Chapter 5
Chapter Five
Devin
“Look what I found.” My dad emerges from the hallway with something soft and worn in his hands. The fabric unfolds as he walks, revealing faded teddy bears marching across pale yellow fleece. “It's your baby blanket!”
“Aww.” On the other couch, Henry shifts forward, his eyes crinkling with genuine delight. “See if it still covers her.”
“No. Please.” I shake my head, but my dad is already crossing the room with that determined parent walk that means resistance is futile. The blanket floats down over me, bringing the faint smell of cedar from the hallway closet.
“Perfect,” he says, stepping back to admire his handiwork.
“Totally.” I laugh, tugging at the edges that barely reach past my ribs. “It almost covers my torso.”
He plops onto the other couch beside Henry, the leather creaking, and picks up the remote. “Okay. What movie are we watching?”
“Something with explosions,” Henry says immediately.
“Christmas movie.” Dad's still in full holiday mode three days after Christmas.
The three of us start volleying titles back and forth, each suggestion more ridiculous than the last. My shoulders finally drop from their position near my ears.
The knot in my stomach loosens. It’s the first time since being home that I'm really relaxed. It’s taken five days, but the loop that Oliver threw me for seems to finally be coming to an end.
Really, so what if he’s on Pine Island? I’ll probably hardly ever see him, and I have plenty of other things to worry about. My practice. My health. My carefully constructed life.
The front door opens before we can settle on a movie, bringing a blast of December air racing through the house.
“Helllloooo,” Mom calls, her voice carrying that particular brightness that means she’s up to something.
Footsteps echo through the hallway—two sets, one quick and light, the other more measured. They appear in the doorway, cheeks painted pink from the cold, snow still melting in their hair.
“Watcha doing?” Jemma asks, already eyeing my spot on the couch like she's planning her attack.
“About to watch a movie.” I pull the baby blanket tighter around me, deciding that maybe it's not so embarrassing after all.
“Cool.” She sits on the end of my couch, and I have to draw my feet back quickly before she plants herself on them. The couch dips under her weight. “Guess who we saw at the farmer's market?”
“Who?” I don’t really care. I didn’t stay close with anyone I grew up with, and I only make a point of seeing my family when I come home.
“Billy.” Her face brightens like she's delivering the best news ever.
“Billy?” The name means nothing for a moment.
“From high school.” Mom digs in her tote bag, the canvas rustling. “Oh, you had such a huge crush on him, Devin.”
The memory slams into me. Billy Reeves. Baseball player. That crooked smile. The way he used to lean against lockers like he was posing for a magazine cover.
“Oh. That Billy. Neat.”
“Neat?” Mom laughs and pulls out a white pastry bag, grease already spotting the paper. “They were out of chocolate croissants but I got you almond.”
“I'll live.” Henry eagerly opens the bag, paper crackling. “Thank you.”
“He married Amanda Sheffield.” Jemma kicks her feet up on the footrest, her boots leaving tiny wet marks. “Remember, they were dating in high school?”
Now that I know who we’re talking about, I do remember—and I was jealous as hell. Amanda with her perfect blonde ponytail and her spot on the cheerleading squad. Billy with his letterman jacket.
“They got divorced last year.” My mom gives me a pointed look, eyebrows raised just enough to signal incoming interference.
A long silence fills the room. Even the Christmas tree lights seem to blink more slowly.
“O-Kay,” I finally answer, drawing out the word. And she’s getting at… what?
“He's single,” Mom adds, as if that wasn't clear from the divorce announcement.
“Good for him?”
She gives me an exasperated look, the one that used to precede lectures about homework. “We arranged a date for the two of you tomorrow night. Dinner downtown at The Iron Horse.”
My jaw drops. The baby blanket slides as I bolt upright. “You did what? You guys had no right to do that.”
“He looks really good,” Jemma says, as if that makes ambushing me acceptable. “Like, really good. He's been working out.”
“Hold on.” Henry frowns, setting his croissant down. Flakes scatter across the coffee table. “I thought we were having family board game tomorrow night. It’s the only chance we get all year.”
My mom purses her lips, pressing them into a thin line. Her fingers drum against her thigh—a tell since childhood.
“Henry… this will be good for Devin.”
I sit up properly now, annoyance prickling along my skin like static. “What do you mean, good for me?”
“You’re all alone on that island, Devin.” Mom's voice softens into that concerned tone that makes my teeth clench. “Wouldn’t it be nice to find a partner?" She sighs gently. “When's the last time you went on a date?”
“I…” The answer slips away like water. Years? The last real date, the last time I dressed up and wondered what might happen...
Not since I broke up with Oliver.
But what does it matter to her? She raised us alone by choice. She had me and Jemma because she didn’t want a relationship. I’ve seen her date maybe three men my whole life, and none of them lasted past a few dinners. So it’s pretty rich that now she’s telling me I need what she never did.
“I hooked up with this guy I met at a bar three months ago,” I say, letting my voice drop deliberately casual, wanting to creep her and Jemma out just to get them back. “It wasn’t great, but he did have a nice—"
Mom covers her ears, hands flying up so fast she nearly knocks over the lamp. “Oh, Devin!”
Henry bursts into laughter, the sound rolling through the room. “No, no. Go on. I want to hear the rest of the story.”
“Well, it’s pretty short, if you know what I mean.” I cross my arms in satisfaction, watching Mom’s face turn progressively redder.
My dad puts the remote down—he’s been flipping through movies this whole conversation, the screen cycling through options no one’s watching.
