Chapter 9 – Hannah
Chapter Nine
HANNAH
“ W hew.” The woman who has just selected a pair of crochet needles for her nephew’s birthday buttons up her jacket. “What a drop in temperature, hm?”
I force a smile as I ring her up. “Yeah, it’s pretty cold.”
Actually, it’s more like achingly cold. Painfully cold.
I’ve been feeling the quick change in temperatures since last night, when my joints started protesting. It was hard to get out of bed this morning, and after a long day of work, it’s hard to even remember the names of many of the skeins.
The math is pretty simple. A quick weather change equals aching joints, brain fog, and exhaustion. And if I don’t take it easy soon, I’ll be dealing with a serious flare-up.
Which would mean I’d need to shut the shop down for a day or more. Since Flick has a big order she needs to fulfill this week, I wouldn’t have anyone to cover for me for that long.
“Thank you.” I hand the woman her bag. “I hope he has a great birthday.”
“Thanks, sweetie. Take care.” She bustles out of the shop, and I glance at the clock on the wall.
The second I do, I wish I hadn’t. It’s two more hours until Flick comes in to close for me, and then I have my date with Michael.
Going out with him tonight is pushing it. I know that. Lately, though, he’s been the number one thing I think about, and I don’t want to miss any opportunities to spend time with him. Plus, I haven’t told him I have fibromyalgia, and I still haven’t figured out how to bring it up, so that’s another reason I don’t want to cancel.
It’s just all such a mess. I can’t close Knit Happens early, because that would alienate some of my customers, and I don’t want to miss tonight with Michael either. But if I push my limits and have a flare, everything will fall apart.
Once again, I’m stuck between a rock and a hard place, my condition forcing my life to a standstill.
Tears fill my eyes, and I curl my hands into fists. I quit wondering years ago why I received the random dice-roll that gave me this condition, but I’ve never stopped being angry. Never stopped imagining where I might be in life if chronic pain weren’t constantly in my way.
My cell rings, and I answer Flick’s call. “Hey.”
“What’s wrong?” she asks immediately.
I sigh and sit on the stool behind the counter. Damn, this woman is perceptive—and I was trying to sound chipper. “I’m just tired. The weather is not doing me any favors.”
“God, I’m so sorry.” There’s a pause. “Uh, hold on. I have to, um…”
“Flick?”
The only answer is the sound of vomiting.
“You okay?” I ask.
“Yeah. Fine.” Her voice is weak.
I frown. “Oh no. Are you sick?”
“It’s just a stomach bug. I’ll be okay.”
“You can’t come in and close.”
“No, no. I?—”
“Flick,” I say, voice hard. “I’ll close.”
“You’re not feeling well either.”
It’s true, and the thought of being here for four more hours makes me want to sob, but what else can I do? At the end of the day, I’m the only person who’s responsible for Knit Happens.
“Your date…”
“I’ll reschedule,” I say.
“No, you won’t. Hang tight, and I’ll call you right back.” She hangs up before I can answer.
Putting my phone down, I sigh. I should probably be going on a date just as much as I should be working all evening, but if Michael and I do something chill, like dinner or a movie, then I’ll be okay. Some warmth and sitting down will serve me well.
The minutes tick by while I do some light straightening up. The thought of wrapping my coat around myself and taking a nap on the floor is tempting, but if I do that, I might not wake up when a customer comes in.
Fifteen long, slow minutes pass, and I’m about to text Flick when the door opens. Maya and Alexis come in with a gust of wind, Alexis carrying a bag of to-go food.
“We’re here to close for you,” Maya announces.
My jaw drops. “What?”
Alexis puts the bag on the counter and takes off her coat. “We were having dinner down the street when Flick called.”
“But… That’s…” I can’t even formulate a full sentence. I barely know these women, and they’ve dropped what they’re doing to come and save my butt.
“We got this. Go home.” Maya pats my shoulder.
“Do we have this?” Alexis’s face scrunches. “I don’t even know the first thing about running a shop.”
“It’s pretty straightforward.” I blink back tears of gratitude. “You just need to know how to run the register. I’ll show you.”
Maya’s phone rings. “Oh. Hold on. It’s Flick.” She answers the FaceTime.
“Is she still there?” Flick asks right away.
“Me?” I look over Maya’s shoulder.
“Go!” Flick shoos me. “Get ready for your big night.”
“I need to show them?—”
“I’ll stay on the phone and show them everything they need to know. You need to rest for a while before you go out.”
Because I don’t want to have an argument, I just nod. “Thank you, guys. So much.”
“Anytime, girl.” Alexis gives me a hug.
After another round of thanks, I grab my things and head outside. It’s chilly, though not more than I can bear since I have my warm car and house waiting for me.
Once home in my little cottage, I skip taking a nap and jump right into getting ready. At this point, it makes more sense to keep going and not give my energy a chance to lag.
