5. Flick
Flick
“Be a good kitty.” I pause at the front door, second-guessing leaving the house. What if Cat chases a toy under the bookcase and gets stuck? What if she knocks something off a shelf and onto her tail? What if...
“Stop it.” I say out loud, shaking my head at the spiraling thoughts.
What is wrong with me? I can’t stop living my life because of this kitten. I have a Chronic Pain Crafters meetup to get to and I’m already running late—and then a date with Sebastian after that.
“You’re not turning my life upside down,” I tell the kitten. “No way.”
With that, I promptly close the door and head out into the late afternoon.
A gentle breeze tickles my face, and I breathe in the roses growing in Mr. Paxton’s yard.
Kids play hockey in the street, and Mrs. Jensen and Mrs. Polly sit on Mrs. Polly’s porch drinking tea and sharing daily gossip.
It’s almost too idyllic to be real, and I can’t help the smile that spreads across my face as I walk down the street.
I love this quaint community. It’s a little slice of heaven on an island.
Or maybe that’s just how I’m seeing things lately.
The last three days, I’ve felt like I’ve been walking on air and wearing a constant smile.
Though Sebastian only left me with a couple of kisses and leftover pizza, we’ve been texting constantly every day, and tonight, our schedules finally align. We’re going on our first date.
Grinning to myself, I take the shortcut through the laundromat parking lot and then zip down an alleyway. It deposits me right in downtown, where I jog across the street to Knit Happens.
The bell above Knit Happens’ door chimes as I push inside, fifteen minutes late. My hands still ache from this morning’s dyeing session—I pushed through three custom orders despite the warning twinges in my knuckles. The familiar scent of wool and lavender sachets wraps around me like a hug.
It’s my haven, a place where understanding and support reign. Even though we’ve only been gathering for half a year, these women feel like my soul sisters in a way I can’t fully put into words.
“There she is!” Alexis looks up from her crochet hook, silver bangles jangling. “We heard about you and the hunky vet.”
“What?” I nearly drop my bag. I haven’t even told Hannah about Sebastian yet; I wanted to wait until we were face-to-face.
Hannah laughs and shakes her head. “Pine Island.”
I roll my eyes and sigh. Yeah. That sounds about right. This entire town is one huge gossip hub. There’s always someone watching, waiting to pass on juicy tidbits whether you want them to or not. Absolutely nothing stays private here.
“So, what’s going on?” Maya asks, eyes big. “How long have you been seeing each other? How come you didn’t tell us about him?”
Hannah and I exchange a knowing look. Even if I had been seeing Sebastian for a while, I might not have brought him up in a crafting session right away. It’s been years since a man was a permanent fixture in my life, and that’s by my own design.
“Spill,” Devin demands, patting the cushion beside her. “Every detail.”
“We haven’t even had an official date. He brought over some supplies for the kitten and stayed for pizza, which was completely unplanned. We’re going out tonight.”
I walk over to the tea station and select chamomile then switch to green instead. Need caffeine for tonight. For Sebastian. My stomach does that annoying flutter thing.
“How do you all even know about this?” I sink onto the floor cushion, legs protesting the movement.
“Cynthia saw you walking into the vet the other morning when she was driving to school.” Hannah looks up from her knitting project, and I catch a brief look of hurt flash across her face.
“And then Rach—her cousin works with Cynthia—said it was a complete meet-cute between you and Sebastian,” May adds with a grin.
“And who is Rach?” I glance around at all the smiling faces, my head spinning.
“A tech at the vet’s,” Devin says, matter-of-fact. “She’s a good friend of Sebastian’s. Says he’s a great guy.”
“Ah.” I nod. “Got it.” The lady with the burgundy-streaked hair sitting behind the counter.
“Did you find the kitten a home yet?” Hannah’s subject change feels like a life raft.
“You want her? Though Barkley might use her as a chew toy.”
“Pass.” She laughs, but it sounds forced.
“Good point.” I nod, avoiding her gaze, feeling bad that I sent her a picture of the kitten but didn’t mention Sebastian. And now here we are, with everyone already knowing, when I had hoped to get here early and talk to her privately about him first.
I’m sure she understands, though. Ever since she and Michael got together, her life has been extra busy. Albeit, in a way very different from mine. Now, she has family dinners, school pickups to grab Michael’s daughter, Katie, and a new puppy that needs walks three times a day.
