17. Sebastian
Sebastian
Pushing past the speed limit as much as I dare, I cross the bridge onto Pine Island. The moment my tires hit familiar asphalt, I relax a little bit. Just a few more minutes to Flick's condo.
When she called, I couldn't contain my joy. Leaving the conference early was a choice I made for a few different reasons. One, I had already given my presentation and was bored out of my skull talking shop at the hotel bar. Two, it's only Rach and another vet tech on shift tonight. And three...
I really, really missed Flick and want to see her after the coffee shop incident today.
And because of our crazy schedules, it's been way too long since I've seen her. Hearing her voice on the phone was the balm I needed after a long week. I just wish the call hadn't come because she's all alone having a flare.
I dial Rach's number, switching to hands-free as I navigate the turn onto Main Street.
“You're not coming in yet, right?” She doesn't wait for an answer. “Go home and?—”
“Actually, I can't make it in at all. I'm going to Flick's. She... ” I trail off, realizing that Flick probably doesn’t need her chronic condition broadcast across the island.
“Good. Because we don't need you anyway.”
A laugh escapes despite everything. “Your bedside manner is truly inspiring, Rach.”
“Sebastian, turn off your phone. Between Nancy and me, we have forty years of experience. I'll only be calling you if someone brings in a pet unicorn.”
“Noted.” The amusement fades as I pull into a parking spot outside Flick's condo. “Thanks, Rach. For everything you do.”
“Talk to you later, lover boy.”
She hangs up before I can protest the nickname. Not that it matters—I'm already jogging up to Flick's door, knocking perhaps too urgently.
“Flick?”
Her response barely carries through the wood. “Come in.”
I open the door and enter to an empty living room.
My gaze sweeps left into the kitchen, and my heart drops.
She's on the floor, spine pressed against the radiator like she's trying to absorb every bit of warmth through her clothes.
Her eyes are red-rimmed, swollen from crying, and the tight line of her mouth tells me everything about the pain she's fighting.
This is so much worse than I imagined.
Rushing over, I drop to my knees beside her. The floor is cold through my jeans. “What do you need? Tell me what to do.”
A ghost of her usual smile flickers across her face. “Get me a heating pad. Fill up a hot water bottle. The—” Her breath catches, face contorting. “The weed brownies. Get one from the freezer.”
“Of course.” I press my lips to her forehead, her skin hot under my mouth, then push to my feet. Cat winds around my ankles with a pitiful mew, like she understood what Flick was saying.
“And feed Cat,” Flick adds, voice rough as sandpaper.
I move through her kitchen with purpose, grateful for the clear instructions.
Plugging in a heating pad and handing it to Flick, then I collect the hot water bottle I passed on the couch, filling it.
The freezer yields a Tupperware container labeled “Special Brownies - DO NOT SHARE” in Flick's careful handwriting. I place one on a plate to thaw while refilling Cat’s small bowl with dry food and then set it on the kitchen floor.
“Would you like to move to bed?” The words are out before I consider the distance. “Or the couch?”
“Um...” Her eyes squeeze shut, and I count the seconds—one Mississippi, two Mississippi—before they open again. “I don't think I can get up.”
“I can help you.”
She nods, just barely, and I bend to take her arms. The hiss of pain that escapes when she stands cuts straight through me. We move like we're crossing a minefield, each step measured and careful. The journey to the couch might as well be a marathon for how much it takes out of her.
Getting her settled on the cushions is another production. She clutches the hot water bottle to her chest like a lifeline while I arrange the heating pad behind her back, adjusting pillows until she stops wincing.
I perch on the edge of the coffee table, close enough to smooth damp strands of hair back from her forehead. “I'm sorry I wasn't here.”
The look she gives me suggests I've sprouted a second head. “Why would you have been here?”
“Because...”
Because I’m crazy about her. Because I think about her all day, wonder what she’s doing while I'm elbow-deep in treating animals and doing paperwork. Because if my schedule wasn't packed with the clinic and side projects filling my time, I'd find excuses to show up at her door every single day.
Good thing I'm so busy. She'd probably change her locks by now.
“So, this is what a flare is like, huh?” I trace gentle circles on the back of her hand. “Is there something that caused it?”
She fixes her gaze on the ceiling like it holds the secrets of the universe. “It could happen even if I've been resting, but doing a lot of work increases the chances.”
“I'm sorry.” The words feel inadequate, but suggesting she slow down would be hypocritical at best, insulting at worst. We're cut from the same cloth, Flick and I—always pushing, always working, always convinced we can handle just a little bit more.
“Rheumatoid arthritis really sucks, huh?”
Her bottom lip trembles before she catches it between her teeth. My stomach flips. What did I say?
“It's not just rheumatoid arthritis.” She still won't look at me. “It's pericarditis too. That means...”
“Inflammation around the heart.” The veterinarian in me fills in the blank while the man in me tries to read the emotions she's locked down tight.
