9. Flick
Flick
What about this? Is this better?
A moment later, a photo arrives of Sebastian holding two puppies in his hands. He’s in one of the exam rooms at work, dark stubble dotting his face and wearing that expression that makes my pulse race.
Heat rolls through my body, and I shift uncomfortably on the hard waiting room chair.
Tease.
The little dots bounce as I wait for his response.
Can I see you tonight?
I bite my lip, considering.
It’s been two days since our date in the supplies shed, and in between working and beating back a flare, I’ve been thinking about him constantly. Maybe too much.
Usually, even with the hottest guys, I’m over them after a week.
And maybe that’s because I don’t entertain the possibility of anything more.
From the beginning, I’m clear with myself about what things will be—a fling, nothing more.
With Sebastian, though, it’s different. My body and heart don’t seem to have gotten the message.
He’s unexpectedly burrowed his way into my life. No warning. No explanation. He’s just there all the time, in between my every other thought. Like a splinter I can’t remove, except one that feels good. Too good.
And it’s terrifying.
Because what happens when people get too close? They see too much. They want to fix you. Or worse—they leave when they realize you can’t be fixed.
“Flick.”
I startle and put my phone down so I can follow the nurse back to see my rheumatologist, but it’s not someone in scrubs with a clipboard who’s called my name. It’s Hannah, in a crocheted dress and carrying a Knit Happens tote bag.
I blink at her, confused. “Hey.”
That’s right. She told me she also had an appointment today. Not with my rheumatologist, of course, but an appointment related to her fibromyalgia. And since this is a clinic that houses multiple specialists, I should have expected to see her here. Shit.
“I didn’t know you had an appointment today.” She takes the seat next to me and pushes her gold-rimmed glasses up her nose.
“Oh yeah. I forgot about it, and then it popped up on my calendar.”
It feels beyond awful to lie to my best friend, but she doesn’t know about the pericarditis. And for a reason.
Inflammation around your heart is scary stuff.
Serious stuff that can even lead to, one day, deadly stuff.
For one thing, I can’t take people feeling sorry for me.
The way their faces change, their voices soften.
Like you’re suddenly made of glass. And I also can’t make the lifestyle changes that Hannah would urge me to.
Not with my business and everything else I need to get done.
“Are you okay?” She cocks her head, studying me.
“Fine.” I work up a smile. “Just feeling kind of nervous about the most recent blood tests. I haven’t gotten the results yet.”
“I’m sure it’ll be fine. What are those tests for?”
My mind goes blank. It takes all my effort to get the wheels turning again, and once they do Not pericarditis is the only response rolling around in my head.
“Uh... inflammation markers. Making sure the meds are still working.”
A door to the exam areas opens. “Hannah?”
I almost sigh in relief. Saved in the nick of time.
Hannah picks up her bag. “Text me when you’re out? Let me know how it goes?”
I unstick my tongue from the roof of my mouth. “Of course.”
There’s little time to sit in my guilt, because my own nurse comes to call me back. For a few minutes, I’m lost in the distractions of weight and blood-pressure taking, and by the time I’m seated again and waiting for the doctor, I have a new perspective.
It’s very possible that the pericarditis is on its way out. Which means, soon, it won’t be affecting me anymore. And if it’s no longer affecting me, I don’t need to tell Hannah about it.
And why worry her anyway? She already has enough on her plate.
So, will it really be that bad if I tell her a white lie, like how this appointment is to have some new swelling in my fingers checked? Or will I be doing her and our friendship a disservice?
And—bonus—since the swelling doesn’t actually exist, I can tell Hannah it was temporary. There won’t be anything new about me for her to notice and nothing for her to mention to our friends.
It’s an intricate web I’ve woven; I’m aware of that. And yes, it makes me feel like shit.
But what else am I supposed to do?
There’s a knock on the door, and Dr. Barnes comes in.
“Hey, Flick.” She smiles warmly. “How are you? How’s the yarn-dyeing business going?”