With her family life taking up so much time, I haven’t felt guilty about accepting extra orders or staying home to live stream on the nights when Hannah and I used to “stitch and bitch”—as we called it—at her old house.
Now, though, I wonder if I’ve been spending too much time focusing on my own stuff.
A stab of guilt hits as I realize how out of touch I suddenly am with my best friend.
“This is the first date you’ve been on in a while, right?” Devin sips her tea, her brown eyes sparkling with excitement.
“Yeah. It is.”
“You must really like him.”
I start to smile—but then feel unexpectedly worried. Yes, I like Sebastian a lot, and he seems to really like me too… But is that a problem? Is it too fast?
I haven’t dated much recently for several reasons.
I’ve been busy trying to grow my business; I have several projects going right now.
Then there’s my health and always trying to stay at least one step in front of a flare.
The new diagnosis, though, hopefully temporary.
Old insecurities rearing their ugly heads. ..
“Does anyone know anything about him?” I look around the group.
“He was married,” Devin offers, like she’s presenting evidence. “Divorced around five years ago, I think. Rach says he hasn’t dated anyone seriously since.”
The information settles heavy in my chest. A relationship guy.
The kind who probably wants Sunday mornings and shared Netflix passwords and all the things I swore off after David.
After discovering that “working late” meant working late with Melissa from accounting.
On his desk. Which I’d helped him pick out at IKEA.
“Does anyone know what happened? With the divorce?” The question escapes before I can stop it.
“Not specifics. But it amicable, apparently. They’re still friends.” Alexis’s knowing look makes me squirm. “You’re worried he wants something serious.”
Yes. No. Maybe. My chest tightens—just anxiety, not the other thing. “I like my life how it is. Busy. Uncomplicated.”
“Honey, with all your work, and now a kitten,” Maya says gently, “your life is anything but uncomplicated.”
She’s right. Between the streaming schedule, the Etsy orders, the shifts here, doctor appointments I pretend are just routine checkups.
.. When would I even fit in a relationship?
And when he realizes what dating someone with chronic illness really means—the canceled plans, the bad days, the medication schedules—he’ll leave anyway. They always do.
My phone buzzes. Sebastian:
Looking forward to tonight. See you at 7:30.
That flutter again, stronger this time.
Me too. See you then.
“That smile says everything,” Devin sing-songs. “You’re already gone for him.”
“I’m not—” Pain lances through my chest, sharp enough to steal my words. The room tilts. I grip the cushion, forcing my breathing to stay normal. Not here. Not now.
“Flick?” Hannah’s voice sounds distant.
“Just thinking about which project to work on.” The lie tastes bitter. I fumble for my knitting bag, pulling out the green mohair blend I’ve been avoiding. My hands shake slightly as I cast on.
Slowly, the pain subsides, leaving me feeling weak. The others don’t seem to have noticed. Alexis is in the middle of talking about the last review she wrote for her paper on a new seafood restaurant across the bridge in Portsmouth.
Steadying myself, I get more comfortable on the cushion in case another bout of pain hits. A heating pad on my chest would be nice right about now, but I’ll just need to wait until I get home.
None of the girls knows about the pericarditis diagnosis. And why should they? It’s only been flaring up occasionally, when I’ve exerted my chest muscles doing extra dyeing. It’s not like it’s a daily problem.
Even though, according to my doctor, it could turn into that.
I’ve been advised to take it easy, not to engage in tasks that work my chest too much. Honestly, though, that’s unrealistic. I have to go about my life, rheumatoid arthritis and pericarditis or not.
Hannah’s watching me with that look—the one that sees through every deflection. Once, I would have told her everything. The diagnosis. The fear that grips me at 2 AM when I research survival rates. The way Sebastian makes me want impossible things.
“You sure you’re okay?” She leans forward, and for a moment I almost break.
“I’m fine.” The smile feels like plastic on my face. “Just thinking about some orders I need to work on.”
She doesn’t believe me. I can see it in the way her lips compress, the little furrow between her brows. But she lets it go, turning back to her intricate cable pattern.
The conversation flows around me—Mrs. Chester’s new grandchild, the price increase on merino wool, whether the new bakery’s croissants are worth the hype. Normal things. Safe things. Things that don’t involve admitting I’m terrified of what’s happening to my body. Or my heart.
“Sooo, Sebastian,” Devin presses, clearly not done with the interrogation. “Scale of one to ten?”