“If she doesn’t want to date, don’t push her.
What do you think would happen anyway if she and Billy did hit it off?
They live halfway across the country from each other. ”
“Thank you!” I gesture vigorously at him, hands cutting through the air.
“Dev.” Jemma's voice drops low, taking on that serious tone. “We're just looking out for you. Whether you and Billy turn into anything, it’s something new to do. Something to get you out of the funk you've been in the last six months.”
My jaw drops. The words hit like ice water. I can’t believe she just said that to me.
Heat floods my face, rising from my chest. My hands curl into fists, nails biting into palms. That “funk” is me learning how to live with POTS. That “funk” is me fighting every day just to stay upright. Is she trying to hurt my feelings?
I open my mouth to yell this at her, to let all the frustration of the last six months pour out, then think better of it. The words pile up behind my teeth.
“Can I talk to you alone?” Each word comes out precise and sharp between tight teeth.
Her eyes flash with suspicion, but there’s understanding too—she knows she crossed a line.
I lead the way to our childhood room, bare feet silent on the hallway carpet. My hands stay fisted, anger making my vision sharp. The moment she shuts the door with a soft click, I whirl around.
“What the actual hell?” The words explode out.
She draws a breath, but I go on.
“I'm not in a funk,” I seethe, voice low and dangerous. “You know that I've been dealing with this new diagnosis. For God’s sake, Jem, I’m busy trying to not pass out at work every day. I don’t have the spoons for dating.
You know that. It’s like you haven’t heard anything I’ve told you the last six months. ”
My voice rises despite my efforts to keep it down, aware of family down the hall. “Anyway, if I were going to date, it wouldn't be with some guy I haven’t even talked to since high school! Some guy who probably still thinks I’m the same person I was at seventeen!"
I stop only because I’m out of breath, chest heaving. I fold my arms across my chest, creating a barrier between us.
She blinks at me, her face shifting through emotions—surprise, hurt, understanding. “I thought you would be happy.”
I stare back. “I…” Damn. Now I feel like an ass for yelling at her. The anger drains, leaving exhaustion.
“I know for a fact that you still check Billy’s Facebook every once in a while.” She tilts her head, studying me. “And you were crazy about him in high school. Remember how you used to write his name in your notebooks?”
“That was high school,” I mumble, looking at my chipped toenail polish. “A million years ago.”
She sits on the edge of her bed, the mattress creaking with familiar sound. “Look, I'm sorry for how this came across. I hear you, I know how rough it's been these last six months. I just—I think it would cheer you up some to date. Don't you want to find someone?”
The question lodges between my ribs like a splinter.
Yes, once upon a time I wanted to find a partner, wanted the whole fairy tale.
I thought that partner was Oliver. I thought we were building something real.
Ever since then, though, I haven't had the spoons for dating.
Haven't had the energy to risk that kind of hurt again.
All my energy goes to my practice, teaching yoga, treating patients who trust me with their pain.
Everything else goes to keeping my health under control—the medications, the compression stockings hidden under my pants, the salt tablets I carry everywhere.
I've meticulously created a life that works.
Thirty hours a week with a thirty-minute midday nap in my office with the door locked.
But even those thirty hours mean every decision gets filtered through: will this help or hurt?
My whole life is geared toward feeling as good as I can as often as possible.
What little remains goes to my friends, and after making the mistake I did in New York with neglecting friendships, I would die before letting that happen on Pine Island.
Especially with my closest friends, who all have chronic illnesses like me and understand me better than anyone else in the world.
“What if you just try it out?” My sister presses, leaning forward. “If the date is awful, text me and I'll call you with a fake emergency so that you have to leave. I'll say Dad fell off a ladder or something.”
I snort despite myself. “Everyone knows that trick by now. It’s in every romantic comedy since cell phones.”
“Do you really care if he does?”
“No,” I admit.
“Great.” She reaches out and pokes my thigh gently. “I'll give you my new lace-up ankle boots to wear.”
I narrow my eyes. Jemma’s very protective of her clothes—a habit from having a sister the same size who’s been raiding her closet since middle school.
The boots were a Christmas present from Dad, and she must have noticed me drooling when she opened the box.
Italian leather, buttery soft, with laces that wrap around the ankle.
“Give,” she emphasizes. “Not loan. They're yours forever.”
“I could just go online and order myself a pair.”
“Really? You wanna do that?” She raises an eyebrow. “Because I looked them up, and they're almost five hundred dollars.”
“Shit.” My eyes widen. Dad really went overboard this year.
She laughs, the tension finally breaking. “Come on, sis. What do you have to lose?”
I sit on the edge of my own bed, springs protesting softly, really considering the proposition for the first time.
The familiar bedspread feels rough under my palms. I've been managing my spoons pretty well lately, finding a rhythm.
And maybe I would like to pursue a relationship again one day.
Maybe it's time to stop letting Oliver's ghost dictate my choices.
Plus going out with Billy can be good practice. Low stakes. If I don't want to gouge my eyes out by the end of the night, then okay, I can give dating on Pine Island a try.
Not that there are many young, available men on the island. The population skews toward retirees and families. Except for…
No. Am I seriously thinking about Oliver again? My brain needs to stop going there. Assholes like him aren't “available.” Not in any way that matters.
“Fine. I'll do it,” I announce, mostly because dating might be exactly what I need to get my mind off Oliver. To prove I've moved on. That I'm ready for something new.
If nothing else, I'll get a great pair of boots out of it.