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I shrug.We haven't really talked about her or their family business because we're too busy grinding against one another in the back of his car and laughing like crazy."Okay, I guess. I'll find out more tonight, maybe. He's picking me up after work."
"Picking you up at eleven at night?"
"Yeah. We might go to the mainland. Or something."
I'm hoping for the or something, personally. We've been taking things organic and slow, but things reached a fever pitch last night when I practically begged him to touch me under my skirt—and he said he wanted that kind of thing to take place somewhere other than the back of a car.
"Well, have fun. Don't drink and drive. Don't do anything I wouldn't do." She winks. "Or would have done, before I became bedridden. Is this serious, with you and Damien?"
I shrug. No way will I tell my mother that this is a temporary hookup, a longtime itch that needs scratching, a way to make a difficult few months less sucky. Nor will I tell her that there's a solid chance I might really be falling in love with him, after all the talking and hand-holding and smooching. And how it will slay me when he leaves.
God knows what will happen when we do sleep together. I'll probably spontaneously combust.
My heart's finally resumed its normal cadence after my run. I stand. "Nothing's ever serious with me. And you're not bedridden. You're recovering. The doctor says you're doing great. I had a chat with her yesterday about your chemo schedule. Everything's going to be okay. Now, what would you like for breakfast?"
Mom waves her hand in the air. "Oh, I helped myself to a yogurt while you were gone. And speaking of doctors, don'tyou forget your appointment Monday morning. Don't get so focused on the bar or Damien that you space out. You sometimes become so hyper-focused. And don't skip your medicine."
Ugh. She's probably referring to the time in Chicago when I was a freshman in college and took a freelance job and forgot to show up for an exam.
Her gentle chiding makes me snort like a girl. "I won't forget, Mom. I'm an adult now, remember? I rely on my Google Calendar to keep me straight." Well, I once did. Now my days aren't that busy, and my calendar is filled with lots of blank, white space. "Anyway, this will be the last appointment until I can figure out my insurance. I've got to make some calls on that soon."
"We'll think of something," she calls out. "You need your medicine."
A growl blooms in my throat. My dad died young of a heart attack, and it was by sheer chance that I was diagnosed with genetically high cholesterol as a teen. Ever since, I've been on pills, something I'd always felt vaguely ashamed about.
Right now I'm on a new kind of drug.
An expensive one.
I shuffle into the kitchen, a sense of dread settling into my chest. Somehow, I'm breathing even heavier than when I was running, and that's when it hits me: I'm having a panic attack.
Maybe I'm not managing everything as well as I thought.
This has happened a few times since I've been home and probably because everything seems so overwhelming and out of control. Mom's cancer. My health. The uncertain future. It also seems scary when my heart thumps erratically, because I wonder if I'm having a heart attack. Like my father.
I'd had decent insurance in Chicago, but moving to Florida screwed everything up with the Affordable Care Act, and for the life of me, I can't figure out what to do. Somehow, I slipped between the cracks, and the insurance plans I'meligible for are crazy expensive. For any regular person, this wouldn't be a big deal. A normal person would wait until they got a job or some cash.
For me, a lack of health insurance is downright dangerous.
Eating low-cholesterol food and running five miles a day is essential to staying healthy, but it might not be enough to save me from heart disease. The pills are crucial. I grab the carton of eggs and some greenery out of the fridge, concentrating on every step to calm my nerves.
I try not to think about my bank account, and how much I've spent since returning. There's some savings left, but not much. My nest egg was supposed to be for my trip to Europe to meet up with Lauren. To pay for cheaper doctors over there.
It's a trip that's looking more impossible and distant, as far as I can tell. Crap. Crap. Crap.
I reach for the bowl. Crack the egg, avoiding its yolk and its dastardly cholesterol. Separate egg by shifting yolk from one half the shell to the other. Think about how I've read that one shouldn't separate egg with the shell because of salmonella. Put yolk into a plastic tub, wonder if the feral cats like the raw, yellow goo. Repeat with four more eggs.
Consider the dangers of salmonella as I cook the egg whites. Sprinkle some wilted parsley into the omelet, flip it in half, slide it onto a plate. There. Panic attack averted.
I grimace at the omelet. It's the third morning I've eaten the same thing, and I really need to pick up some oatmeal at the store to widen my breakfast choices.
After I snarf down the ghostly white, gelatinous breakfast, I grab the phone, antsy to get the insurance calls and the day over with, so I can head to the bar and see Damien again. I guzzle a glass of water, feeling a little better. Maybe it wasn't a panic attack at all. Maybe jogging on an empty stomach was to blame.
Still, if my blood is like the liquid equivalent of a tickingtime bomb, I want to enjoy the minutes I have left. I'm hoping those minutes involve hot sex with a gorgeous Marine.
He slipsinto the tiki bar at ten-thirty, right as I'm serving the regulars their final drinks of the evening.
Tonight he's even more handsome, in a tight gray T-shirt and cargo shorts that reveal his muscular legs. There are scant few guys who look sexy in flip-flops. Damien is one of them.
