Josh had found my hospital room sometime later, clothes rumpled and disheveled, and just stared when I stumbled through an explanation.
He didn’t give one of his own.
I was discharged the next afternoon and given a prescription to continue the steroids orally.
Josh’s voice brought me back to the present. How long had I sat in silence, mind drifting?
“Reece. You’re a fucking mess. Once you finish the steroids, we can talk more. Talk about what we both want. Go to couples therapy. Until then, you need to try and relax,” he said, crossing and uncrossing his arms.
Ah, there was a feeling other than exhaustion. Anger burned my cheeks. “Tell me,” I said, teeth gritted, “what about any of this is relaxing?”
I breathed through the rising tide of rage, the neurologist’s words banging around in my skull.
Intense stress can trigger a flare-up, yes. But we have no idea of really knowing what caused this one, or how long the pre-existing lesions have been there. MS looks different on everyone. It’s good that your symptoms presented so early, so we can start you on a course of treatment.
“Well, it’s not like anything can happen right now,” he said, dismissing my question with a wave. “You shouldn’t be alone. We can research diet plans together after you’ve rested. I did some reading, some people say the carnivore diet is great for MS. It might help you with?—”
“Get out.” My words cracked like a whip between us.
Josh looked up, surprised. “Excuse me?”
I studied his features. When was the last time I really looked at him?
His freshly highlighted hair was perfectly styled, short, with one strand falling just over his brow so naturally I was certain he’d placed it there on purpose. Wide, hazel eyes gaped at me in shock, soft, moisturized lips parted in disbelief. His cheeks reddened.
He was objectively gorgeous. A foil to my messy light brown hair, sun-weathered face, and five o’clock shadow that appeared around eleven in the morning. My pulse used to quicken every time he glanced my way, baffled that someone who looked so perfect could actually want me.
None of that existed between us anymore.
“You heard me. I don’t need your help. I don’t want you to tell me what I should do, or eat, or how I should deal with this.I can’t stand looking at you. Maybe Brock will let you sit on his dick in exchange for a spare room. Leave.”
“What the fuck, Reece? You’re sick. You’re sweating, you look half-dead, and you nearly choked on your own spit, swallowing all those pills a few minutes ago. You can’t?—”
“GET OUT!” I roared. Suddenly upright, I strode toward him, lurching as I reached for one of the bedroom doors to slam in his face.
He recoiled.
I was bigger than him. He reminded me of it often. I was taller, over six feet, and had one of those guts that never stopped looking soft, no matter how much I strode up and down mountains and swung an axe and heaved heavy packs of field gear through the forest.
He’d tried to high-protein, gym-bro-macro it off me ever since we met.
It never budged.
Still, looking at me in fear was a low blow. I’d never raised my voice at him before, never touched him with anything other than gentleness. Love, once. Maybe.
It was a reminder of how much we’d grown apart. How little we actually understood each other.
“I’m sorry for yelling,” I said, blowing out a breath. I kept my voice low, with one hand braced on the door. Exhaustion wrangled my anger back in as quickly as it’d lashed out. “I would never hurt you. But you do need to leave my house. We can sort out a time for you, or whoever you want to hire, to move your things. This is over.”
Something sharp sparked in his eyes, and I wondered if he had wanted my rage, after all. If he’d poked and prodded for it, all this time. “I don’t understand you. Aren’t you going to ask me why? Aren’t you going to ask me to stay? To go to counseling together? Show me you feel something, Reece, for fuck’s sake.”
Genuinely confused, I shook my head. “Why would I do any of that?”
The pleading in his eyes fell away, replaced by the cool mask of the corporate lawyer. “I’ll have someone call to arrange picking up my things.”
He turned, padded down the stairs, and walked out the front door, keys jingling in his hand. I crashed back onto the bed, rolling so I could pull the covers over me, sweatpants and all.
Great. Life-changing diagnosis and long-term breakup done, within forty-eight hours of each other.