One quick shower and a makeup application later, I pull on wool leggings under my plaid skirt and pick out some earrings that go with the gold rim of my glasses. My head still feels heavy, and my whole body aches, but with the way my stomach is dancing, I hardly notice.
Stepping back, I inspect myself in the bedroom mirror—right as there’s a knock on the front door.
My heart leaping into my throat, I cross the living room, frowning at its condition. Both because I’ve been busy and not feeling great, the house could do with some tidying up. Unfolded laundry sits in a pile on the couch, and mail is spread across the coffee table.
With that in mind, I don’t open the door all the way.
“Hi.” I block Michael’s view of my messy house. I’m sure I’m about to say something else, but my mind just flatlines.
He’s not wearing anything special, and it’s not like he looks any different. Or does he? Because I don’t remember my knees becoming this gelatinous around him.
Is it his smell? Something different about the way he’s done his hair? Or am I just falling head over heels for this guy?
“Hey.” The soothing balm that is his deep voice washes away all worries about tonight. Just like that, I know everything will go well, simply because I’ll be with him. “You look great.”
“Oh. Thank you.” I smooth my skirt. “Let me just grab my stuff.”
Snatching my jacket and purse from their hooks, I step onto the little porch with its swinging bench and hedge that half hides the area from the street. The woman I rent from let the garden grow out of control while she was here, and I haven’t had the time or the green thumb to do anything about it.
Not that I mind. The whole spot has a magical, wild feel to it that tickles my heart.
“Where are we going?” I follow him into the gravel driveway, where he’s parked behind my car.
“It’s a surprise.” He opens the truck door for me, and my stomach drops.
Surprise.
Most people love that word, but not me. If I don’t know where we’re going, how will I know whether or not I have the tolerance for it? And if I don’t have the tolerance for it and I have a flare-up…
I work to get my breathing under control. “Great.”
He doesn’t seem to notice my discomfort, instead taking his place behind the wheel and drumming his fingers as he backs out of the driveway. “How was your day?”
My little porch becomes smaller. It’s not too late to say that I can’t go, that I’m not feeling well—not too late to make up some excuse about having to do paperwork for the shop or call my aunt.
I can’t tell him the truth. Not yet. There’s no such thing as a conversation where one person says, “Hey, I might be about to have a fibromyalgia flare,” and the second person goes, “Oh, really? You should stay home, then.” Most people don’t know what fibro is, and others have received all the information and still—somehow—think it’s not real. They think the people with it, like me, are being dramatic about the pain, that we’re making it up for attention and to get out of hard work.
I squeeze my eyes shut, nausea that has nothing to do with a flare rising in my chest. Michael isn’t like that. He’s nice. He’s considerate. He listens.
He would believe me.
Right?
I pop my eyes open. “It was good. How was yours?”
And there it goes; I’ve missed my chance to explain myself and escape a potentially bad situation. I’ve chosen how much I like this guy and fear over what he might say and think if I were to come clean. I’m betting on the chance that tonight will be easygoing and that I’ll return home no worse off than I am now.
“Nice,” he says. “It was a slow day at the firehouse.”
We make small talk about our jobs while he drives across the island. When he reaches the bridge and we enter the mainland, I’m still holding on to some hope. Maybe we’re just going to a restaurant over here.
But then he takes a left, and we drive down the coast, deeper and deeper into uncertainty. My stomach knots tighter, and my head starts spinning.
“Surprise.” Michael pulls up to a mini golf course.
“Oh. Wow. Cool.” I blink and do some quick calculations.
It’s about forty degrees out. The wind coming off the ocean blows straight onto the golf course. It’s a standing-only activity.
Yep. My odds aren’t good at all.
“Come on.” He leads me across the parking lot and to the short line to get clubs and balls. “Have you ever played?”
“It’s been years.” I do my best to sound as excited as he is. Maybe this won’t be as bad as I think. We’re just walking and standing around after all. It’s not like it’ll be physically challenging.
By the second hole, though, reality comes crashing in. Everyone else on the course looks perfectly comfy in this weather, but the chill has seeped into my bones, making me shiver. Fire sears through my joints, every cell in my body aches, and I’m so tired that if I sat down on the fake grass, I’d be asleep in seconds.
What’s happening isn’t foreign. If I don’t make it home and into bed within the hour, I’ll have a flare. All of my symptoms will get worse, and I’ll be stuck in bed for days, unable to sleep from the pain.
I have no choice. I need to tell Michael the truth.
The mere thought is a vise grip around my vocal cords. He looks so proud of himself for bringing me here, and I don’t want to rain on his parade. I also wanted to be ready for this conversation, to have a script prepared so that I can make it through without stuttering.
Because, truthfully, I’m terrified. What if he thinks I’m being dramatic? Or that fibromyalgia isn’t real?
