He opens his mouth and sighs before shaking his head and walking to the recycling bin to dispose of his beer bottle.
Huh.
Crawling up on my knees, I peer over the edge of the couch. Jack’s shoulders sit high and tight around his ears with a frustrated tension. “Are you okay?”
“Yup.” He pops his “p,” staring at the ceiling. Slowly, his shoulders drop, and he turns to me with a soft smile on his lips.
I don’t buy it.
“Something’s wrong.”
“Nah. Everything’s fine.” His keys jingle in his pocket as he rustles around for them. “Hey, want to go out with me?”
That is the million-dollar question. Yeah, I want to go out with Jack. He’s kind and handsome, and I like the way I can be myself around him and—
Jack’s brow furrows, looking at me like I have two heads.
“Huh?” I blink.
“I asked if you want to go to the bar with me. The game is about to start, and I thought I’d catch it out.”
“Oh!” Right. Going out to a bar. The bar where there’s a game. The bar where there’s a game that Jack wants to watch. That bar. That kind of going out. I glance down to where my heating pad rests on the couch. It’s been separated from my mid-section for maybe a minute, and I’m already feeling the effects of its absence. “What if we do a fire out back? We have enough beer here, and I can put the game on the big screen.”
Jack shakes his head and bounces on his toes. “Don’t you want to get out of the house? You never leave.”
I bite my lip. “I left earlier in the week.”
Jack scrubs his hand over his face. Cast in the fire’s light, his dark circles and longer stubble come into focus. Something’s off, but he’s not telling me what it is.
For all his silence, one thing is clear.
He needs me.
I can overcome my pain to be there for him. I have to.
I don’t pay my midsection another second and drag myself up off the couch. “Just give me a second to change.” I walk past Jack. “Do you have clothes to change into? You’ll catch a cold in your wet shirt and shorts.”
“I’ll go back and grab the Escalade while you change into one of your sweater dress things and meet you here.”
“Sounds good.” I smile, entering my bedroom and ignoring the pull on my side. Pain radiates down my leg with every step.
Alone, I let a few tears escape.
A cramp works itself deep into my abdomen. I hunch over the bed, biting down a yelp, and blink through the black dots spotting my vision.
I wouldn’t say I enjoy going to bars or clubs. They’re chaotic, smelly, and running into the drunk versions of everyone I know doesn’t appeal to me. But I’d rather avoid them because I want to, not because my body sabotages me. I want it to be my choice.
In the past year, my body has become a prison—one that my mind can’t seem to escape.
No amount of rest, no amount of distraction has been enough to overcome it.
Because part of me is in a constant state of torture.
I’m tired and frustrated. And I am tired of being frustrated. If this pain isn’t a big deal, why can’t I overcome it?
What’s wrong with me that everyone around me seems unfazed by the day-to-day while I’m demolished by normalcy?
Another round of frustrated tears down my cheeks, and then the dam bursts. My chest heaves through the uncontrollable sobs, and I let myself feel everything I’ve ignored. I very well can’t stop now.
