I take out my phone, looking for any sort of distraction. It’s useless.
The waiting room is filled with a middle-aged guy, a mother with her daughter, and a couple deep in their own world of sign language.
The woman giggles and playfully smacks his hands while sharing a private joke. Their moment of genuine connection tightens something in my chest, stirring emotions I can’t quite name.
He laughs when she whispers in his ear, but it’s a little offbeat. The lump in my throat grows bigger.
Will that be my future if I can’t fix this problem? Laughing a bit out of sync? I feel like a jerk for even worrying about it. Who cares if my laugh isn’t perfectly synchronized with everyone else’s?
I picture myself trying to communicate and charm someone with just my hands. Would they still find me interesting? Would my sarcasm still hit its mark? Would my jokes still land if they had to be told in a language I had to learn from scratch?
Out of the corner of my eye, I catch the girl kissing her guy. And her hair, god, her hair . . . it’s just like Lexi’s. I’m suddenly thinking about how it would feel to run my fingers through Lexi’s hair, right here, right now.
But imagining her here, seeing me struggle, would kill me. Lexi’s the caring type, always looking out for others, always putting their needs before her own.
In my less-than-sober epiphany that night, I nailed it—she’s an angel in her own right. But I don’t need her looking at me like some project to fix. Goes against everything I am.
I refuse to be that guy, the one who needs rescuing.
In a different life, with a different career, maybe I could have given her everything she deserves—and even found joy in doing so, in being the man she needs.
But right now, I can’t deal with any more curveballs, can’t juggle any more wild cards in a game that’s already far too complicated.
Caught staring, the couple smiles at me. I manage a grimace that barely passes for a smile and quickly look away. With these oversized sunglasses, I must look like a paranoid celebrity. The last thing I need is a touching moment with strangers in a waiting room.
Over in the other corner, the little girl says something to her mom, but the words come out muffled. My heart starts hammering in my chest.
Fuck me, the inane things I used to get annoyed over seem so inconsequential now. I don’t give two shits if the senator throws a fit over me bailing on the fake dating scheme. And I’d trade a million cars to avoid this. I’ve been such a self-centered asshole . . .
I take a deep breath, feeling my T-shirt cling to my skin. I discreetly lift it to catch a breeze. Shifting uncomfortably, I take slow, deep breaths.
Damn, is this what a panic attack feels like?
That little girl, though, she’s got more guts than me. Dealing with something like this at her age?
Maybe it’s easier when you’re younger. How the hell could I learn a new way to communicate at my age? I’ve spent thirty-five years relying on my ears. Now what? Enroll in sign language classes at night and continue as normal? Who am I kidding?
It all began with what I thought was an ear infection a few months ago. Took antibiotics, assumed it would clear up fast. But the muffling and blockage came back, worse than before.
Doctor Nasal Voice, with his irritating tone, broke the news to me that I have what’s called “Autoimmune Inner Ear Disease.” My own body’s turned traitor, attacking my hearing like it’s got a personal vendetta. Seems my cells didn’t get the memo that we’re all supposed to be on the same side.
He pushed steroids on me—not the good gains kind, the inflammation blockers. He couldn’t even give me a straight answer on how much hearing I’d lose, or when. Useless.
Fear, real fear, is something I thought I understood. Like the kind of fear when Teagan lost her mom. That deep, gnawing sense that you’re not in control. That’s what this is—amplified.
If Hayes can stop this, I swear to god almighty I’ll never take things for granted again. I’ll start appreciating the little things. No more moaning about boring meetings or pointless galas. I’ll quit fussing over the temperature of my coffee or flipping out when my staff don’t get things perfect on the first try.
No more griping about trivial shit—like water pressure in my marble bathroom. Or in-flight Wi-Fi reliability in my sixty-million-dollar jet en route to Vegas. All those ludicrously petty concerns that felt important now seem laughable through this lens.
I just have to hold it the fuck together a while longer. I’m not beaten yet. Solutions are on the horizon. And once I’ve got a plan, I’ll fill Killian in.
Finally, the receptionist calls my name. I’m out of my seat and through the door before she finishes speaking.
“Connor, take a seat.” The doc greets me, that forced smile saying he’s heard a thing or two about me. “I’ve looked over your files from Dr. Caruso. How are you holding up with the steroids?”
I settle into the chair, shrugging irritably. “All right, I guess. The muffling still comes and goes. It’s worse in my left ear.”
I think back to the disaster interview, with Lucia seated on that bad side. The pressure had been building all day, then it just blew up right there. Terrible timing.
