“Hey!” she calls out, her smile widening when she sees me. “I think I have a new best friend.” She scoops up the cat, who settles in her arms, purring.
“Sphinx is picky,” Tim says, standing up and looking impressed. “She must really like you.”
“She's a total sweetheart,” Maya says, scratching the cat's chin.
“Well, listen,” Tim says, stretching his arms over his head. “I'm heading over to the cider press restaurant for an early dinner. They're just firing up the wood-fired pizza oven. My treat. You guys in?”
I look at Maya. Her eyes are bright, and she's practically vibrating with happiness. “Wood-fired pizza? Absolutely, yes.”
“Awesome,” Tim says, grinning. “C'mon, I'll introduce you to the press master. He's even weirder than I am.”
Maya laughs, a real, easy sound that makes my heart do a stupid little jump. As she falls into step beside me, slipping her free hand into mine, I look at her. She's here. She's healthy. She's holding my hand, and she's smiling.
It's a good day. And I'm going to enjoy the hell out of it.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Zachary
The little tan bag of apples sits on the back seat, two large pumpkins are safe in the trunk, and the car is filled with the warm, sweet smell of hay and early autumn. It’s the perfect smell. It’s the smell of a perfect Saturday.
Maya is asleep in the passenger seat, her head resting against the window. The late afternoon sun angles through the glass, catching the red highlights in her brown hair and painting a stripe of gold across her cheek. Her breathing is deep and even, a soft, rhythmic sound under the rumble of the engine and the tires on the asphalt.
My own heart feels just as steady. I look at her, this incredible woman who fell asleep twenty minutes ago mid-sentence while describing the merits of Honeycrisp versus Gala apples, and I feel a profound, terrifying sense of rightness. This whole day—waking up early, driving from our seaside town with the windows down, getting lost in a corn maze, drinking hot cider that burned our tongues—has been easy.Sheis easy. With her,I'measy. The knot of anxiety that normally lives in my stomach,the one I’ve carried around for so long I stopped noticing it, is gone.
I let my thoughts drift. I think about dinner, about the apples we’ll fail to turn into a pie, about watching a movie on her couch, about waking up with her tomorrow. For the first time in what feels like a decade, I’m not mentally jumping ahead, not worrying about thenextthing, not planning my escape route. I’m just here. And “here” is pretty damn perfect.
We’re almost back. I see the familiar green sign for the Pine Island exit, the one that marks the bridge back onto the island. I'm slowing for the off-ramp when Maya makes a sound that cuts through the car’s quiet. It’s a gasp, a sharp, terrible intake of air, like she’s been stabbed.
My foot slams on the brake, and the car lurches. “What? What is it?”
Maya doesn't answer. Her eyes are squeezed shut, but she’s no longer sleeping. She’s rigid. Her entire body is braced, one hand gripping the ‘oh-shit’ handle above the door, the other clamped over her knee.
“Maya?” My voice is too loud. Panic, cold and sharp, shoots through my veins. “What's wrong? Are you hurt?”
“No,” she hisses. The word is tight, brittle. She winces, a violent, full-body shudder. “Just... drive. Please, just... get me home.”
“I’m not driving anywhere until you tell me what’s happening.”
She turns her head toward me, and the woman I was looking at two minutes ago—the one who was soft and golden and peaceful—is gone. This woman is pale, drawn. There are deep lines of pain carved around her mouth, and her eyes, when she finally opens them, are swimming in tears she refuses to let fall.
“It’s a flare,” she grits out, her voice a strained whisper. “My joints. It’s... it’s just a bad one. Oh, God.” Another wince takes her, and she curls in on herself, her forehead touching her knees.
My heart is a trapped bird in my chest. It’s beating a million miles a minute, hammering against my ribs so hard I’m sure she can hear it. This is it. This is the thing she told me about, the “bad days” she’d mentioned with a casual, dismissive wave of her hand.I have lupus,she'd said.Sometimes it just... flares up. It’s no big deal.
This looks like a very, very big deal.
She looks miserable. She looks... broken. And I am utterly, terrifyingly useless. My mind is a blank, white static. I can fix a leaking pipe. I can fix a kindergartner’s boo-boo with an ice pack and a Mickey Mouse Band-Aid. I cannotfixthis. I swallow the rock of panic that’s risen in my throat. My emotions don't matter right now. Hers are the only ones that count.
I pull the car over onto the shoulder of the ramp and throw on the hazard lights. I turn in my seat, keeping my voice as level and calm as I can manage. “Okay. Tell me what to do. How can I help?”
She stays curled over, her breathing fast and shallow. “Nothing,” she whispers. “There’s... there's nothing you can do. It just has to... pass. I just need to get home.”
“Maya,” I say, and my voice is firmer now. “Look at me.”
It takes a long moment, but she slowly, painfully uncurls. She keeps her face turned away, hiding her expression from me.
“Hey,” I say softly. I reach out, not to touch her, but just to rest my hand on the center console, palm up. An offering. “I know you’re strong. I know you’re the most capable person I’ve ever met. I know you can handle this. But you don'thaveto handle it alone. Not with me. Asking for help doesn't mean you're not strong. It just means you're human.”
