“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 Melissafrom 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?”
