Page 56 of Lift Me Up

Clearly, he had exhausted all options, and now, his last resort is consulting Franny to plan his sister’s party. It brings me back to the elevator conversation when Noah told me about Sienna’s pregnancy and having to plan this event. It seemed like so long ago now, and part of me wishes I could forget the elevator completely, but to forget the situation is to forget how Noah and I met, and I would never want to forget that.

Franny shakes her head in disapproval and scoffs, “This is…”

“Pitiful, an absolute disgrace, I am an idiot sandwich. But Franny, if you don’t at least show me the bare bones of what I need to do, Sienna’s not going to have a party and I will go down in history as the worst brother ever. So please, help?” Noah gives her a pleading look, and just like how he charms me with a single look, she must find it impossible to say no to him.

Franny looks up at me, where I’ve leaned on the back of the chair to listen in to their conversation. She gives me a small smile and then looks back to Noah. “Fine, I will help you. But only because your sister sounds sweet, and she sent me cookies and because it’s her first baby. It’s not for you. Now, let’s talk about the theme.”

I excuse myself as the two of them start to work out the details of the party, and I distract myself with dishes, tuning in every so often to hear Franny affectionately tell Noah he’s ‘got the planning abilities of a wet noodle’. Humming as I work, I start to swish my hips and dance to the song in my head. No matter how hard I try, I can’t place the song I’m singing. It’s the worst. Glancing over my shoulder, I see my little shadow watching me closely from the door.

Noah trained her almost too well and she takes her job very seriously. It’s precious, and I can’t wait to make her officially mine. I’ve put in my formal application for her adoption, but Noah doesn’t know that yet. I plan to tell him when it’s finalized, if I get selected. I don’t want to tell him ahead of time and break his heart if it doesn’t go through.

His optimism and bright outlook on life and his never shaken ‘treat people with kindness’ attitude are just a few of the many reasons why I love him. The breath catches at the back of my throat, I have to remind myself to breathe again before they notice and ask questions. Had you told me that just a few months ago I would admit or be able to even acknowledge the feelings I have for Noah are actual feelings, I’d laugh it off and tell you you’re lying. I haven’t been in love in so long I almost forgot what it felt like. But how could I not love him?

How could I not feel something for the man who was there for me in the most traumatic experience of my life to date? How could I not fall when I saw this man give his time and energy, and every ounce of his heart and soul to ensure every dog at PPP has a place to call home and a loving family to call their own? How could I not want him when he trained my foster dog to take care of me when he can’t be there and I can't take care of myself? When he is so effortlessly perfect, I couldn't imagine ever knowing a part of Noah that could be considered bad, no matter how hard I try to find something that makes him seem normal, imperfect in some way? It’s absolutely terrifying to fall so quickly, so wholeheartedly, and to not know if he feels or ever will feel the same. Because this isn’t a game, if something were to go wrong now, it's not only my heart, or Noah's heart that gets broken. Birdie is just as big a part of all this.

My phone buzzes on the nearby counter, so I dry my hands on the kitchen towel and tap to see who it is calling me. My doctor’s office flashes across my screen, and though I am tempted to just ignore the call, I can’t deny that there’s a part of me that knows why they’re calling. The other part of me can't help but feel the pressure building in my chest, the trouble breathing that can only tell me that this is going to make me feel how I always feel in relation to doctors, that this is the moment the dark clouds draw a little closer to striking and overtaking everything good.

“Hello?” I answer the call.

“Is this Georgia Wright?”

“Yes.” I respond, leaning against the counter. I watch Franny and Noah whispering about something, too focused in their own little world.

“This is Dr. Harris’ office returning your call. Are you free to chat?”

“I am.”

We fade into the typical doctor-patient discussion. How are the flares? Bad. Are you taking the medications we’ve prescribed? Like clockwork, even though they’re clearly not working. How’s weight loss coming? Non-existent because I can’t exercise without flaring, and I can’t lose weight without exercising and being fat doesn’t help, but it’s not the main source of my HS and thank you for reminding me you still think the pain is all in my head and that over the counter pain meds are perfectly fine to keep me going.

She requests an in-person visit to confirm I am flaring as often as I say I am, because of course, like most doctors she doesn’t believe me. When I go in this time, it will be with the intention of getting a second opinion. Which is to really say that I want a millionth opinion because Dr. Harris is my sixth doctor after all this time.

The only doctor I felt that was helpful left her practice when I was sixteen because she had a baby, and since then it’s been a struggle to find a doctor who doesn’t make me feel like this is my fault. In the beginning, Dr. Harris was hopeful and helpful, but then she realized how drug-resistant I am, how difficult my case was, and she got more patients, and more patients.

“Thanks,” I say in lieu of a goodbye before hanging up my phone, the hard ball at the back of my throat sticking with each swallow. The burn in my eyes from trying to keep from crying in frustration. I drop my phone on the counter, glaring at it as if they’re still on the phone. “For fucking nothing.”

“Everything okay?” Noah’s voice startles me, and I look up to find him in front of me on the other side of the counter, eyes wide, when he realizes how upset I am.

I sigh, shaking my head. “It’s nothing.”

“It’s obviously something,” he says, walking around to pull me into his arms. I feel myself instantly relax and sigh again.

“Don’t want to talk about it.”

“Okay. You can, though, when you’re ready. Or if you need anything⁠—”

“I’m fine,” I snap, and then flinch because I fucking hate that I can be reactive as I am when all he’s trying to do is show he cares. “Sorry⁠—”

“It’s…” He wants to say it’s okay, I know he does, but it’s not okay, and I know it’s not okay, and it makes this feel even worse. His face shifts, “Listen, I know it’s not my business, but if you want to make it my business, you know I am here. I want you to trust me, but I understand if it’s too much right now.”

I hide my face and sniffle. I hate that he’s seeing me like this, but his hands are at the small of my back, and he’s pressing a kiss to the top of my head, and he’s just so— “Why?”

He furrows his brows in confusion, “Why what?”

“Why are you so… perfect? Like why are you so nice to me? I was just shit to you and I hate it and instead of getting mad at me you’re…”

I huff and look up at him and his expression hurts my heart. It’s so fucking soft, so kind, so sweet… So Noah, I can’t take it. I look away, but his hand cups my cheek and swipes away a stray tear that didn’t stain his shirt.

“I know you don’t mean to get upset with me. I know you’re not trying to hurt me intentionally. I know you’re only reacting out of fear and anger, and hurt. I know I care about you, and I know that you’re probably used to people reacting badly to the lashing out. I won’t. We talk it out, or we don’t talk about it. Okay?”