We have a Chronic Pain Crafters shared calendar where all of our medical appointments go—color-coded and synced to everyone’s phones. Maya’s are purple, Hannah’s are green, Alexis’s are pink, and mine are blue. The calendar looks like a rainbow ofmedical necessity, but it means none of us ever face these appointments alone.
It’s lonely and crushing, journeying through the mysteries of chronic conditions that not every medical provider even believes in. Even when you’re seeing a great doctor who actually listens, who doesn’t dismiss your symptoms as anxiety or suggest you just need to lose weight, it helps to have a friend there. Someone who understands why you’re gripping the armrest when the nurse says, “Let’s check your weight,” or why your voice shakes when you list your symptoms for the hundredth time. It makes everything a little less scary.
My phone beeps, the sound cutting through the waiting room’s forced calm. The sight of Oliver’s name on the screen makes my heart do that ridiculous flip it’s been doing since I was nineteen years old. We haven’t talked or seen each other since his appointment with me earlier this week—I had to cover for Jasmine when she got that stomach bug that’s been going around, which meant missing both Tuesday and Thursday hockey practices.
I expected the time apart to give me some space to think, to let my brain catch up with everything that’s happening between us. But all that’s happened is that I’ve missed him terribly.
Opening his text, I find a message telling me that the new routine I gave him is going well, that he “already feels different from it.” There’s a photo attached—his wrist in the stretch I showed him, perfect form.
I bite into my smile, feeling the corners of my eyes crinkle, then realize I’m giddy from getting the text. Giddy! Like I’m some teenager with her first crush instead of a thirty-three-year-old physical therapist who should know better.
It’s so odd, this muscle memory of him. I deleted his number the day we broke up, my fingers shaking as I hit confirm on the deletion. But it didn’t really matter. I alreadyhad it memorized—every digit burned into my brain like a brand. I never forgot it, even when I wanted to.
I was purposeful after that breakup. Deliberate in my avoidance. Not once did I look him up online, though my fingers itched to type his name into search bars late at night. I never asked anyone how he was doing. I didn’t follow him on social media, didn’t follow hockey at all.
The only reason I knew his team made it to the championships the last time was because one of the players—Jason something—is from Pine Island and his family threw a party in his honor that took over the entire town square. Half the island showed up wearing jerseys. That was the one time I seriously thought about texting him. I’d typed out five different messages, deleted them all. A few years had passed and we hadn’t spoken once. Our time together had passed and going down that road again wouldn’t be good for me. Or so I’d told myself, standing in my kitchen at midnight, phone in hand.
“What are you smiling about?” Maya’s voice holds that knowing tone, the one that says she already has her suspicions.
I put the phone down, screen facing the worn magazines on the side table. “It’s silly. It’s just Oliver telling me the exercises I gave him are helping his wrist.”
“That’s not silly.” She closes her laptop with a soft click, abandoning next week’s lesson plans.
“Do you really think this is a good idea? Seeing him?” The words tumble out before I can stop them. “I know Alexis and Flick think it’s crazy, and I couldn’t even handle kissing him without running away like my hair was on fire, and?—”
“What do you think?” Her dark eyes hold mine steady. “That’s all that matters.”
I sigh, feeling the weight of the question settle in my chest. “I want to see what can happen between us. If I don’t, I’ll always regret not trying. I’ll be ninety years old, sitting on my porch,wondering what if. Despite how scary it is. Despite how much it might hurt.”
“He’s clearly into you.”
“I know.” I chew on my lip, tasting the cherry lip balm I applied in the car. “I was surprised he even accepted my offer for a session. Back when we were together, he was always against any help. Even regular maintenance things that every other athlete did without question—ice baths, massages, stretching routines—he resisted like I was suggesting he was broken. It was so weird. Other athletes practically lived in ice baths, had standing appointments with massage therapists, but not Oliver. One time after a particularly brutal game, I said I would give him a shoulder rub and he snapped that he wasn’t weak.”
Her eyebrows knit together, creating that little crease she gets when she’s processing something troubling. “That’s extreme.”
“I know... This week was different. He admitted that he was in pain, actually said the words out loud. And he did something about it. Not just pushed through it, grinding his teeth and pretending everything was fine.”
“Life gave him a serious beatdown.” She shifts in her chair, the vinyl squeaking. “It’s hard to stay the same when you go through such a huge change. Sometimes getting knocked down is the only way we learn we need help getting back up.”
Her words hang in the air between us.
“But what are you going to do next?” she continues, leaning forward with her elbows on her knees.
“I guess... Since I was the one who said we were moving too fast, since I’m the one who ran away from that kiss like a scared rabbit, I should make the next move. Ask him out on a date. A real date, not just professional appointments and run ins at the rink.”
Even though I’m pretty sure Oliver is still interested—basedon how he looked at me at the clinic, like I was water and he’d been wandering in the desert—the thought of asking him out makes my palms sweat. Not once in my life have I asked a man on a date. Not even in college when everyone said it was empowering. I’d always waited, let them come to me, which probably says something about those conflict-avoidance issues Maya keeps pointing out.
Our conversation is cut off by a nurse in SpongeBob scrubs coming to get me. “Devin? We’re ready for you.”
Maya and I follow her through the hallways that smell like disinfectant and something vaguely floral—probably whatever air freshener they use to mask the medical smell. The nurse’s shoes squeak against the linoleum in a rhythm that matches my elevated heartbeat. They’re unusually up to speed today, no forty-minute wait that leaves you wondering if they’ve forgotten you exist.
There’s no time to keep talking about Oliver in between the nurse asking about my medications—same as last month—and my symptoms—mostly manageable—before Doctor Warner comes in, knocking perfunctorily before entering.
“Good morning,” he says cheerily, his white coat pristine and his tablet already in hand. “How have things been going?”
“Good.” I nod vigorously, maybe too vigorously, like I’m trying to convince us both. “I’ve been taking it slow when I transition to standing or sitting, and I haven’t fainted at all. Not even that gray-out feeling. The only issue I’ve been having is with sleep.”
“That can be a part of the chronic fatigue syndrome.” His fingers tap across his tablet screen. “Is there anything different about these bouts of sleeplessness? Has anything changed, like how long you’re awake for? Are we talking about initial insomnia, middle insomnia, or early morning awakening?”
