Independent.
That part stuck the most. Independence became armor. A skill. A damn religion. When the army came along, I fit right in. Discipline, structure, self-reliance—those were things I could do. Things I could excel at. If I kept my head down and my boots moving, no one could say I wasn’t enough.
Even now, at thirty-eight, independence is still the only thing that feels like mine.
And it’s fading fast.
I feel it slipping away a little more each day. Every spasm, every stumble, every button that won’t fasten—it’s like my free will is being burned alive by this god-awful electric current inside me.
And worse, I can do nothing to stop it.
Finally, dressed and ready, I sit at my dining table with a mug of coffee that tastes burnt even though I just made it. I scroll mindlessly on my phone to pass the time. I have two hours still before I need to be at the bar.
A notification pops up from an old friend, his name bringing a small sense of relief that’s immediately undercut by the guilt tightening in my chest.
I scroll up to read through his earlier messages, each one left unanswered.
One sent three days ago:Hey, man. You alive? It’s been a while.
Sent yesterday:Seriously, Stone. Check in.
And now, today:I’m getting worried, Stoney. Call me.
The timing is suspicious. Six months of radio silence andnowAce is poking his ugly head in? It’s like he knows I’m going through something.
But that’s Ace for you. He’d always had a keen intuition about our team. Plus, he’s always seen through my façade. Ace is the only one who really knows me.
I type back:Busy week, I guess. I’m good, though. Promise.
My thumb hovers over the send button. Lying to Ace doesn’t sit well, not after all we’ve been through.
I try again:Sorry. All good.
But it’s still a lie. It isn’t good, and it likely won’t be for a long time—if ever.
There is nothing I can say that would be truthfulandreassuring. So I send nothing. Let silence do the lying for me.
Closing my eyes, I set the phone face down on the table and push it away. Like that will make the guilt quieter. Ace is the only person who makes an effort to be in my life. The least I can do is make an effort back. But really, what can I say? If I told him my life is hell because my body is failing me, he’d probably just point to his prosthetic leg and say, “Join the club.”
I shouldn’t complain. I really shouldn’t. There are people out there who have it worse than me—he’s one of them. But I just need… I don’t know. Time, I guess? A chance to figure shit out.
I’ll call him when I know something.
My hand tightens around the mug, a dead weight filling the pit of my stomach. It’s the same thing I keep saying for everyone else.Later. I’ll tell themlater. Like time will make any of thiseasier. It’s all a goddamn lie. If my doctor is right, there won’t be anyeasierat all.
Shake and anger swirl in my blood, so I search for something to pour the energy into. Something tangible. Errands. Errands will work. They’re a good, busy distraction. And they don’t ask questions.
After pocketing my phone, I force myself into action. Laundry, grocery run, swinging by the pharmacy for more pain cream. All good things. Productive things. Useful things—unlike my damn body.
The air feels thick today; the sky darkens as I check each box on my list, like the stormoutsideand the oneinsideare racing to see which can break me first.
Finally, after hauling two loads of laundry back upstairs, I sit down to sort through it until it’s time to go.
What an exciting life I lead—that managing a pile of clothes makes me feel accomplished. Still, it’s the most I’ve managed in a few days.
By the time I get to the bar, I’m exhausted. Which means it’ll be harder to hide my symptoms. Only Melody, Oliver, and Declan are here so far. Melody and Oliver are unloading freight in the storage room, so I grab a box and head to the kitchen. My lower back screams and my spine locks up for a second, nearly making me drop the produce.
I bite back a curse and grip the counter.
