“You do?” I asked.
“Oh yes. I get tired a lot and need a ton of rest. So if I’m a little late for the first part of the project, you’ll get why.”
I hoped she wasn’t the type of person to fake a serious illness for attention, and there were degrees of disease. It seemed convenient that she had the same condition I did, and after never mentioning it before when we’d heard her lament for a half hour over a possibly infected hangnail when we were in the office, I couldn’t help being skeptical.
No one really knew anything about lupus unless you had it or knew someone who did. It was elusive enough to fake without too much effort. She still looked great—her skin was glowing and her red hair seemed just as thick as the curls cascaded down her shoulders, but appearances meant nothing for symptoms that no one could see. It was the argument I’d had with Nate more times than I cared to recall. I looked fine, so why wasn’t I fine?
“If you’re going to be late, just let us know,” I said. The freedom of a freelance job meant that while I had to be civil, I didn’t have to placate. I wouldn’t dismiss anyone for not looking sick after being dismissed myself, and I would give her the benefit of the doubt despite my suspicions. But if I pulled my weight, truthful diagnosis or not, so could she.
Lupus was still the monster lurking around the corner, but I was grateful for all it had taught me so far about people, patience, and the order of importance in life.
Elyse changed the vibe of the call enough for us to end it quickly after going over the project details. My fingertips tingled with the possibility of creating again. That was the best part of my job, even on the boring projects. Turning a client’s request into a tangible thing I made from scratch made me feel alive, and to get a glimpse of that again, even for a part-time project, was nothing short of wonderful.
I hoped to do that with my house. After Nate left, my goal was to decorate it the way I’d originally wanted to, maybe even make my own wallpaper borders. But I didn’t want to get too attached to it if I had to move. Things seemed to be heading in the right direction today, but it wasn’t something I could count on long-term. Rent for an apartment would be a more manageable expense and would make the most sense, but I couldn’t bring myself to contact a real estate agent yet.
Instead of using my spare bedroom, I’d made an office out of the alcove next to my kitchen. It was my favorite part of the house and what had sold me after viewing so many listings. Nate had wanted to move out of the city, but I liked the neighborhood I’d grown up in and the easy access to public transportation to travel back and forth to my office in Manhattan.
I peeked out my screen door and found Oliver, my neighbor from across the street and my friend Karen’s husband, cutting the grass in my yard. Karen was one of the few who’d seen me in my early days of illness and one of the few who knew about my diagnosis. Nate had helped at first around the house when I could barely move, but once I looked better, he had constant excuses as to why he couldn’t do more at home, not reallybeinghome much toward the end anyway. Karen would often stop by for a “visit” and clean my house.
She was a new friend, only moving on to the block last year, but our lack of history made it easier for me to confide in her. She cared about me and worried about me but wouldn’t be so quick to shut down my fears for the future because she couldn’t handle thinking about it. She simply listened and encouraged without sugarcoating it or offering a solution to make us both feel better, like my mother tended to do and I was sure Landon would if I told him how dark my fears would get on tough days.
Her manner was something I appreciated more than I could ever express.
In addition to being a safe space to talk to, she was an occupational therapist, and her suggestions for kitchen utensils when my hands were too painful to work and ways to stretch and move my body when every joint was screaming at me were a godsend some days.
I waved through the mesh screen when he spotted me and sat back down at my desk to shoot his wife a text.
Me:Your husband wandered over here again.
Karen:Good. Keep him.
Me:This is nice, but he doesn’t have to keep doing this. At least let me pay him.
Karen:I’m sure cutting your grass is the highlight of his morning. He can escape the retirement to-do list that I make for him every day.
Oliver was a recently retired cop, and judging by the smile on his face when he’d spotted me, I guessed he really was content to be away from his house and his wife’s list of chores.
Karen:And you are not paying him. Don’t offer again, or I’ll get pissed.
Me:But I’ve got a job now. Sort of. Freelance project for a bit.
Karen:That’s great! I’ll be over this week with some wine to help you celebrate.
Karen:And you’re still not paying him.
Downloading all the files and setting up my part of the project took up most of the afternoon, and before I knew it, it was after eight. I climbed up my stairs with a little disappointment at not hearing from Landon, but he was always pulled into last-minute meetings and left work at all hours. It would probably be more of the same if he moved back, but knowing he was close would put me more at ease.
Because he was my best friend. Not the fake husband I was lusting over half the time and talking myself out of any non-friend feelings for the other half.
Instead of lying on the couch and passing out until I trudged to bed at two a.m., I brought my laptop up to my bedroom to find a movie to watch. I’d still pass out, but at least this time, I would already be in bed. The energy I had today was too precious to burn out.
My phone buzzed with a text right after I’d settled under the covers.
Landon:Sorry it’s late. FaceTime?
I glanced down at my tank top and shorts. I slept in a bralette under my shirts, loose enough to be comfortable but still kept my fuller-than-usual breasts from flopping around as I tossed and turned. I sifted my ponytail holder out of my hair and combed my fingers through the tangles.
Landon had seen me at much worse, as he’d been the one to hold my hair back as I’d puked on more drunken nights in college than I wanted to think about, and looking pretty for him shouldn’t have mattered.