“Great, thanks.” I sit straighter, trying to ignore the way my heart rate is picking up.
Dr. Barnes takes a seat on the rolling stool. “So. Your inflammation markers are still raised. How is the pain? Is it still at the same level?”
“Yes,” I bite out, hating that has to be my answer.
She nods sympathetically. “Okay, so with the two of these circumstances combined, it’s a sign that the colchicine hasn’t done the job that we hoped it would. I’d like to try steroids.”
I suck in a sharp breath. Damn it.
This is what I’ve been afraid of but was trying not to think too much about. Anytime I’ve taken steroids, I’ve had terrible reactions. The brain fog. The mood swings. The way I can’t remember which orders I’ve filled or what colors I was working with.
“O-kay. Um.” I choose my words carefully. “I’d like to put off trying steroids for now. They’ve always given me anxiety and depression, and it’s hard to remember things when I’m on them.”
And how can I live my life with those sorts of symptoms? It’s a catch-22. When I’m that depressed, I can’t motivate myself to do the things that manage my joint pain, like exercise. And my work inevitably ends up taking a hit as well.
And how am I supposed to keep paying for my expensive insurance when I can’t fulfill my yarn orders? The insurance that I need to afford health care in the first place!
It’s not fair. Things are just starting to take off for me. My Twitch and YouTube followings are growing, and I have booths at three yarn conferences over the next two months. Everything is exploding, and this is the worst possible time for this to happen.
Taking a deep breath, I steady myself. “Is there anything else we can try?”
The look on her face isn’t a hopeful one. “The only other options available would be third-line treatments, like azathioprine.”
I tense. “I tried that years ago. The side effects were also... I wasn’t myself. I was nauseous all the time, and...” I trail off, feeling like it’s pointless to go on.
No matter what I try, no matter what I do—this treatment, that treatment, no treatment at all—this condition will steal the life I had planned for myself. Every. Single. Time.
“I understand,” Dr. Barnes says. “And I know it’s hard to hear, but with chronic conditions, sometimes we have to make adjustments that we didn’t plan on. If you don’t take the treatments, the pericarditis could turn chronic itself and possibly require surgery.”
I chew on the inside of my cheek. Yes, I know all of this. I’ve researched this condition until my thumbs were sore from swiping. I understand how serious it can become. And it’s not that I’m against treatment.
I’m just angry. So angry that I want to cry. So angry that I want to throw my chair across the room. So angry that I want everyone to listen, to understand—while at the same time, I want them all to go away so I can put my head in the sand without judgment.
A long silence stretches on, while my doctor patiently watches me. I know she’s probably thinking about all the other patients she has to get to, though—patients who are eager to be treated, who aren’t going to push back against her recommendations like I am.
“I’ll take the steroid prescription,” I say.
Why does the statement feel like such a nail in the coffin? I can stop taking the steroids any time I want.
And then what?
Take the azathioprine, so I can be nauseous all day long?
Dr. Barnes nods. “Same pharmacy?”
“Yeah,” I answer with a dry mouth. “Thank you.”
My body feels numb as I walk out of the office and get into my car.
I wish I had my best friend to talk to. Hannah would understand.
She’d listen to me and let me vent my frustrations over everything.
Then I have to remind myself that I’m lying to her and she doesn’t even know.
Now I feel worse for an entirely different reason.
At the pharmacy, I’m on autopilot. I grab my prescription, walk to the snack aisle for a thirty-two-ounce can of Arnold Palmer and the biggest bag of barbecue chips they have—Family Size—then get back into my car to be that sad person eating their comfort junk food in a drugstore parking lot.
I sigh and lean my head on the steering wheel. Hannah comes to mind again. I need to text her like I said I would, but my mind is so overloaded, what would I even say?
Instead, when I pick up my phone, I end up on YouTube, watching a video of someone teaching double and triple crochet stitches. Seeing the crochet hooks moving calms my brain, and for the first time all afternoon, the tension in my shoulders relaxes.
