Page 10 of Fearlessly Us

“It would be my greatest pleasure to be your sourdough purveyor,” I say to Maya, chuckling to myself when Caitlin stiffens next to me and Oliver lets out a quiet little growl.

“How did you get into baking anyway?” Maddy asks, looking at me curiously.

I shrug casually, even though baking is the one thing I feel anything but casual about. “Just something I picked up. Being a student athlete was intense, and it was something to take my mind off the never-ending grind of football and classes. And living with other football players in college means there were always people around to eat what I baked.”

“He’s not kidding,” Cam says with a grin. “When the rest of us would drag ourselves out of bed for early morning practice, Drew would already be in the kitchen taking sourdough loaves out of the oven, and the second we got home from practice, we would demolish them. He prepped it the night before too. We were all the happy beneficiaries of his dedication to his craft, even though I still have no idea how he did it or when he even slept.”

I didn’t, I think, just as the back of my neck prickles, and I don’t have to look to my right to know Caitlin’s eyes are on me again. I can feel it, just as I can practically hear the gears in her brain turning, putting the pieces of me together. Normally, someone paying this much attention to me, trying to figure me out, would have me immediately on guard, covering up with grins and laughs and the devil-may-care attitude I’m known for. Maybe opening my social media and posting some sort of ridiculous picture just to hammer home the message I portray to the world. I am better than fine, and I am living the dream.

But this time I don’t do any of that.

Because sitting in this happy kitchen surrounded by noise and laughter, I realize that when it’s Caitlin trying to figure me out, not only do I not hate it, but I kind of wish she would never stop.

CHAPTER THREE

CAITLIN

I shoot up as my ringing phone yanks me into consciousness. My limbs are heavy, my head feels like it’s filled with cotton, and I have no idea if I’ve been sleeping for fifteen minutes or fifteen hours. A glance at the clock tells me it’s just after ten—still in the morning, I assume, from the light filling the room—and it takes me a second to remember how I ended up here until I see my open laptop, a legal pad, four of my favorite pens, and the wrappers from at least seven mini-Snickers bars strewn on the empty side of my bed.

Yep, it was an escape behind a closed door and bury my complicated and confusing feelings for a man I should hate but actually kind of don’t in work and chocolate situation. I must have fallen asleep pondering the fact that I no longer seem to want to tear off Drew’s balls and feed them to him, and I really don’t know what that’s all about.

I blame his haunted eyes in the kitchen. It turns out I have no defense against the sadness that lives in the deep brown.

Satisfied I haven’t accidentally slept for an entire day and happy for the distraction from the man, I swipe to answer the phone, praying the Pittsburgh number isn’t a client calling to give me more vacation work.

“Hello?” I answer, bringing the phone to my ear.

“Hi, can I speak to Caitlin Parker please?” The woman’s voice on the other end is clipped and businesslike.

“This is Caitlin.”

“Hi, Ms. Parker, this is Gloria from Dr. Elaine McNamera’s office. I’m calling because an appointment just opened up, and you’re next on our waitlist. Would you like us to put you on the schedule?”

My heart leaps into my throat and my hand involuntarily tightens on the phone. I get a phantom pain in my lower abdomen, as if it wants to remind me exactly why I’ve been waiting with varying amounts of patience for this call.

I’ve had heavy, unpredictable, and often ferociously painful periods since I was fourteen. I’ve mentioned it to doctor after doctor over the years, but no one ever had any answers for me beyond this is just how it is, and I believed them, even though none of the women I know suffered the way I did. I survived month after month on a steady cocktail of ibuprofen, heating pads, and super plus tampons and pads so thick they might as well be diapers, most of my life revolving around when I would get my period and how bad it would be.

It wasn’t pleasant, but I managed.

But over the last four or so years, it’s gotten worse, and with no doctor able to diagnose me with anything beyond bad luck and Sometimes being a woman sucks, have a birth control prescription for your troubles which is, evidently, what passes for diagnosis and treatment in women’s health circles these days, I channeled my lawyer brain into figuring it out on my own. Like the summa cum laude law school grad I was, I devoured every article I could find and had conversations with anyone who would talk to me. I studied and researched and connected dots and spent at least a day or so every month with cramps so debilitating I legitimately thought I might die. Every single thing I could find pointed in one direction.

Endometriosis.

Three different doctors told me it wasn’t possible since they didn’t see it on a scan, and two others dismissed my concerns without doing any kind of exam at all, telling me cramps are normal and to try alternating ibuprofen with Tylenol since that can be more effective than ibuprofen alone. They mentioned sometimes warm baths can be helpful and that a lot of women see period pain resolve once they’ve experienced a pregnancy, as if it’s a given pregnancy is something every woman wants or can have.

Thanks for fucking nothing.

Radicalized by rage over the way doctor after doctor dismissed my pain as, essentially, the cost of being a person with a uterus, I started looking around for endometriosis specialists and found out Dr. Elaine McNamera, one of the leading endo researchers in the country, is right in Pittsburgh, and I immediately got on her waiting list for an appointment, hoping something would open up sooner than the initial ten-month wait.

Now that it has, I’m surprised to find my reaction is less excited anticipation and more stomach-churning dread, and I’m actively considering turning down the spot.

“Ms. Parker, are you still there?”

Get your shit together, Caitlin, I mentally chastise myself. I don’t do avoidance, and I definitely don’t do prevarication. I have one speed, and it’s jump in with both feet and solve the problem in front of me. Squaring my shoulders, I turn my attention back to the phone.

“I’m still here. I’ll take the appointment. Thank you so much for calling.”

“Great,” she says, all business. “Let me just get some information from you.”