The Speed of Light: A Novel(41)

“Slogging” is a more accurate description of what I’m doing as I trudge along beside Nikki. I didn’t expect it to be this damn hard. I’ve gotten up to a solid two miles on the treadmill, but she said running would be different outside—the terrain, wind, any number of factors.

My feet scrape on the pavement as we round a curve, and my knee twinges. Damn, didn’t expect that, either. It technically started a few weeks ago, though at first I thought I’d simply pushed myself too hard that day—Connor had dropped me off, and we’d lingered in his car, hidden in the darkness of the YMCA parking lot. By the time I’d floated inside, I was already flying, ponytail and tank top disheveled, ready to rock that run.

But the pain kept coming back toward the end of each run, a sharp pull on the side of my kneecap.

“Feels good to be out here, doesn’t it?” Nikki beams at me, and a grunt is all I can manage between heavy breaths.

I shrug, huff out, “How far have we gone?”

“Just passed a mile.”

“Shit. This is demoralizing.”

Nikki bursts out laughing. “That’s a pretty big word. You can’t be too tired.” I glare at her and she smiles wider. “Aw, come on. It’s tough, but trust me, your body will adjust. So will your mind—look around. The scenery’s actually changing. At least we’re going somewhere, you know? Moving forward. Not stuck on a treadmill.”

Moving forward. I smile, pick up the pace as much as my knee will allow.

Nikki matches me easily, her shrewd eyes narrowing. “Hey, how’s the knee?”

I squint up into the sun so I don’t have to look at her, the pain throbbing now as if responding to being called out. “Fine.”

She sighs, slows to a walk. “Let’s skip to the cooldown, okay?” I match her pace, grateful. She clears her throat. “What did the neurologist say?”

I swallow. “Well . . .”

“Simone.” Nikki throws her hands up, exasperated.

“At my appointment, the nurse said to only let them know if a symptom persists, otherwise just work with my primary doctor.” Plus I didn’t feel comfortable calling the nurse who had brushed me aside and rushed me out the door back in December.

“So define ‘persists.’ How long do you let it go before you call them?”

The truth is, after months of vague symptoms that ebbed and flowed unpredictably until I questioned whether I was imagining them, having an answer was a goddamned victory. And afterward, when Dr. Montgomery said I didn’t have to go on treatment if I didn’t want to, it was like freedom, like I hadn’t lost control of my life after all.

It was all a mirage.

Because it turns out there is no way to go back to living your life the way it was before your diagnosis. Not with the albatross of chronic illness around your neck. I know that now.

So I’ve gotten good at pretending.

I glance at Nikki at last. “I don’t know.”

She sighs. “Don’t you think you should feel comfortable asking your neurologist questions? Have you ever thought about going to someone else?”

I have absolutely thought of that, and the idea is as frightening as it is exhausting. Pretending is easier. It’s less scary than making the effort to dig deeper into my illness, into what my uncertain future might bring.

Like with Connor.

Meeting him was like magic. With him, I can pretend there’s nothing wrong with me and there never will be. I can pretend everything is perfect.

But searching for a new neurologist would mean once again gathering my medical records, scheduling appointments, going over the details of my history of symptoms. Starting over with someone new who might be just as distant as my current one.

It would mean I couldn’t pretend anymore, and I’m not sure I’m ready for that. Not yet. I don’t respond, instead placing my hands on my hips as we walk, so Nikki presses on. “Mone, I know it’s hard, but you can’t keep putting things off forever.” Her voice is low, but her words sting. “You can’t keep burying your head in the sand. This is your life.”

I wince, chest flaring its resistance. And yet I’m weakened from the run, from Nikki’s penetrating gaze. “Fine, I’ll call. And I’ve got my annual exam coming up soon with my primary doctor, too, so that covers all the bases.”

Nikki eyes me for several more seconds before nodding. “Good. And you need to start stretching more after our runs. Come to yoga with Claudia and me like you used to.”

I groan. “But my balance . . .”

Nikki eyes me pointedly. “Just try. Okay? We’ll both be there with you.”

I sigh in defeat, then smirk at her. “Damn, running and yoga? Our college selves would hate us so much right now. They’d tell us to get drunk and eat pizza instead.”

Nikki laughs. “Growing up is a bitch, isn’t it?”



It is indeed, I think the next day as I sit cross-legged on my couch, stomach rolling with nerves as I tap out the number for Dr. Montgomery’s office. I make my way through the automated menu, and the soothing-grating hold music kicks in.

The music cuts off abruptly. “Hello, can I help you?”

“Uh, yes.” I clear my throat. “I have a question for Dr. Montgomery’s nurse.” I give her my name and date of birth, and her doubtful voice tells me she’ll check if the nurse is in, but I might have to leave a message. When the crooning saxophone blares into my ear again, I’m filled with relief—I tried. If I leave a message and she doesn’t get back to me, then I’ve done what I could.