“You know, they make babysitters for that kind of thing. It’s a distraction for the entire office.”
I nodded. Maybe agreeing and begging forgiveness would work. “Right. Absolutely. I’m so sorry. I should have known better.”
She sighed. “Kai’s going to have to write you up. This is the second time you’ve been warned. If I let everyone get away with this . . .”
“Understood,” I said with a sheepish grin. “I was actually heading out for the day. I need to relieve my son’s sitter.”
Her brow wrinkled again and she stepped aside, letting me hobble through the doorway. “Call me tomorrow about the assortment for Luna, then.”
“Yep! Will do!”
And look, I don’t expect anyone to help me because it’s not everyone’s responsibility to take care of me just because I have a medical condition.
But she didn’t even offer to carry Hazel’s seat down the steps, watching me limp along with my cane and her seat, all while stuffing down tears.
I pictured myself calling Bryce on my way home, venting about my bad day. If it were in more recent times, he would have taken this opportunity to blame me for bearing him another child when I knew it might tear my body apart more. And it did, but I still didn’t know what was wrong with me until after I had Hazel and got an especially astute pelvic floor physical therapist. She put all the pieces together and asked if I had other issues, like blacking out when I stood (check), weird allergic reactions (check), and being super flexible, especially when I was younger (check check).
She was able to send a note to my primary care doctor about her suspicions. It’s a cluster of illnesses that tend to play together. The center of it is hypermobile Ehlers-Danlos Syndrome, an incurable condition where my body makes improper collagen. That causes the hypermobility and joint instability responsible for a lot of my pain. Dysautonomia and POTS were behind my blacking out, and Mast Cell Activation Syndrome (MCAS) was why I had a bizarre number of allergic reactions from things that came up negative on a blood allergy or skin prick test.
Basically, my body’s chemical stew makes it hard to function as a human.
But I’m one of the lucky ones. Mine’s not all the time. Some of the time, if the weather is just right and I’m not close to my period, I can get by just fine. I only need my cane when things go awry like this.
I know I’m lucky, but I didn’t feel too lucky this day.
Once I got to the store’s exit, I took a cart, plopped the car seat in it, and put my cane in next to her. “Let’s go home, little girl,” I cooed, forcing a smile as the knife in my lower back panged.
I hobbled out to my car, my stomach still a mess and fighting tears from getting called out by April. I removed my cane from the cart and was pulling my keys from my purse when a gruff voice came from behind me.
“What happened to you?”
TEN
MARA
OCTOBER
What happened to you?
It’s one of my least favorite questions. Genetics? Bad luck? Crimes in a past life?
The attitude from the voice would have had me decking whoever said it if I had more strength. I bet a cane to the face would hurt. I’d had just enough that I had no friendliness left to give. I had to shift my whole body to look at whoever spoke.
Jack, all sweaty-looking and sexy in stupid exercise clothes again. I blinked hard and shook my head. “What are you doing here?”
He flicked his head toward the store. “Carries my favorite protein.”
“Ah.”
“Why are you,” he gestured to my cane, “like this? What happened?”
“Faulty collagen,” I snarked.
He literally scratched through that mass of dark curls with one of his tattooed hands, unaffected by my bad mood. “Huh?”
I scolded myself to attempt being nice because despite the flat tone of his voice, he looked genuinely concerned. “I have a disease that sometimes makes it hard to walk. My lower back dislocates.”
His brow creased and he looked horrified. “No shit.”
