The Speed of Light: A Novel(28)

Exactly eight minutes later, Connor’s old Ford truck pulls up next to my car. He steps out and rushes over, eyes scanning the parking lot. I want to make a joke to hide my embarrassment, but his arms wrap around me, warm and solid, and I sag into him. Connor pulls back, touches my face. “Are you okay?”

I nod and he takes my hand as he leads me to his truck. We drive away in silence until I find my voice. “Thank you so much.”

“No problem. Sorry I freaked out on the phone. Just kinda gave me a scare.” He glances over, his eyes pained. “It was . . . sort of like when my sister-in-law texted me that night. I didn’t think I’d react that way.”

I gasp. “I’m so sorry,” I whisper.

“Hey, don’t apologize. I’m just glad you’re okay.” He reaches for my hand and brings it to his lips, kisses it softly, then doesn’t let it go. We drive on, and as my body warms, fatigue seeps its insidious grip into my muscles. I lean back against the plush passenger seat and close my eyes, my hand still in his. Soon the car slows to a stop and the engine cuts out. I open my eyes and see the outline of my apartment building materialize into a solid structure as my vision focuses on the light flooding out from the glass doors of the main entryway. Connor speaks softly. “I’ll take you back to your car tomorrow.” I offer a weak smile in thanks, and he clears his throat. “So . . . why were you at the church? Do you want to talk about it?”

Not really. But I glance over, the ordeal of the meeting, the doubts and uncertainty swirling about in my mind. He dropped everything to pick me up—the least I can do is tell him the truth, for God’s sake. I pull my hand from his to rub my face, then fix my stare out into the darkness of the parking lot. “I went to an MS support group meeting today for the first time. It didn’t go well.”

There’s a beat of silence before he responds. “It’s no longer a maybe, huh?”

I wince but meet his eyes. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you. It just . . . hasn’t come up.”

He reaches over and squeezes my hand. “It’s okay. I figured you’d tell me when you were ready.” He smiles, and I smile back. “So it didn’t go well tonight?”

I sigh. “I didn’t really expect it to, but I promised Nikki I’d try it. She thinks it’d be good for me to talk to other people going through the same thing as me.”

“You don’t agree?”

“It’s just . . . with MS, no one is going through the exact same thing as me, you know?” I shake my head. “I don’t expect you to know.”

“You mean nobody’s symptoms are exactly the same.” I glance over in surprise, and he smiles. “I did try to read up on it. Just googled it, I mean, after we first met.”

I smile back. He was thinking about me, too, after Christmas Eve. “That’s right. And tonight I found out nobody’s choices are the same, either. I told them I decided against starting treatment right away, and they told me I made a bad decision.”

His eyes widen. “Wait, what do you mean you decided against treatment?”

I shake my head, shake away more words from the neurologist: MS isn’t fatal. Except when it is. Damn internet and its unlimited information about progressive MS, about rare complications—severe infections, pneumonia. “MS is a chronic disease you live with. There are treatments available to lessen the likelihood of a relapse.”

“You mean, to stop it from getting worse?”

“Sort of, yeah.”

He nods slowly. “So why did you decide against treatment?”

Because the longer I stay off treatment, the longer I can ignore the fact that I have this disease. The words come fast and furious in my head, and I have to look away. My diagnosis was a terrible relief after months of the unknown. I couldn’t take any more information; I couldn’t take any more long conversations about it.

I draw a shaky breath, refuse to release those truths. “My neurologist said since I’m doing well right now and my earlier symptoms have resolved, we can wait and monitor my condition. That means I’ll get an MRI every year, and if it shows any changes, or if I have any relapses before then, I’ll need to start treatment.” I swallow. “He said it’s my choice.”

I squeeze my eyes shut as the doubts over my decision pulse even stronger. Because it’s all too clear now that I could have made the wrong choice. My brain could be betraying me right now, forming lesions without me even knowing it, succumbing to the progression of this relentless disease.

But treatment means injecting myself with expensive drugs three times a week—medicine that may or may not be covered by insurance, that may or may not make me feel nauseated, weaker than I’m already feeling. It might reduce relapses, may even delay disease progression in the long run. But with MS, there are no guarantees.

And dammit, I just want to feel normal for as long as I possibly can.

We sit in silence again, the distant blare of a train whistle the only sound, as if signaling a crossroads. I open my eyes and force myself to meet Connor’s gaze, because this might be it, this might be too much, an ending before we’ve really begun.

But there’s no judgment in his eyes, just a thoughtful intensity. “That makes sense to me. All you can do is keep making the choices that are right for you.”