Chapter 17
Chapter Seventeen
Devin
Lying on the couch, I scroll past another line of recommended movies, none of them catching my attention.
The remote feels heavier than it should in my hand, and even the simple motion of pressing buttons sends little aches through my fingers.
Action movies blur past—too loud. Rom-coms slide by—too cheerful.
Documentaries linger for a moment before I dismiss them—too much thinking required.
This is the worst part about flares: being bored but also too tired to do anything about it.
There are other letdowns, too—not being able to scrub the kitchen counters that definitely need it, or make that butternut squash soup I’d been planning all week.
The ingredients sit in my fridge, probably wondering why I bought them if I wasn’t going to use them.
Having to call in sick to the clinic weighs heaviest of all.
I have systems in place—the freezer stocked with meals I batch-cooked last month, and staff that can back me up without complaint—but I hate letting the clinic down. And especially the patients I had on the schedule for today.
Sighing, I give up on finding anything interesting to watch and put the remote down on the coffee table.
The glass surface shows my reflection—pale, drawn, shadows under my eyes that weren’t there yesterday.
The Chronic Pain Crafters meeting is in an hour, and for the first time, I’m debating not going.
My spine feels like it’s made of broken glass, and sitting up straight for more than five minutes sounds about as achievable as running a marathon.
I’m also lonely. The house feels too quiet, too still, like even the walls know something’s wrong. And spiraling—God, am I spiraling.
With no work to do, no patients to focus on, I’ve had plenty of time to lay here and think about last night’s kiss.
The way Oliver’s lips felt against mine, familiar yet different.
The heat of his hands on my waist. The panic that crashed over me like ice water.
I shouldn’t have made a move like that. My fingers unconsciously touch my lips.
If only I’d listened better to myself, to that little voice that whispered warnings, instead of convincing myself that I was a hundred percent in.
I let myself get swept up in the hope of things being perfect between me and Oliver, and it wasn’t until we were kissing, until his hands were pulling me closer and my heart was racing for all the wrong reasons, that I realized how terribly wrong all of this could go.
Are we even on the same page? Yes, we’ve talked about the past, acknowledged the hurt, apologized for things that maybe can’t really be apologized for, but so what?
If I fall for him—which I think I already have, if the way my chest aches has anything to say about it—and he’s not as serious, if this is just nostalgia or convenience for him, it’ll break me.
Not bend me, not bruise me. Break me. Into pieces I’m not sure I could put back together this time.
Tears fill my eyes, hot and unwelcome, and I pick my phone back up. The screen blurs until I blink the moisture away. I can’t spend the whole night moping like this. I’m going to the meeting, even if it means falling asleep on the cushions there. At least I won’t be alone.
Composing a group text, my fingers moving slowly across the screen, I tell the girls that I’m in the middle of a flare and would appreciate a ride to Knit Happens.
Maya responds almost immediately—three dots appearing, disappearing, then her message popping up, telling me that she’ll be over in forty-five minutes and asking if I need anything.
After letting her know that I’m good with the reheated pot roast I managed to warm up for dinner, I sink back into the cushions.
The worn fabric cradles my aching body. Making a decision, even this small one, feels good—or maybe it’s exhausting?
Either way, it allows me to rest until Maya arrives, to close my eyes without feeling like I should be doing something else.
But rest doesn’t come. Instead, I decide to do some more digging into Oliver’s injury since the only thing I can do is lie here and scroll on my phone.
The look on Oliver’s face when he saw Mark Bailey in the crowd is seared into my mind—that flash of something dark, dangerous even, before he shuttered it away.
And I swear I saw Bailey at the pizzeria when I first walked in last night, lurking near the bar.
Instead of searching Oliver’s name this time, I type “Mark Bailey hockey player” into the search bar. I vaguely remember him from when he and Oliver were on the same team, but I had so much going on at that time, I don’t remember many specific details.
The search results paint an ugly picture.
He’s still playing professional hockey, though for a different team now.
Multiple assault charges, bar fights, a current suspension for aggressive infractions, even some legal trouble.
The pattern is clear—Mark Bailey is a man who solves problems with his fists.
Was he bored during his suspension and decided to track Oliver down? The timing can’t be a coincidence.
I run out of time to speculate because Maya is knocking on the door, three soft taps that she always uses.
“Come in,” I call, my voice rough from disuse. I put away my phone and make a mental note to keep looking into this later.
Maya enters quietly, closing the door with care. Her soft smile lights up her whole face. “Hey. How are you feeling?”
I give her a thumbs up from my horizontal position, which makes her laugh. She already knows I feel like shit.
“I don’t think I can sit up straight,” I tell her. “But I’d like to try out reclined knitting. Could be a new trend.”
“Extreme horizontal crafting. I like it. Where’s your knitting bag?”
“I think it’s hanging on my bedroom closet handle. The blue one with the sheep pattern.”
She gathers my things for me—knitting bag, winter coat, purse, and shoes that she helps me slip on without making me bend. Then she reclines the passenger’s seat in her car when we get outside so that I can lie back on our drive downtown.
“You’re the best,” I whisper as I settle in.
“I know,” she says with a wink, adjusting the heat vents away from my face.
The simple gestures—the reclined seat, the gentle way she tucks my seatbelt, the travel pillow she produces from her backseat—bring fresh tears to my eyes.
“Have you seen Oliver lately?” Maya asks as she pulls out of my neighborhood. Her tone is carefully casual.
I suck in a sharp breath. “Last night. We met at the pizzeria and I—I kissed him and then freaked out.” I shake my head against the headrest. “I ran off and then, this morning, the flare started. Zero to sixty, just like that.”