“Yeah.” Her voice goes flat, clinical. “It's when the membrane surrounding the heart becomes inflamed. It causes chest pain. Stabbing, sharp pain. It can make it hard to lie down or take deep breaths. It can be a complication of rheumatoid arthritis.”
She sounds like she's reading from a medical journal, all emotion stripped away. But I see the tension in her jaw, the way her fingers clench around the hot water bottle.
“I'm sorry. That sounds rough.”
The facade crumbles all at once. Her face contorts as tears spill over, and she's fighting them even as they fall, trying to hold back the flood with sheer willpower.
I shift closer, carefully draping my arm across her stomach, and press a kiss to her damp cheek. “Hey. It's okay.”
“It's not.” She swipes at the tears despite the obvious pain the movement causes.
“This whole thing, it's... I haven't even told anyone about the pericarditis, and I tell Hannah everything.
We go to our doctor's appointments together—at least we used to.
And now I'm keeping this big secret from her.”
“Why?” I keep smoothing her hair, the repetitive motion soothing for both of us.
“Because if I don't talk about it, then it can't be a huge deal.” The words come out small, vulnerable in a way I've never heard from her.
“Just like if you keep pushing through the pain, it won't be a big deal?”
Surprise flickers across her features. “Yeah.”
“Isn't sharing about this kind of stuff exactly what the Chronic Pain Crafters group is for?”
She breathes a deep sigh. “Yes. But I don't share as much as the others do. They don't know how bad the rheumatoid arthritis is.”
“I see.”
Finally, finally, her eyes find mine. “Talking about it makes me feel tired. Like I'm trying to explain advanced math to someone who just learned long division. So I'd rather avoid that.”
“Because it's exhausting to explain, or because you think people will see you differently once they know?”
Her lashes flutter against her cheeks. “Both...and because then they might try to tell me what to do. How to live my life.”
“Makes sense.”
“I've definitely never told anyone I've dated about my health. Not to this extent.”
The words land like a gift I'm not sure I deserve. I try not to read too much into them, but hope blooms in my chest anyway. She's letting me in, showing me parts of herself she keeps hidden from the world.
“Life with a chronic condition isn't fun.” She shifts slightly, grimacing. “It's not just dealing with pain. There's always the possibility that plans will have to be canceled, that I'll get behind in life—even more than I already am. I hate canceling on people. They don't deserve that.”
“I don't mind.” The response comes without thought, straight from my gut.
Her smile lacks its usual warmth. “That's what you say now.”
“Actually...I know a little bit about that kind of life. My ex-wife struggled with depression. It wasn't the reason we split up,” I rush to add, not wanting her to draw the wrong conclusion.
“I didn't know that.”
“Yeah.” I work up what I hope is a reassuring smile. “So I know something about having to cancel plans because of health, and I'll tell you what...” I lace our fingers together, her hand small and warm in mine. “I'm perfectly fine with it. That's life.”
Relief washes across her features, though doubt still lingers in her eyes. That's okay. I'm not arrogant enough to expect instant trust just because I make promises. Actions speak louder than pretty words, and I plan to show her, day by day, that I mean what I say.
“How long do the flares usually last?”
“If I pause all work and rest?” She looks physically pained by the prospect. “A few days.”
I nod, already rearranging my schedule in my head. “Then tell me what I can do over the next few days to help you through.”
That softness returns to her eyes, the one that makes my chest feel too tight for my ribs. I duck my head and kiss her gently, mindful of her pain.
“Thank you,” she breathes against my lips.
“Anytime,” I whisper back.
And I mean it. Every word. While Flick’s situation reminds me a little bit of when Jessica started struggling with her mental health, this outcome will be completely different. It took Jessica years to admit she needed help, and Flick is doing what her body is asking of her.
Plus, this time around, I won’t make the same mistake of letting the romance die out while focusing on health. With Jessica, I got so invested in helping her that one day we woke up and realized we were better off as friends than anything else.
This time, I’m wiser. Confident.
I’m also with a woman who’s right for me, and that makes all the difference.
“How about some dinner?” I ask, standing up. “I make a killer chicken noodle soup.”
“That sounds wonderful. Thank you.”
“Great. You just rest and I’ll get started.” I lean forward and press a gentle kiss to her forehead, then head to the kitchen.
The familiar ritual of cooking grounds me—dicing onions, carrots, celery. The knife work gives my hands something to do while my mind processes everything. Flick trusts me enough to call when she's vulnerable. She's letting me see her at what she probably considers her worst.
She has no idea that to me, she's never been more beautiful than she was sitting on that kitchen floor, fighting through pain but still managing to give clear instructions. Still thinking of her cat even when she could barely move.
The soup starts to simmer, filling the condo with the scent of herbs and comfort. I peek around the corner to check on her. She's dozed off, face relaxed in sleep, Cat pressed against her hip.
Yeah. I'm definitely falling for this woman.
Maybe I've already fallen.
I turn back to the stove, adjusting the heat to keep the soup at a gentle bubble. However long this flare lasts, whatever she needs—I'll be here. Not going anywhere.
That's a promise I intend to keep.