Chapter 7
Chapter Seven
Devin
“Hey, why did the chef bring a ladder to the menu?” Billy’s eyes sparkle from across the table, fingers already tapping the table in anticipation of his own punchline.
“Um, I don’t know. Why?”
“Because the specials were on another level.” He bursts into laughter, slapping the table hard enough to make the water glasses jump. The couple at the next table glances over, and I force my mouth into something resembling a smile.
“What’s your favorite thing here?” He cocks his head, finally recovering.
“Um, I guess the rabbit stew. I haven’t had it in years, though. Maybe they changed it.”
“It’s my favorite too, and don’t worry. It’s still the same as it always was.
” He beams at me, leaning forward with unexpected intensity.
“They raise the rabbits on their own farm north of town. Free-range, organic feed, the whole nine yards. I actually helped them design their new hutch system last spring—temperature controlled, automatic water systems, even classical music piped in. The owner swears Vivaldi makes the meat more tender.”
For a moment, his face transforms. The nervous energy drops away as he describes the engineering behind the hutches, how he calculated the optimal space per rabbit, the ventilation system he created.
He’s genuinely passionate about this, and I can see the mechanical engineer in him coming alive. It’s actually interesting.
Then he catches himself, face flushing. “Sorry, I know that’s probably boring—”
“No, it’s—”
“Oh! Speaking of rabbits, did you hear the one about the magician who pulled a rabbit out of his hat?” He laughs before even finishing, and just like that, the moment’s gone.
I drop my gaze to the menu, its laminated surface reflecting the overhead lights. Billy’s still decent looking—sandy hair with that carefully disheveled thing going on. He’s kind, successful, has his life together. On paper, perfect.
But there’s nothing there. No pull when he leans closer, no urge to know what he’s thinking. We haven’t even ordered yet, and I’m already calculating how long until this can reasonably end. My phone sits heavy in my pocket—one text to Jemma and she’d call with a fake emergency.
The waiter appears, and we both order the rabbit stew. Billy makes a big deal about us choosing the same thing. “Great minds, right?”
The stew arrives, and it’s actually wonderful—tender meat, root vegetables soft but not mushy, broth rich with thyme and bay. Billy watches me take my first bite with an anticipation that makes me uncomfortable.
“Good, right? I actually called ahead to make sure they had it tonight.”
“It’s delicious.”
“I knew you’d—oh, wait!” His face lights up. “Why did the salt break up with the pepper?”
My soul leaves my body. “Why?”
“She was too spicy for him!” He snort-laughs, and I notice a piece of carrot stuck between his front teeth.
Two more condiment jokes follow. By the time we’re walking to our cars, I’m exhausted in a way that has nothing to do with Billy’s comedy routine.
The cold January air hits my face like a blessing, but underneath the relief, something else creeps in.
My limbs feel heavy, like someone’s slowly filling them with wet cement.
The streetlights seem too bright, their halos pulsing with my heartbeat.
Not now. Please, not now.
“I had a great time tonight.” Billy lingers next to my car, rocking on his heels.
“I did, too. Thank you so much.”
We stand there in painful silence. The streetlight flickers above us. Then Billy takes a step forward, lips already puckering.
I let out a little “Oh,” and sidestep. He stumbles, catches himself on the curb.
I clear my throat. “It was great seeing you.”
His face falls—that crushed puppy look. “Uh... you too. When are you leaving town?”
“Real soon.” I fumble with my keys. “Have a great rest of your vacation!” The false cheer in my voice makes me cringe.
I don’t look back. In my rearview mirror, his shoulders hunch as he walks to his pristine SUV. Thank goodness that’s over.
At my parents’ house, I ease the door shut and slip past the living room where something explodes on TV—probably one of Dad’s action movies. Jemma isn’t in our room, her side the usual controlled chaos. So they don’t worry, I send a family group text.
Me: I’m back. Date sucked. Billy told condiment jokes. Teetering on the edge of a flare. Shower and bed for me.
Jemma texts back immediately.
Sorry we put you through that. I’ll sleep on Mom’s couch so you can rest. Love you.
Tears prick my eyes. Until I was twenty-four, my body was reliable. Weekend mountain biking, late-night study sessions, pushing myself however I wanted. Then CFS hit like someone had pulled my plug without warning.
Thank God my doctor believed me, though—not every physician thinks the condition is real—and my family believed me as well.
From the beginning, they’ve been my biggest allies, finding ways they can help alleviate the symptoms and cheering me on when I announced I wanted to open my own practice—and, somehow, keep working my maximum thirty hours a week while doing so, since any more risks a flare.
After a hot shower, I put on my warmest pajamas—flannel pants with dancing penguins, an oversized PT school sweatshirt. But in bed, my exhausted body won’t let my racing mind rest. The cruel joke of chronic fatigue: too tired to function, too wired to sleep.
The last sounds of the night trickle through the house—Jemma going out the back door, Jude and Henry flicking off the lights in the living room and hallway.
I lay on my side, staring at the wall, thinking about the date with Billy, thinking about how I haven’t dated in years and how maybe the spoon theory is an excuse—a convenient shield.
Maybe I’m just afraid after what happened with Oliver.
And then Oliver floods my mind: how he looked in the pizzeria last week, spooked and out of place. That shattered confidence.
What happened beyond the wrist injury that ended his career? The investigation rumors, whispers about it not being an accident—what’s he running from?