Then again, is that someone I really want to be with? Isn’t it better to rip the Band-Aid off now and expose the truth, whatever it may be?
“Michael.” My voice shakes, and his name comes out in a partial croak.
“Uh-huh?” He turns away from where he’s about to take his first shot into the plastic alligator mouth. At the sight of my face, his eyebrows knit. “What’s wrong?”
I gulp, the shivers from the cold nothing compared to the trembling in my heart. Here goes nothing. “I need to tell you something. I have fibromyalgia. It’s a chronic condition.”
“Oh.” He blinks and turns more fully to face me. “Okay.”
His face is so warm, so receptive, it gives me the courage to go on. “It means pain in your muscles, ligaments, tendons. Fatigue. Headaches. Sensitivity to heat and…cold.” The last part is hard to say, because I can’t help but worry that it sounds like I’m calling him out for bringing me here—which, of course, I’m not.
His mouth drops open. “I see. Are you not feeling well? It’s cold out. Is this too cold for you?”
I bite my bottom lip. “I’m sorry. If I don’t go home and go to bed, I’ll have a flare right here on the golf course, which means you’ll probably need to half carry me to the truck, and then I’ll start crying in pain on the way home because just being on the highway will hurt so much, though it’ll be nothing like the potholes we’ll go over on the island…”
I suck in a deep breath. That was a lot, but I needed to get it all out before I lost my nerve and never gave myself the opportunity to do it again.
“Shit.” He takes my club from me. “I’m so sorry I brought you here.”
“No, it’s okay. You didn’t know. I—I didn’t tell you.” The tears are still threatening to spill over, tears of relief. He’s responding even better than I had hoped for.
Not only is he understanding, he’s concerned. Gentle.
“Here.” He takes off his coat and wraps it around me. “Sit on this bench over here while I bring the truck around.”
There’s not even time to thank him. He’s off at a jog, returning our clubs and balls and then hopping into the truck. The people playing around us don’t seem to notice anything is off, and thank God. There’s little that’s as embarrassing as this.
“Would you like me to carry you?” He gets down on one knee in front of the bench, a knight in shining armor.
As tempting as it is to be cradled against his strong chest, I also don’t want to be stared at. So I shake my head.
“I can walk, thanks.”
It’s like I’ve aged sixty years while sitting on the bench. My joints protest against the slightest movement, and I shuffle more than walk my way to the truck. Michael is there the whole time, his arm looped through mine, letting me lean on him.
At the passenger’s side door, the step leading up to the seat seems impossibly high. How can I even lift my foot that much?
“Here.” Michael hesitates, his arms held out. “May I?”
I nod, too weary to talk. With one smooth motion, he lifts me up and deposits me in the seat. If only I weren’t feeling so crummy, I could take the moment to enjoy being in his arms. Instead, the touch causes more pain, and I have to grit my teeth.
But at least the seat is warm, the hot air is blowing in my face. We take off down the highway, Michael driving maybe a little too fast.
“I’ll take the newer roads on the island,” he says. “Those don’t have as many potholes. And you can doze off if you need to.”
I nod, my eyelids already heavy, my head rolled to the side. “Thank you.”
Only my aunt and Flick have ever been this understanding and attentive to my needs, and that’s because they have front-row seats to what this condition is like. But Michael doesn’t know that much—at least, I don’t think he does—and he’s doing what I need anyway. He’s not asking questions. He’s not demanding proof.
“I can carry you in.” His voice breaks through the steady hum of the engine.
Opening my eyes, I see that we’re in front of my house. Being carried in would be amazing, but even with all the pain and fatigue, I can’t forget the mess that is my house. There could be a zombie apocalypse happening, and I would suggest we stay outside and take our chances rather than have him see my underwear on my bedroom floor and my dishes stacked in the sink.
One day, maybe I won’t care about that as much. One step at a time, though. Tonight, I showed him a big part of myself.
“I’ll walk you to the door, then.” He replies when I don’t immediately answer. He comes around to my side of the truck, helps me down, and then stays by my side the whole way to the front porch.
My hands tremble as I get my keys out, so he swipes them from my hands and opens the door. “Can I do anything for you? Bring you anything?”
“No, thank you. I’ll be okay.” I use the last of my energy to muster a smile—and it’s worth it. He smiles back softly, though there’s more concern there than anything else.
“Text or call if you need anything. I mean it. Even if it’s the middle of the night.” He leans forward and kisses me on the forehead. Warmth blossoms where his lips have touched, trickling down my head and neck and into my chest.
“Thank you again.” I step inside.
“Anytime, Hannah.” His gaze holds mine for a long moment. “It’s my pleasure.”
Closing the door, I stumble to my bedroom and collapse on the mattress. His kiss still lingers on my skin, a soft promise that he isn’t going anywhere, that he’s not afraid.
That truth is a warm ember I hold close to my heart as I close my eyes and drift off into nothingness.