She nods and drops down beside me on the cold, hard floor.
“Aren’t you gonna miss your physics thing?” I ask, still sniffling.
She shrugs. “Nah. I’ve got time.” Her chin rests in her palm, and her eyes meet mine, round and curious. “So… you finally gonna tell me what’s going on?”
Peyton’s pushy, but in this strangely respectful way. Like she’s always listening, even when she’s needling me. She asks but never demands. At Pineview, when I needed space, she gave it to me but sat closely. Waiting. Not prying, just present. When I told her about the RA, it was the same. No fixing. No claims of alternative medicine that have been proven by nobody but a church in Arkansas. She just listened.
It’s terrifying.
I’m scared that she’s filling the void that helped me keep my balance. That the weight of her presence in my life has tipped the scales of my cynicism, pushing me toward something dangerously close to contentment.
You know, when she’s not completely driving me up a wall.
“It’s stupid,” I say.
She grins crookedly. “Stupid’s my favorite.”
I narrow my eyes. “What does that make me?”
“Are you suggesting you’re my favorite?” Her brow arches victoriously.
Fuck.
I roll my eyes, biting back a somber smile. “Whatever.”
My fingers dance nervously along the edge of my phone, and I gather the courage to look into those golden, glowing eyes.
“I got some blood tests done,” I admit finally, my voice dropping at the end. I straighten my posture best I can, and continue. “And an ultrasound.”
Her expression drops even more than I expect. But the strange thing is, it doesn’t bother me this time. Maybe it’s because I know Peyton doesn’t pity me like others. She feels bad, sure. But she doesn’t let me wallow. She doesn’t let it consume me.
“How bad is it?” she asks softly.
I shrug. “Not great. I haven’t read the full treatment plan though. I’m…scared.”
Admitting that for the first time makes me nauseous, but it’s also relieving. I’m tired of pretending that this isn’t scary. That waking up every day not knowing to what extent you’ll be able to function is daunting. It’s not just about pain, or exhaustion. It’s about how much of life I will miss out on because my vessel hates me.
Peyton places a palm over the top of my hand, tracing her thumb over the seam of my glove. “Do you want me to read it to you?”
My eyes snap to hers in surprise. “You would do that?”
She smiles. “For you, I’d read the goddamn dictionary.”
My eyes begin to well again, so I look away as I hand her the phone. The entire time I stare at a crevice in the hardwood oak floors, her hand stays on top of mine, smoothing across my gloved knuckles.
“Ready?” she asks.
I nod.
“Following the review of blood labs and ultrasound results, my findings conclude that the patient continues to show evidence of active Rheumatoid Arthritis, indicated by—”
“Could you, maybe, just read what it says about treatment?” I ask hesitantly. I feel bad. She’s trying to help. But listening to all the medical talk is something I just can’t handle right now.
“Right,” she says, fingertips tapping against the screen as she scrolls. She clears her throat. “The plan is to increase yourDMARDs, start physical therapy, and get an arthroscopy for the knee effusion and tendon damage. Also surgery on the pinky, and a brace for your wrist.”
Everything goes numb. I stare blankly at the sea of people moving through the room and wonder how many of them are doing the same. How many are shutting out their pain, hiding the broken parts so no one looks at them differently. I wonder how many had their dreams stolen by a diagnosis, and if any of them have found new ones worth chasing.
Even though it was naive, some small part of me believed AIHL could be it. That I could re-form hockey to something that included people like me. But I’ve heard nothing from Peyton’s dad. And asking would only invite disappointment I’m not prepared for.
