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He kneels down in front of me, taking my hand in his, kissing my knuckles. “A little cold isn’t going to…” he places a finger to my lips stopping me from finishing my sentence and frowns.
His steel-blue eyes examine me and I desperately want to be okay for him, to take away the worry that lines his face, but I can’t.
“It’s time to talk about this,” he brushes stray hairs from my face and the pad of his thumb lingers on my cheek. I know I promised we would talk, but every day it gets harder to keep that promise.
“I’m fine.” I stand up and make my way inside our condo. It’s a nice two-bedroom in a high-rise that’s secure and right on the beach.
“The doctor said…”
“I know what the doctor said, Cash.” I stop at the island and grab a water bottle from the fridge. I don’t want to think about what the doctors have said. I just want to move on with my life.
“You can’t run from this,” Cash says, leaning over the island, resting his elbows on the granite.
“I’m not running,” I deny, shaking my head. Avoiding is different than running.
“You went to San Francisco,” he accuses me.
“For Wade’s graduation,” I glare at him.
“I’ve known you for half your life, and I know when you’re running.” The concern on his face is ever-present. I hate that he knows me so well sometimes.
“The doctor said this is an early diagnosis and I could have ten years before any symptoms show up,” I remind him. They range from psychiatric disorders to muscle degeneration, and who knows how severe it will be. “And I’m taking my medication for the seizures.”
I slam the cabinet shut after searching for something to eat, but I’m not even hungry. The problem is that physically I feel fine, but the knowledge that one day I won’t be myself anymore is fucking with my head. I don’t want to be reminded of this every day.
Maybe I am running.
But I’m okay with that.
It’s only been a few months since I was diagnosed, and I catch Cash watching me as if he expects something to happen. He’s looking for signs that aren’t there.
Cash notices me putting the notebook by my work bag.
“You’re going back to work?” he asks.
I look at the worn faux leather, the ties haphazardly hanging. It is the only safe place I have.
“Yes,” I nod. “I told Bret I was ready to go back,” I tell him. “Greta is moving down this weekend.”
“I thought you were going to take some more time,” Cash says, looking at me clearly confused.
“I can’t sit around the house, I’m going stir crazy,” I say, exasperated. The pain in his eyes mirrors my own, and it hurts that I can’t do anything about it.
“Are you sure that’s a good idea?” Cash rounds the island to stand next to me. His presence is suffocating.
“Dammit, Cash. Stop!” I turn away from him.
“It’s only been a few months, and we don’t even know everything about this disease. You have an appointment with a specialist next month,” he reminds me.
“I canceled that,” I tell him, as he follows me into the living room.
“You did what?” Cash turns me towards him, gripping my arm, anger and shock written all over his face.
“I don’t need another doctor to tell me there’s nothing they can do.” Every doctor I’ve seen has told me the same thing. Huntington’s disease is degenerative and terminal. If I don’t die from some infection like pneumonia, it will be from a fall due to muscle decline.
“It’s like you’re giving up.” He lets go and turns away from me, rubbing the back of his neck as he walks into the living room.
“I’m being realistic,” I correct and follow him.
