And it’s going to happen again. And again. And again. It’s what it does. Nothing will ever be like it would be with someone without this disease.
It’s frustrating and hellish with me when it’s supposed to be a release and joyous.
I squirm in bed next to the restful sleeper. He doesn’t know. He’s just seen the tip of the endo iceberg. It’d be selfish to be happy. A ton of self-loathing thoughts prod my conscience. But that’s all they are, thoughts. They’re not me.
The strong arm draped over my side tightens around me, and the warmth of the sun radiates and eradicates the dark clouds looming overhead.
There will be time to spiral over these things. I tell my mind to be quiet, deciding today that it’s okay to be incandescently happy for once.
16
Donut Stop Believin’
Fingersdelicatelytrailtheedge of my abdomen. My legs tangle with Liam’s in his navy sheets, and I wrestle with the fabric barrier for freedom. Finally breaking loose, I drag my foot over his lower calf, reveling in the low murmur that vibrates his body pressed tight against my back.
One week ago, I’d never awoken in the same bed with anyone I was romantic with, not even Michel, and now it’s dangerously close to becoming a habit I don’t want to break.
We still haven’t explored each other beyond the boundaries of a few heavy kisses.
Not that I don’t want to go further.
I do—desperately.Even the slight graze of his fingers curls my toes.
But after my ill-timed pain last week, I’m anxious to let him see me at my most vulnerable, the part where I always feel broken no matter what I do.
Liam doesn’t seem to mind, or if he does, he’s not acting on it, content with going as far as I take us, and his patience is becoming another virtue I add to my growing list of things I admire and love about him.
Liam’s lips fall hot against my neck, and a cascade of light kisses follows.
“Morning,” I happily sigh.
“Happy birthday,” he hums against my ear, his raspy morning voice warming my chest better than a good cup of tea ever could.
My finger slides against the bicep curling under my neck.
In recent years, waking up with a case of the birthday-sads had become as much of a tradition as cake and my mom’s passive-aggressive text messages, which always send me into a spiral over the milestones I hadn’t hit yet and probably wouldn’t.
Like having a decent job.
Or kids.
Everything felt stagnant—like I was falling further behind the rest of my friends, battling to just survive and keep whatever footing I had in this world and never progressing forward.
And for the longest time, this birthday in particular terrified me. It’s my Charlotte Lucas birthday. I looked at it, saw the no prospects, no money, and growing to be an increasing burden on my parents’ psyche lining up just so, and much like Charlotte Lucas, I was frightened.
But today—instead of doom and aging gloom, I feel good. Optimistic, even.
“Best birthday wake-up ever.” I smile. He ventures under my shirt, and I lean back into him. “I think spooning is my new favorite hobby.”
A ribbon of shimmers follows the wake of Liam’s touch, stirring the butterflies awake. They’ve become a welcomed intrusion these days.
“Mine too.” His fingers graze my waistband, and I tense, anxious with anticipation.
I’m not a virgin, but I might as well be an honorary one, my depth of experience being limited to a few mediocre college tries with Michel. When it was clear my body couldn’t handle penetration in general, and it wasn’t just the typical first-time pain, we stopped, agreeing that friendship was the best course of action. Another thing that faded quickly when I couldn’t bring myself to leave the confines of my heating pad long enough for parties and other outings.
And then, that was kind of it.
I didn’t put myself out there for other guys. Thought it was best not to think about that part of my life for sanity’s sake. I had too many other things to worry about anyway. But Liam’s been the temptation I never had, and I want to scratch that itch. Even if I’m terrified about the aftermath.
