plushest, fuzziest towel I can find. It’s a monster. It’s perfect.