“Eleven,” I admit before I can stop myself. “Maybe twelve.”
They squeal like teenagers. Even Hannah cracks a genuine smile.
“Details,” Maya demands. “Hair? Eyes? Does he have that sexy veterinarian thing where they’re super gentle but also strong?”
“Dark hair that does this thing where it falls across his forehead.” My fingers itch to brush it back. “Blue eyes. Like, unfairly blue. And he has this way of focusing completely on whatever he’s doing—whether it’s examining a kitten or untangling yarn.”
“Yarn?” Alexis perks up.
The memory warms me from inside. “Cat got into my chenille stash. He spent two hours helping me untangle it. Said it was relaxing.”
“Marry him,” Devin declares. “Immediately.”
“We haven’t even—” Another chest pain, sharper. I cover it by dropping a stitch and swearing creatively.
“Language,” Hannah teases, but her eyes stay worried.
I focus on fixing the mistake, counting stitches like prayer beads. The pain recedes to a dull ache. Manageable. Everything is manageable if you just push through.
Guilt, though. Guilt is something else entirely. I don’t like lying to my friends, especially Hannah. We’ve already been through so much together and I feel like I’m letting her and our friendship down by keeping this to myself.
I know if I shared the pericarditis diagnosis with the others, they would be nothing but supportive and sympathetic.
They would understand completely. That’s what this group was founded for after all.
We’re the Chronic Pain Crafters, here to support one another through the ups and downs of living life with chronic conditions.
Conditions that are sometimes silent, conditions that come with challenges and emotional upheavals that many people, even those closest to us, can’t understand.
I also know that they’d do their own research. They would find out just how painful it is, how much worse it can get, how it can even lead to the heart not functioning properly. And, being my friends, they would encourage me to cut back on work.
That’s not something I can do.
Rheumatoid arthritis has already taken so much from me. Adding this new diagnosis, temporary or permanent, I can’t let this take anything else.
My phone buzzes again. This time it’s an Instagram notification.
@JustRaveled1018 has liked seventeen posts in the last hour.
All of them. Every single post from the last week.
The username seems familiar, but I can’t place it.
Probably just an enthusiastic follower. I’ve been getting more of those lately.
“Earth to Flick.” Maya waves a hand in front of my face. “Where’d you go?”
“Sorry. Thinking about my streaming schedule.” Another lie. They’re getting easier.
“You work too much,” Hannah says quietly. It’s an old argument, worn smooth with repetition.
“Bills don’t pay themselves.” Neither does specialized healthcare. Or the medications that keep me functional. Or the emergency fund I’m building for when—if—things get worse.
“Sebastian owns his practice,” Alexis offers. “Plus he does emergency clinic shifts. Bet he understands the hustle.”
Too well, maybe. What happens when two workaholics try to date? When neither has time for those Sunday mornings and shared passwords?
“I should go.” I pack up my project, movements careful. The last thing I need is them seeing how stiff my hands have gotten.
“Now?” Hannah asks, concern in her voice. “You’ve only been here about thirty minutes.”
“I know. I need to get ready for my date, though.”
“The date!” Maya claps. “What are you wearing?”
“Clothes?” I haven’t thought that far ahead. Most of my wardrobe involves dye stains and comfortable shoes.
“I have a sweater,” Hannah offers. “That blue one you borrowed for the craft fair? It’s in my car.”
The olive branch hangs between us. I take it gratefully. “That would be perfect. Thank you.”
We walk out together, the others calling good luck wishes after us. Hannah’s quiet until we reach her sensible mom-car, complete with dog hair and Katie’s soccer gear.
“Flick.” She hands me the sweater, soft cashmere that probably costs more than my monthly streaming income. “Whatever’s going on—you know you can tell me, right?”
My throat closes. “I know.”
“Is it Sebastian? Are you scared?”
Yes. But not the way she thinks. I’m scared of wanting this. Scared of what happens when he realizes I’m not the spontaneous, carefree artist he thinks I am. When he sees the pill organizers and heating pads and the way I map my days around energy levels.
“I just don’t want to mess it up,” I say, which is true enough.
She hugs me, careful not to squeeze too tight. She remembers the bad days, even if she doesn’t know about the new diagnosis. “You deserve good things, Flick. Even if they’re scary.”
“So do you.”
“I have them.” She pulls back, gesturing at the soccer gear and dog hair. “Now it’s your turn.”