“You think those two things are connected? The panic and the flare?”
“Yeah. I haven’t had a flare in four months.”
“Okay, but correlation isn’t causation and all that.”
I twist my lips. “I dunno. Seems pretty clear to me.”
“Why did you leave?”
I swallow hard. “I don’t know. I wanted it. I was the one who kissed him, and then it was getting hot and heavy and I just felt panic. I couldn’t even think straight. I had to get out of there.”
“I’m sorry,” she murmurs, her hand briefly squeezing mine. “Have you talked to him since then?”
“No,” I whisper to the window. That’s the part that hurts the most. He hasn’t called or texted. And even though I’ve wanted to talk to him, have typed out a dozen messages I’ve deleted, I don’t know what to say.
“How was your day?” I ask, trying to change the subject. I would much rather hear someone talk about what they have going on. It spares me from a few minutes of dwelling on the last twenty-four hours.
Maya tells me about how she’s going over ceramics with her elementary school students, and how she’d like to have Hannah back to teach knitting classes. Her voice is warm and familiar, and combined with the fatigue, it lures my eyes closed.
Just as I’m drifting off, the car stops. Time to go into the meeting.
My limbs heavy, I drag my feet across the sidewalk.
Each step requires conscious thought. Flick, Alexis, and Hannah are already there, visible through Knit Happens’ front window.
When Maya and I walk through the door—the bell chiming—I don’t even have to force a smile.
It comes naturally. It’s that good to see my friends.
“Here.” Hannah straightens up from where she’s arranging colorful cushions on the floor. “I made you a spot to lie down on. Got the good cushions from the back room.”
“Thank you,” I say in relief. This is why I came, even though I don’t feel well. I need to be around people who get me.
I nearly collapse on the cushions. My friends fret over me for a bit—Flick brings peppermint tea, Alexis adjusts pillows, Hannah spreads a lavender-scented blanket over my legs. After insisting for the third time that I’m cozy, everyone settles into their places.
“Let me know at any time if you want to go home.” Maya is already crocheting something that might be an octopus. “I mean it. Any time.”
“I’m good. Thank you. Really.”
“How was your date?” Hannah’s fingers fly through complicated cables. Then she freezes, pressing her lips together hard. “Oh shit. I mean—”
“You had a date?” Alexis whoops, nearly dropping her needles. “Spill! Everything!”
Hannah cringes and mouths “sorry” at me.
“It’s okay,” I tell her, then take a breath that makes my ribs protest. “It was with Oliver.”
The room goes quiet. Alexis’s brow furrows. “Your ex, Oliver? Hockey player Oliver?”
“Wow,” Flick says, not looking up but her tone dripping judgment. “Must be slim pickings out there.”
Their responses aren’t surprising. All they know about Oliver is what I’ve told them of our past, and none of it is good.
The judgement, making me feel small, the games that always came first, the way he’d shut down instead of talking.
I never told them about the coffee exactly how I liked it, the notes on my windshield, how he made me laugh until my sides hurt.
I tell the story to the best of my fatigue-brained ability.
Running into each other at the pizzeria weeks ago—how he looked different, softer.
Showing up at the clinic with donuts, the banana bread at the rink.
The game last night, meeting for drinks to celebrate last night’s win.
My kissing him then fleeing. I expect hurt about keeping this secret, but if they feel it, it takes a back seat to other concerns.
“People do change…” The ‘but’ is evident in Flick’s voice. “Is it possible you’re going back to Oliver because he’s familiar? Like comfort food? And that’s why you panicked—because your gut knows this isn’t right?”
I start to answer, realize I don’t know what to say, and close my mouth hard. Shit. Is that possible?
Alexis looks equally worried. “This sounds stressful as hell.”
“It is,” I sigh.
“Look.” She puts down her knitting entirely and leans forward. “From where I’m sitting, this is heading straight for on-again, off-again territory. The kind where you never know if you’re together or broken up or what. Do you really need that right now?”
“No.” My heart cracks a little.
The last seven months have been an uphill climb.
Learning which medications work, which foods trigger flares, how much activity is too much.
I’ve restructured my hours at work, added breaks, and those changes come with costs.
My staff has their own lives, their own limits.
I’m afraid I’m already pushing everyone to their breaking point, all in an effort to sustain my dreams.
I lower my eyes to the blanket. What my friends are saying lands hard.
What if Alexis is right? What if this relationship, with all its history and baggage, is the thing that finally tips me over?
Maybe deep down I already knew that, and it’s why I panicked.
Maybe my body was protecting me from something my heart wasn’t ready to see.
“Devin knows Oliver,” Hannah suddenly says, her voice cutting through my spiral. “If she thinks he’s worth another chance, then I trust her judgment. She’s not naive or desperate.”
Alexis’s skepticism is written all over her face. Flick suddenly finds her stitch count fascinating. Maya offers me a comforting smile tinged with concern. I’m even more confused than before.
“Thank you,” I tell Hannah, still not sure which road I’ll choose.
Things have never been simple with Oliver.
From the beginning—him traveling, me buried in textbooks, both building demanding careers.
While I want to take a chance on him, believe in the changes I’ve seen, I might not have the strength left.
My reserves are already depleted. Even if we start dating, will I ever feel safe?
Will I ever not be holding my breath, waiting for him to choose hockey over me again, even though he’s retired?
Waiting for him to shut down when things get hard?
I don’t know, but I also can’t sit on this decision forever. I need to make a choice before life makes the choice for me.