“Does he say words?” Bridget asks Jack, whose head is swiveling back and forth between them.
“I’m—” Grady’s voice quivers. He’s retreated into himself, looking far more like a teenager being scolded and less like the man who lays men out on the ice on the regular. “I’m so sorry.”
“Right,” Bridget pushes a pair of round glasses up the bridge of her nose and sighs. “I believe we already established that. If you’ll excuse me—” She waves for him to move out of her path, slamming her basket down with a huff. “Aulie, I’m sorry, this was for you, but I fear most of it is useless now.”
“I’ll rebuy everything in there.” Grady’s shoulders stand prouder with this proclamation. “Least I can do.”
With a pause, Bridget meets Grady’s gaze and signals her approval with a nod. “I’ll send you the order. Have Jack give you my number, and we can square it away.”
“I’ll get you some baking soda and vinegar.” I finally snap into action.
Grady’s face is still crestfallen when I walk by him. “It’s alright, we’ll get the stain out,” I say, patting his arm.
“I’m taking my shirt off if it’s going to offend anyone’s sensibilities,” Bridget announces, undoing her buttons and revealing a black lace bra.
Damn. Bridget is—
Grady makes a strangled sound next to me.
“Let’s go get some towels,” Jack says putting his hand reassuringly on Grady’s shoulder, and cringing. “God, you’re sticky. We should clean you up, too.”
“I overfilled it,” Grady whispers as they walk down the hallway. “And then—she—Evelyn—Brendan Fraser—I couldn’t.”
“I know, bud. I know,” Jack says like Grady pouring a six-pack of beer out of a pumpkin all over somebody is a typical, tragic day.
Bridget peels the rest of her shirt off and I grab the baking soda and a spray bottle, handing her a washcloth for her stomach.
“Thank you.” She huffs, letting the water run and bringing the cloth over her abdomen. “How are you feeling? They did a laparoscopy procedure, right? You didn’t need a laparotomy?”
Her hand brushes over two identical scars on her abdomen, old and healed, right where my fresh ones are.
Has she had a similar surgery as me? Those can’t be a coincidence.
“Just a laparoscopy,” I say, puzzling over what I know of Bridget, which is not as much as I’d like.
“I wouldn’t sayjust.” She shakes her head. “The scars may be tiny, but I’m sure they did a lot internally. Did they tell you if they had to operate on any adhesions on your organs or ligaments?”
“I think Jack said some of my ligaments were covered and stuck together—I’m sorry—how do you know to ask these kinds of questions?” Since my diagnosis, most people have been clueless about… everything. From the excitement that I’m finally cured, which, from my understanding, is a misconception, to it being a menstrual disease that will go away if I stay on the pill.
The surgery is only meant to manage my symptoms, not cure me. Nothing can, not fully.
Bridget grabs the spray bottle out of my hand with a sigh. “I’m sorry. I got so flustered when I came in, but Emy told me they found endometriosis during your surgery, which I also have. That’s why I came with a basket. I thought you might not know everything you need, and I’ve had the surgery a few times.”
“That was really thoughtful, Bridge.” I sniff back a few tears, careful not to show Bridget and freak her out. While love has surrounded me for the past ten days, there’s been an undercurrent of loneliness too.
While I would never wish this disease on anyone, knowing that Bridget understands is a comfort I won’t take for granted.
“And look where thoughtfulness got me.” Bridget shakes her head, scrubbing at the stain on her shirt.
“I’m sure the stain will come out where we got to it fast enough, but we’ll need to let it dry. Come on, I can see if I have a white blouse you can borrow, so your costume isn’t ruined,” I say, motioning for her to follow me to my bedroom.
Rummaging through my closet, I try to wrap my head around the fact that I’ve had a kindred spirit in Bridget all along. What if I hadn’t tried to hide my symptoms from everyone? Would she have caught on and been able to help me sooner? It seems like hiding, hiding my pain, hiding my feelings, hasn’t been the lifesaving coping mechanism I thought it was.
“So you and me having the same thing, that’s crazy, right? Like, what are the odds?” I ask, buried in my dresses and cardigans.
“Pretty good. It’s more common than you probably knew, considering most people have never heard of it. One in ten people assigned female at birth have the disease. Considering there are over twenty of us at the fair, if you count the vendors, the odds were good there’d be at least two of us. I guess we were the lucky ones.”
“Okay, so answer me this: I read about that statistic in the brochure they gave me, too, and what I don’t get is, if it’s so common, why was it so hard for me to get a diagnosis?”
