When he answers, his voice sounds tired. “What's up?”
“When is the appointment?” I ask.
I know this is a mistake. I just… oooo… I just have a feeling this is a mistake. But he was once my family. And it’s literally a serious phobia for him. I loved this man once, and if I’m eventually going to live in his house, which I probably will, because I do want to save up my money, and that’s the least he could do like he said, I’m going to have to compromise.
Even though I shouldn’t have to. Becausehe’sthe one who caused us both to be in this situation.
“Tomorrow at noon. 12:30.”
“You can send me the address.”
“Are you not coming in tomorrow?” he asks.
“Yeah?” I reply, feeling stupid.
“Then we can just leave together.”
“Fine,” I blurt, ending the call as I head inside the building.
??
“You have to eat something,” I prod.
“I’m too nervous to eat,” he replies.
“I know you are, but try anyway. It’s not going to be heavy on your stomach, it's just some boiled eggs with some lettuce and tomato.”
“Gabby—”
“Just eat it.”
“You remember I get nauseous every single time.”
“Yeah, and you only end up throwing up when you actually have nothing in your stomach because you’re already nauseous from being hungry. So please. Why are we doing the same song and dance every single time?”
Lincoln rolls his eyes and stuffs the boiled egg, lettuce, and tomatoes into his mouth.
We drive to the clinic, or rather, I drive because Lincoln is shaking. The closer we get, the more he hyperventilates, and it’s to the point where I can tell exactly where the clinic is, even if I didn’t know, just from how hard he’s breathing.
I find a parking spot and look over to my right at him in the passenger seat.
He’s just staring out the windshield, his eyes glassy with water, his chest heaving as he tries to control his breathing and fails. Eventually he has to open his mouth to breathe. I can see his pulse in his neck.
“Lincoln,” I say slowly, trying to get his attention. It’s like he can’t hear me. “Link?” I call out to him again.
It’s so natural I don’t even think about it, my right hand moves over to hold his left where it sits flat against his thigh.
“Lincoln,” I say in a tone so gentle I haven’t used with him in a long time.
He blinks and looks over at me. “I—I know. I’m so pathetic. I should have grown out of this.”
“You’re not pathetic for having a legitimate phobia. Everything’s going to be okay. I’ll be right here with you,” I say, falling right back into the role I played as his wife whenever I had to go with him to the doctor.
He swallows, and then his face goes pale. “I got to throw up,” he says, panicking as he tries to unlock the door. He finally gets it open and leans out of the car.
He gags, but nothing comes out.
I wait. Usually it’s not this bad.