And yet, things still aren’t right. Nothing is right when, at any moment, a flare or a bad reaction to medicine could undermine everything I’ve been working toward. I’m walking on this high wire, holding my breath with every step, trying to race to the other side before I fall.
Tears fill my eyes, and I blink them away. No. I won’t be the sad person eating junk food and crying in the parking lot. Despite my troubles, I do have some pride.
But the crochet videos, usually my biggest comfort, aren’t helping like they usually do. The more I think, the more tension comes back.
I could call Hannah and tell her the truth. Or I could call my grandma. But even though I’m closer to her than my parents, she also doesn’t know about the pericarditis.
It’s me. I’m the only one who knows. Well, me and my doctor.
And that suddenly makes me feel the loneliest I ever have.
Letting out a long breath, I pick my phone back up. There’s only one person I want to talk to right now.
It doesn’t make a lot of sense. We barely know each other, and there’s no way I’ll tell him about the pericarditis. So, it’s not like I’m calling him to spill everything.
I want his presence, though. His comfort. Just to see him, even.
The phone only rings once. “Hello?” Sebastian answers, his voice a soothing balm.
“Hey.” I hate how my own voice cracks. “Sorry I didn’t respond to your text earlier. Would you...would you like to come over to my place for dinner tonight?”
“I’d love to,” he says, and I swear I hear his smile.
“Awesome.” Already, I feel a little better.
Tonight, I won’t be someone struggling with chronic illness. I won’t be a woman racing against the clock, always trying to live out my full potential before my last day. I’ll just be a girl who likes a guy.
It will be simple. Easy. The definition of Sebastian and me.
To pass the time until Sebastian arrives, I decide to start dyeing another batch of yarn.
The late afternoon sun filters through my kitchen window as I stir a fresh pot of dye.
The smell of vinegar and warm water fills the air, familiar and comforting.
Sharp and clean, like possibility itself.
A new batch of pastel yarns sits on the counter, waiting for their turn.
The wooden spoon moves through the water in slow circles, the motion meditative. I’ve done this so many times my hands know the rhythm without thinking. Stir, wait, watch the steam rise. The wool soaks up the heat, fibers opening to accept the color that’s coming.
My phone buzzes on the table, and I glance at it absently, expecting another Etsy notification. Instead, it’s another DM on Instagram from @JustRaveled1018.
JustRaveled1018: “Those cotton-candy skeins are stunning! Can’t wait to see them in person. You always work magic in the kitchen. :)”
I freeze. My pulse picks up, and my breath catches in my throat.
In person? My kitchen isn’t visible in any of my recent posts or streams. How would they know I’m working here right now?
Setting my spoon down, I check my windows, suddenly hyper-aware of how exposed the kitchen feels.
The curtain above the sink is half-open, offering a clear view of the street. Did someone walk by and look in?
I pull the curtain shut, my fingers trembling slightly. It’s probably nothing—just another weird coincidence. Still, I lock the back door for good measure before returning to the counter.
JustRaveled1018: “You look so focused. Love the messy bun. ;)”
My heart races. I haven’t taken a single photo of myself today, let alone one showing my hair.
The only explanation is that someone is watching me right now.
The urge to call Sebastian tugs at me, but I hesitate.
I don’t want to sound paranoid—or worse, helpless.
Instead, I take a deep breath and type back a simple response:
Me: “Who are you?”
No reply. Minutes tick by, each one feeling heavier than the last. The silence is almost worse than the messages. Finally, I toss my phone onto the table and lean against the counter, pressing a hand to my chest.
Calm down, Flick. You’re safe. You’re home. Everything is fine.
Still, my eyes dart to the locked back door. Maybe I’ll ask Sebastian about installing some extra security cameras. Just in case. He’ll be here soon.
The yarn in the dye pot needs attention. I force myself to focus on the work, on the color blooming through the water like smoke. Pink today, soft as spring roses. The familiar routine helps steady my hands, even if my mind keeps spinning.