I throw off the covers. With insomnia, busy hands tire the mind faster than staring at ceilings. The closet holds relics—yearbooks, stuffed animals missing eyes. In a box marked with my teenage handwriting, I find them. Journals.
Spiral-bound, sticker-covered, spanning decades. I started writing in journals the moment I started school. The red one draws me like a magnet. New York. The last years with Oliver.
My hands open it against my better judgment. There—my younger handwriting, hopeful even when describing pain. Happy entries about PT practice dreams, Fourth of July fireworks reflected in Oliver’s eyes. Then the other entries. The not-so-good ones.
Like the championship qualification night, date circled three times in red ink like I was trying to contain something radioactive. The memory floods back with nauseating clarity.
I was flaring but pushed through. Arena lights stabbing my skull, crowd noise like physical blows, my body screaming for rest. Melissa—that was her name—saw me swaying and offered her car for a halftime nap.
Fifteen minutes in the backseat while nothing happened on the ice.
But Oliver was furious I wasn’t visible when he looked up.
Said he needed to see me, got in his head, almost cost them the game.
They won. Champagne in the locker room. Didn’t matter.
In the car, his voice turned to glass shards. I went numb, couldn’t speak while he ranted about my selfishness. At home, I sobbed while he snored.
The journal entry, in shaky handwriting with tear-wrinkled pages:
February 15th - 2am He’s sleeping and I can’t stop crying and he doesn’t even know.
Or care? The gap between us in this bed is an ocean.
I tried SO HARD to be there for him tonight.
Doesn’t he see that? Doesn’t he see ME? I keep thinking if I just try harder, if I can just be better, he’ll understand.
But what if he never does? What if this is all I am to him—someone who exists to make him feel good about himself?
I’m so tired. Not just flare tired. Soul tired.
But I love him. That has to be enough, right?
Love fixes things? Mom always said if you love someone enough, you can work through anything. But what if I’m the only one working?
My younger self’s desperation bleeds through every word. The way she—I—made myself so small, blamed herself for not being enough.
Now? I wouldn’t even attend an event during a flare. My health comes first, full stop. Anyone who can’t accept that isn’t meant for me.
But reading this, I see how I never told Oliver his expectations were too high. Never said I was a person with limitations, not an emotional support accessory. I wasn’t aware of our codependence—him needing me to regulate his emotions, me needing him to feel worthy.
I didn’t even tell him how his words carved pieces from my soul I’m still trying to regenerate. Instead, I bottled everything like poison in mason jars, waiting for him to finally see me.
The realization sits heavy: I can’t blame my past self for not having tools I’d later develop. But what if I’d known then what I know now? What if I’d set boundaries from the start? That night, what if I’d woken him and said, “You hurt me. You don’t get to treat me this way.”
Would he have changed? Would we have survived? Did he ever know the real me, or just the version I presented to keep peace?
Two tears track down my face. All these years painting Oliver as the villain, me as the victim. But I stayed. I chose him over myself, again and again.
Sighing, I close the box like shutting a coffin. Enough memory lane for tonight.
Back in bed, I find the world’s most boring podcast—the history of cement manufacturing. The monotone host drones about aggregate sizes. Through the window, bare branches scratch against the dark sky like skeleton fingers.
My body thrums with that specific exhaustion-but-wired sensation CFS brings—muscles heavy as soaked wool while electricity runs under my skin.
My joints ache in their sockets. Behind my eyes, pressure builds like storm clouds.
Every few minutes, my leg jerks involuntarily, startling me back from the edge of sleep.
The podcast host explains Portland cement versus hydraulic lime. I think about Oliver in Niall’s garage apartment. Is his wrist hurting tonight? Does he lie awake replaying his mistakes like I’m replaying mine?
When we were together, he never had trouble sleeping. Could drop off mid-conversation while I lay there, mind spinning. I envied that ability to just... stop. To not be haunted by every word said or unsaid.
But the Oliver I saw last week looked haunted. Those shadows under his eyes, the way he kept checking over his shoulder. Maybe he’s changed. Maybe we both have.
The cement podcast drones on about curing times and compression strength. Outside, winter wind rattles the windows. I pull the comforter higher, creating a cocoon against the cold and my racing thoughts.
Five years since that championship night.
Five years of growth, therapy, learning to say no.
Building boundaries brick by brick, even if some days they still feel paper-thin.
Opening my practice, creating a life that accommodates my illness instead of fighting it.
Finding friends who understand that sometimes I have to cancel, that my energy is a limited resource, that I’m not faking or exaggerating when I say I can’t.
But lying here at one a.m. with Billy’s cologne still faintly in my nostrils and Oliver’s ghost filling my head, I wonder if I’ve really changed or just gotten better at avoiding situations that might require those boundaries. Is there a difference between being strong and just being protected?
The podcast host moves on to environmental impacts of cement production. My eyelids grow heavier but won’t quite close. This is the liminal space CFS creates—neither awake nor asleep, neither sick nor well, neither past nor present.
I think about Oliver’s hands, how they used to shake slightly after games from adrenaline. How he’d hold them out, watching the tremor with fascination and fear. “It’s like my body doesn’t know the game’s over,” he said once.
Maybe that’s what we were—two people whose bodies and minds couldn’t agree on what was real, what was over, what was worth fighting for.
The tree branches tap against the window like morse code. The cement podcast discusses load-bearing capacities. My phone sits silent on the nightstand.
And I lie here wondering: is there even the slightest possibility that, just maybe, right at this moment, he’s thinking about me?