That sophomore year I’d been unable to play soccer during the spring season because of the intense knee pain and the swelling that I was experiencing. That was the tipping point that caused me to finally tell my dad I thought something might be wrong.
A trip to the doctor revealed swollen lymph nodes, aching joints, the butterfly-shaped rash, and painful ulcers that I hadn’t been able to explain. After running blood tests and a urinalysis, they confirmed the diagnosis: Lupus, an autoimmune condition that changed everything.
I’d been devastated, but after moving past the initial shock, I’d spent the next four years finding a new rhythm.
I took my diet seriously, did my best to reduce stress and rarely indulged in alcohol which always left me feeling terrible anyways. For the most part, with the combination of anti-inflammatory medication and routine monitoring, I felt I had things under control, and I was back to living again.
Lupus has no cure, so managing it is crucial, but my doctor has always reminded me that withSystemic Lupus Erythematosus, the form affecting multiple organs, life expectancy can be impacted. And unfortunately, of the four types of lupus that exist, that’s the kind that I have.
I roll over in Clay’s bed, fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt that I’d slipped over my bikini before falling asleep last night. It smells like him—hickory and leather—a comforting reminder ofwhere I’m at.
Hopping out of bed, I catch my reflection in his bathroom mirror and smile. My chestnut brown hair is a wild mess, but I still feel beautiful today. My curves have filled out more recently, mostly due to the extra weight that I’ve gained from my condition, but after a long, restful night of sleep, I feel good—better than I have in a long while. And for the first time, I’m excited about the summer months at home.
I shake my head at my reflection, allowing the waves to fall around my face.
What are you doing Maggie?
It had been impulsive, asking him for help last night. I was feeling emotional, imagining what it’d be like to have a mom who was excited about me coming home for the summer, or a dad who isn’t always working. That’s what led me to ask Clay to help me brainstorm a summer hobby. He’d made it clear he wouldn’t be getting involved, which is fine—I’d already let go of any hope that he’d ever see me differently. I thought I’d moved past it. But then he went and cared for me. Offered his apartment. Gave me his bed. Showed real concern about how I was feeling.
Of course, he did that. He’s just a nice guy. The nicest.He’d do that for any woman who asked him.
I glance at my watch, realizing I need to be at the town’s Co-op in just a few hours. So, I strip off his t-shirt and toss it into the waste basket feeling a little sad about parting ways with his delicious scent. Then I slip into the jean shorts I’d brought with me. Stepping into the living room, I call out, “Clay? Are you here?”
No response.
My feet take me to the kitchen island where I switch on his coffee maker as if I belong here. A sticky note attached to the bottom catches my eye.
**********
M-
Left for work.
Help yourself to whatever you want.
Hope you’re feeling better.
Wasn’t sure if you had cash. Here’s some money if you need to pay for a cab to get your car back at Lucy’s. Sorry I couldn’t take you myself.
C –
***************
My heart flutters slightly before I stop myself from going there.
He’d do this for anyone.
You’re not into him anymore.
You guys are just friends, mere acquaintances, at that.
He’s made that abundantly clear to you on one too many occurrences.
I nod my head at my reflection in the coffee maker after I finish my pep talk.
Glancing around his tidy apartment, I take survey of the place he calls home. It’s cold, almost clinical, nothing at all like the mismatched patterns at Cameron ranch or Clay’s personality, though I guess most days I really don’t know who he is or what version I’m going to get of him when we run into each other.
Well, he didn’t say no snooping.
