Chapter 19 #2
“I have this family trip coming up,” I say, choosing the safer topic.
“It’s an annual skiing trip, every year since I was twelve.
This year it feels more burdensome than fun.
Like something to survive rather than enjoy.
I’m doing good. I’m managing my symptoms, taking all my medications on schedule.
I only had that one flare last week. I haven’t fainted, haven’t had to use my emergency medications.
I’m concerned that going on this trip will change all of that.
Undo all my progress. It’s a long plane flight, and then I have to take a car for two hours to the cabin through mountain roads that make me carsick on a good day. .. then back again a few days later.”
These things might sound easy and simple to most people—just traveling, just a family vacation—but if I’m on the edge of a flare they will become nearly impossible. The altitude change alone could trigger symptoms, not to mention the stress of being around my family.
“I’m thinking maybe I shouldn’t go,” I add, hearing the hope in my own voice. “I don’t want to risk my health for it.”
He nods in understanding, but I can already see where this is going.
“As long as you’re following your care routine, you should be fine to fly.
Remember to get up and walk every hour, compression socks for the flight.
And getting out in nature is always a good thing for mental health.
Plus skiing is a great low-impact exercise, as long as you stick to the easier slopes. ”
My heart sinks like a stone in water, and at first I don’t understand why.
Then it hits me with startling clarity: I wanted him to tell me not to go on the trip.
To give me a medical excuse, doctor’s orders.
To tell me not to see my sister and the rest of my family.
To hand me a get-out-of-jail-free card that no one could argue with.
The further I progress with Oliver, the bigger the secret I’m keeping from my family becomes.
It’s not just a little omission anymore—it’s a growing, breathing thing that takes up space in every conversation.
The guilt is already gnawing at the corners of my heart like a persistent mouse.
Once I see them in person, once I’m sitting across from my sister at dinner or next to my mother by the fireplace, it’ll become too massive to keep in. I’ll explode from the agony of it.
The rest of the checkup continues smoothly, Doctor Warner checking my blood pressure—slightly elevated but within normal range—and reviewing my medication list, suggesting we might try a different sleep aid if the insomnia continues.
Only ten minutes later Maya and I are walking out of the clinic and into a light late-afternoon snowfall that makes the world look like a snow globe.
“Why don’t you want to go on the ski trip?” She asks once we’re past the automatic doors, our boots crunching in the fresh accumulation.
I wait until we’re in the car, heat on full blast, the windows already starting to fog, to answer. The steering wheel is cold under my hands despite my gloves.
“I still haven’t told them about Oliver.”
“Ah.” She stares out the windshield at the snow beginning to accumulate on the hood. “You could cancel.”
“I know.” I drop my forehead against the steering wheel, feeling the cold seep through my skin. “But it’s complicated. It’s hard for us to find time together. Everyone is so busy with their own lives. If I cancel, no matter what excuse I give, I’ll never hear the end of it. It’s easier to just go.”
“Is it?” Her nose wrinkles the way it does when she’s about to drop some truth on me. “Is it really easier?”
“Yes.” Isn’t that what I just said?
“How long are you planning on keeping Oliver a secret from your family?”
“Uh...” The question hangs in the warming air of the car.
“What if you two get back together? What if you get married? What if you have kids? Are you planning to hide an entire human from them?”
“Okay, that’s a little over the top,” I argue, even though my heart does this stupid, hopeful flutter at the thought of Oliver in a suit, waiting at the end of an aisle.
“Seriously, Devin. When? Give me a timeline.”
I frown at my lap, at my hands still in their wool gloves. “I don’t know. I guess I’m hoping they would just find out after seeing a picture of us online or something or hearing about it from someone else.”
“And how would they react to that?”
“Poorly.” I look at her, see the concern written in the lines around her eyes. “But they would react poorly to anything involving Oliver. There’s no good way to tell them.”
“And you can’t control that.” She takes off her beanie and fluffs her dark hair, static making some strands stand up. “I love you, so what I’m about to tell you is positive criticism. The kind that comes from years of friendship and watching you do this to yourself.”
“Hit me with it.” I brace myself anyway, gripping the steering wheel harder.
“You’re avoidant when it comes to conflict.
Not even conflict, really. Any conversation that’s hard.
Any conversation where someone might be disappointed or angry or hurt.
I think that’s why you ran away after you kissed Oliver.
You knew that it would lead to you two having a talk about your relationship—about what you are to each other now, about the past, about the future—and that would be hard, so you fled.
You do the same thing with your family. You push conversations to the side because they’re tough, create elaborate ways to avoid them, hoping that they’ll go away.
But it doesn’t work, though. If you want something in your life to change, you have to speak up.
People can’t read your mind, no matter how much you wish they could. ”
I grip the steering wheel like it might save me from the harsh truth, but of course it doesn’t. The leather is warming under my palms, and Maya is right.
“I know,” I murmur, the words barely audible over the heater’s fan.
“And that was the part I had to play in mine and Oliver’s relationship ending.
I never set boundaries. I never said ‘that hurts me’ or ‘I need this from you.’ I don’t remember ever telling him the way he treated me was wrong.
For all I know, he thought I appreciated him being tough on me.
Thought that’s what I wanted from him—that stone wall, that impenetrable strength. ”
Her expression turns to one of sympathy, the kind that makes my eyes sting. “Do you really want to keep living that way?” She asks softly.
I stare out at the falling snow collecting on the hood of my car, each flake unique and perfect and melting the moment it lands on the warm metal. No. I definitely don’t.
It’s scary to think about those hard conversations—with Oliver about us, about what went wrong and what could go right; with my family about my choices, about my right to make them—but maybe real peace is on the other side of them.
Maybe there’s a version of me waiting there who doesn’t tie herself in knots to avoid disappointing anyone.
And I can’t wait until I feel brave enough to go.
I just need to take the leap and hope I don’t fall flat on my face.