Page 70 of The Turning of the Tables

It’s weirder when they tell you they hope you feel better. Because if you saythanks, I won’t, they get upset, but I also find it a bit offensive that they want me to just magicallyfeel betterwhen I’ve spent most of my life dealing with this condition. It’s also not great when they ask if you’ve tried whatever new trend or snake oil thing they just read about on social media—although there have been times when someone has suggested something worth trying. But that tended to be the one-in-a-thousand sort of thing based on actual research shared by ILADS, the International Lyme and Associated Diseases Society, or one of their partners.

“Do you take anything for it?” Elliot asked me.

“Not really. Almost nothing helps,” I told him. “Part of the fun of chronic Lyme.”

“Shit. I’m sorry.”

I shrugged again, pointless though it was. “Not your fault.”

“I know, but still.” He took a breath. “You know, I bet my dad would have had something...”

I waited for him to finish the sentence, but he fell silent. “Something?” I prompted.

“Dad grew medicinal herbs. Anti-inflammatory things. That kind of shit. He used to make compounds and salves and stuff for some of the locals.” Then he sighed. “I probably should have paid more attention.”

“Oh,” was all I could think of to say. What were you supposed to say?Sorry you didn’t pay attention to your murdered dad when he was alive so you can give me some sort of remedy for my pain?Even sick, I knew that would be a shitty, self-centered thing to say.

“Maybe Henry knows,” Elliot said, then.

“Henry?” I felt a stab of completely irrational jealousy. Whoever this Henry was, I didn’t like the idea of Elliot spending time with him. Not that I had any claim whatsoever on Elliot’s time or person. Especially since he’d probably known this Henry a lot longer than he’d known me.

“Henry’s an old friend of Dad’s,” Elliot replied. “Basically the grandfather I never had.”

Then I felt extra stupid, because I really had no cause to be jealous of Henry, since he was apparently old enough to be considered a grandpa. “Oh.”

“I—I should probably talk to him. He might know something that could help. If—if you wanted me to.”

I wasn’t used to Elliot sounding at all uncertain. “Sure. I mean. I’ll try pretty much anything once.” I didn’t tell him that pot worked, but that I tried not to use it too often because I didn’t want to build up a tolerance. And because I wasn’t about to use it if I had to go to work, because going to work a crime scene high was a terrible idea on so many fronts. I also wasn’t sure what Elliot would think of the factthat I use marijuana. Some people are judgy, and while Elliot didn’t seem like the type, I really didn’t know him all that well.

It was a reminder that I was talking about my fears with a stranger more than with my own twin.

I’d told myself that Noah didn’t need to deal with my freakouts and anxiety. It’s why I’d told him I was tired and hid in my room, swallowing back my tears because he had really damn good hearing. Because I didn’t want Noah to think that I didn’t want to be like him—I didn’t, but I knew that it would hurt him if he knew. I didn’t lie to him—I admitted I was scared, but I made it sound like I was worried aboutdying, not transforming. I was worried about dying. I was just also afraid to become what my brother was.

What Elliot was.

It’s just that, for some reason, I was willing to say it to Elliot, when I wasn’t willing to admit it to Noah.

This relationship—whatever it was or wasn’t—had red flags all over it. I was vulnerable, needy, coming off a long-term relationship that I really hadn’t recovered from. I had no business becoming invested in a man half a country away who had already made it clear he wasn’t interested in anything emotional or romantic. And because he wasn’t interested, I shouldn’t be unloading my emotional shit on him.

I had to stop.

“Elliot?”

“Yeah?”

“Thanks for calling.” I tried to sound pleasant. I knew I failed, but I hoped that it would at least convince him that I was less anxious. That he had helped.

And he had, a little. But he’d also prodded wounds that I shouldn’t even have. Wounds that transferred my fearsabout Arcana to my worry that I’d already lost too much of my heart and was going to have it shattered all over again. And he’d never even know that he was the reason for my heartbreak. He’d probably never even know my heart had been broken.

“Of course.” He sounded a little confused.

“I’m going to try to nap, I think,” I said. And I would. I would fail, but I would try.

“Okay,” he said, still sounding a little odd. “I hope you feel better.”

“Thanks.”

“And… Seth?”