"Cancel," I said aloud, ordering myself. "Just cancel. Text her that something came up. Block her number. Done."
My hands didn't move toward my phone.
"Coward," I added, for good measure.
The pill organizer sat on the bathroom counter like a tiny plastic monument to my body's betrayal. Seven compartments, seven daily reminders that I was on a rollercoaster of misery. I popped open MORNING and stared at the capsules inside, carbidopa-levodopa, the chemical leash for the tremor, plus asmaller one for the rigidity that crept into my muscles if I sat still too long.
"Bon appétit," I muttered, and swallowed them dry.
Timing was everything. An hour late, and my right side would lock up, the tremor becoming a violent, uncontrollable shake I couldn't hide from anyone. The medication was a tightrope, and I walked it every single day.
Downstairs, the physical therapy printouts were still spread across the coffee table where I'd left them two weeks ago. Balance exercises. Stretches for rigidity. Gait training. Smiling silver-haired models demonstrating poses with the ease of people whose bodies still obeyed basic commands.
I was supposed to do these five times a week. I managed them maybe once every two weeks, which was probably optimal for my sense of denial if nothing else.
"What's the point?" I asked myself out loud. "Maintaining a body that's falling apart anyway?"
The empty living room offered no counterargument.
My phone buzzed on the kitchen counter. I knew who it was before I looked.
Charlotte
Hi Miles. Still on for 2 PM at the diner? Looking forward to it.
I stared at the message. The rational part of my brain, the part that had gotten me through law school and a successful career, screamed at me to cancel. To type something polite and final.Something came up. Sorry. Best of luck with everything.
My fingers hovered over the screen.
Looking forward to it.
Four words. An invitation I didn't deserve.
The pull toward her was physical and undeniable, like gravity; I couldn't escape no matter how hard I tried. I'd resisted it for fifteen years, and one night had undone all of it.
"You're going to regret this," I told myself.
Then I typed.
Miles
See you then.
The send button felt like a point of no return.
The diner on Main Street hadn't changed. Same red vinyl booths, cracked in familiar places. Same smell of grease, coffee, and maple syrup. Same faint hum of the refrigerator case by the register. Time had left this place preserved in amber, and walking in was like stepping into a memory.
Charlotte was already there, in our booth… the one in the back corner by the window where we'd agonized over calculus and shared chocolate milkshakes with two straws. She was studying the menu, a small smile playing on her lips, wearing a soft cream sweater that made her look warm and real and impossibly beautiful.
She looked up as I approached, and her smile widened. "Hey, you."
"Hey." I slid into the opposite seat, the vinyl creaking its familiar welcome. "You found it."
"Some things you don't forget." Her eyes held mine, warm with something I didn't deserve. "I was worried you might not come."
"Why?"
"You had that look last night. When you said goodbye." She tilted her head, studying me. "Like you were already planning your escape."
