25. Flick
Flick
The moment I open my front door, Cat races toward me, her meows echoing off the walls. The sound pierces through my chest—not from the pericarditis this time, but from the memory of Sebastian’s laugh when he first heard her dramatic greetings.
Hannah drops to her knees, extending her hand. “Oh my God, she’s adorable.”
Cat freezes, whiskers twitching at this stranger in her domain.
That’s right. My best friend has never met my kitten because I haven’t invited her over in weeks.
The guilt gnaws at me as I hang up my bag and turn on the lights. “I’m starving. Leftover pizza? It’s not fancy, but?—”
“It’s perfect.” She’s already pulling out her phone. “Let me text Michael. Let him know I’ll be here for a bit.”
While her fingers fly across the screen, I pour kibble into Cat’s bowl. She attacks it like she hasn’t eaten in days, sending pieces skittering across the floor. The mess makes me laugh—genuine and unexpected—but the sound dies in my throat.
Everything here reminds me of him. The dent in the cushion where he sat untangling yarn. The coffee mug he claimed as his, still sitting by the sink because I can’t bring myself to wash it. The way morning light hits the spot where he’d kiss me goodbye before his early shifts.
“What can I do?” Hannah appears in the kitchen doorway.
“Just heating pizza. Nothing fancy.” My hands shake slightly as I open the box. Probably the steroids. Definitely not the effort of pretending everything’s fine.
She knows my kitchen well enough to pull down plates without asking. The familiarity stings—another reminder of how I’ve shut her out. Minutes later, we’re on the couch, Cat batting her catnip mouse under the coffee table with focused intensity.
“How are you doing?” Hannah’s voice is gentle. “After Sebastian...”
I tear at a piece of crust, the words “I’m fine” dying on my lips. Because I’m not. I’m so far from fine I can’t even see it from here.
“I miss him.” The admission scrapes my throat raw. “But we weren’t... I mean, every time he looked at me, I could see him cataloging symptoms. Making lists of solutions. Like I was some broken animal he needed to fix instead of a person who just needed him to listen.”
“Mm.” Hannah shifts, tucking her feet under her. “He probably thought he was helping.”
“I know he did. That’s what makes it worse.” I set down my barely touched slice. “It’s not what I need though.”
“Did you tell him that?”
“Yes.” The word comes out defensive.
Her eyebrows climb. “And after you told him, did you give him a chance to try? To learn what you actually needed?”
“I...” My mouth opens, closes. “That’s... I mean...”
She turns to face me fully, her expression patient but pointed.
“It takes time for people to really get to know each other, and a chronic condition is a whole other layer. When Michael and I met, he went into research mode and learned everything he could about fibromyalgia and how to manage it, but it still took some time for him to learn me. To learn what I want and how I specifically want to manage my condition. Likewise, it took me time to get to really know him.” She looks thoughtful.
“Actually, we’re still learning each other, because people are constantly changing.
So that never stops. It’s a part of relationships. ”
The truth of her words settles over me like one of the blankets Sebastian would tuck around my shoulders when I’d fall asleep watching TV.
“Do you think I was too hard on him?” My voice comes out smaller than intended.
She sighs, choosing her words. “Knowing you, knowing your history... Is it possible you used his trying to help as an excuse? Because being vulnerable is terrifying and pushing people away is safer than risking another David situation?”
The accuracy of it hits like ice water. My throat closes up.
Well, damn. She has my number.
And it fucking hurts.
“Maybe.” I stare at my hands, noting how the joints aren’t swollen today. A good day, physically. “Probably.”
Her hand covers mine. “Oh, Flick.”
“I’m sorry.” The tears come fast, hot. “For lying about the pericarditis. For hiding the stalker stuff. For being such a shitty friend.”
“You could have let me help.” She blinks hard, her own eyes wet. “That’s what hurt most. Not the secrets, but that you didn’t trust me with them.”
“It wasn’t about trust.” I swipe at my cheeks. “I just... I wanted to be normal. To have days where I could forget my heart is literally inflamed and some creep is leaving me presents. I still want that. Pretending felt easier than facing it.”
“I get that. I do.” She squeezes my fingers gently.
“But there’s a difference between taking breaks from the hard stuff and complete denial.
Right now, you need to face some of it. Scale back until the meds kick in properly.
Let people help so you don’t burn out completely.
And you also need to make sure you’re paying attention to your surroundings and start driving instead of walking until you know it’s safe. ”
“But my business?—”
“Will still be there when you’re healthier.” Her tone brooks no argument. “You’ve got us. Use your support system, Flick. That’s what it’s for.”
I nod, but my thoughts drift to Sebastian. His steady presence. The way he’d check locks twice without making me feel paranoid. How his voice alone could slow my racing heart.
I pushed away the one person who made me feel safest. Hannah’s right—I didn’t give him time to learn what I needed. Instead, I torched everything at the first sign of imperfection.
“What are you thinking?” Hannah asks.
“That I’m an idiot.” I pull Cat into my lap, needing her warmth. “Sebastian’s one in a million, and I threw him away because I was scared.”
“So tell him that.”
“How?” Panic flutters in my chest. “I burned that bridge pretty thoroughly. What if he’s already moved on? What if?—”
“What if you try?” She interrupts gently. “The worst thing that happens is you end up exactly where you are now. But maybe, just maybe, you get a second chance with someone who wanted to understand you enough to try fixing things in the first place.”
Cat purrs against my stomach, a tiny motor of comfort. I stroke her fur, thinking about courage and bridges and the particular terror of hope.
“I don’t know if I can,” I whisper.
“Sure you can.” Hannah bumps my shoulder. “You dye yarn colors that shouldn’t exist in nature. You built a business from nothing. You manage a chronic illness with more grace than you give yourself credit for. Apologizing to one veterinarian? That’s nothing compared to what you do every day.”
She’s wrong about the grace part, but maybe she’s right about the rest. Maybe I can find the words to explain why I ran. Maybe Sebastian will understand that fear makes people do stupid things.
Maybe it’s not too late to rebuild what I burned.