“That was high school,” I mumble, looking at my chipped toenail polish. “A million years ago.”
She sits on the edge of her bed, the mattress creaking with familiar sound. “Look, I'm sorry for how this came across. I hear you, I know how rough it's been these last six months. I just—I think it would cheer you up some to date. Don't you want to find someone?”
The question lodges between my ribs like a splinter. Yes, once upon a time I wanted to find a partner, wanted the whole fairy tale. I thought that partner was Oliver. I thought we were building something real. Ever since then, though, I haven't had the spoons for dating. Haven't had the energy to risk that kind of hurt again.
All my energy goes to my practice, teaching yoga, treating patients who trust me with their pain. Everything else goes tokeeping my health under control—the medications, the compression stockings hidden under my pants, the salt tablets I carry everywhere. I've meticulously created a life that works. Thirty hours a week with a thirty-minute midday nap in my office with the door locked. But even those thirty hours mean every decision gets filtered through: will this help or hurt? My whole life is geared toward feeling as good as I can as often as possible.
What little remains goes to my friends, and after making the mistake I did in New York with neglecting friendships, I would die before letting that happen on Pine Island. Especially with my closest friends, who all have chronic illnesses like me and understand me better than anyone else in the world.
“What if you just try it out?” My sister presses, leaning forward. “If the date is awful, text me and I'll call you with a fake emergency so that you have to leave. I'll say Dad fell off a ladder or something.”
I snort despite myself. “Everyone knows that trick by now. It’s in every romantic comedy since cell phones.”
“Do you really care if he does?”
“No,” I admit.
“Great.” She reaches out and pokes my thigh gently. “I'll give you my new lace-up ankle boots to wear.”
I narrow my eyes. Jemma’s very protective of her clothes—a habit from having a sister the same size who’s been raiding her closet since middle school. The boots were a Christmas present from Dad, and she must have noticed me drooling when she opened the box. Italian leather, buttery soft, with laces that wrap around the ankle.
“Give,” she emphasizes. “Not loan. They're yours forever.”
“I could just go online and order myself a pair.”
“Really? You wanna do that?” She raises an eyebrow. “Because I looked them up, and they're almost five hundreddollars.”
“Shit.” My eyes widen. Dad really went overboard this year.
She laughs, the tension finally breaking. “Come on, sis. What do you have to lose?”
I sit on the edge of my own bed, springs protesting softly, really considering the proposition for the first time. The familiar bedspread feels rough under my palms. I've been managing my spoons pretty well lately, finding a rhythm. And maybe I would like to pursue a relationship again one day. Maybe it's time to stop letting Oliver's ghost dictate my choices.
Plus going out with Billy can be good practice. Low stakes. If I don't want to gouge my eyes out by the end of the night, then okay, I can give dating on Pine Island a try.
Not that there are many young, available men on the island. The population skews toward retirees and families. Except for…
No. Am I seriously thinking about Oliver again? My brain needs to stop going there. Assholes like him aren't “available.” Not in any way that matters.
“Fine. I'll do it,” I announce, mostly because dating might be exactly what I need to get my mind off Oliver. To prove I've moved on. That I'm ready for something new.
If nothing else, I'll get a great pair of boots out of it.
Chapter Six
Oliver
“How do I know when to flip it?” I stare at the pancake sizzling on the stove. The thing looks more like a hockey puck than something you’d willingly put in your mouth. The batter’s too thick, maybe. Or too thin. Hell if I know.
“When there are little bubbles all around the edges.” Niall’s voice comes from right behind my shoulder, patient as always.
“How many little bubbles?” I frown into the skillet, trying to count.
“It’s kind of intuitive. The more pancakes you make, the better you’ll know the right time to flip.”
Great. Intuition—one of my weakest traits.
“How about now?” I grab the spatula and flip before he can answer. The pancake flops sideways, raw batter oozing across the skillet like something that crawled out of a science experiment.
