The Speed of Light: A Novel(46)

I smile. “Here, here.”

We sip in silence, surveying the yard games and conversations around us, until she lets out a dramatic sigh, bringing a hand to her forehead. “Are you okay?” I ask.

“Oh, fine, really, but I . . .” She drops her hand, bites her lip, pauses a bit too long. “I don’t know if your mom told you, but I’ve been diagnosed with low blood sugar.”

I blink. “What?”

She nods, pulling out a granola bar from her bedazzled purse. “I’m okay, really, just need to keep it in mind when I’m planning the day.”

My chest constricts, and I try to paint a sympathetic smile on my face. “Oh, wow, I’m sorry, that’s tough.” I take a swig from my glass, drowning out the vicious thoughts within: At least it’s not MS. This is Aunt Kit, the woman who came to all my piano recitals, the woman who talked my mom into letting me pierce my ears when I was eight. I care about her, about her well-being.

And yet the stabbing in my chest burns out all the sympathy; the cruel comparison to my disease erases empathy for anyone else who might be struggling, telling me their suffering can’t possibly match mine. I take one more gulp of wine to push it back, but it’s there, nibbling at me from the inside.

Kit turns to me, and for a moment I fear my pettiness is transparent. But she places a hand on mine. “You know, we have an opening at the library this summer.”

I smile. Kit is the director of the Aberdeen Public Library, and ever since I interned one summer in high school, helping out with children’s events, she’s been trying to lure me back. “I’m happy where I am, but thank you.” My smile falters. “Besides . . .”

She turns to me. “Besides what?”

I swallow. “I have really good health insurance right now. Probably wouldn’t be wise of me to give that up.”

“The city has excellent insurance as well.”

I draw a shuddering breath, my mind flashing to Joel—poor, jobless Joel from Financial Aid. Perhaps having a backup job offer wouldn’t be such a bad idea. “But would they . . . I mean, what if they . . . denied me?”

She sets her glass down and leans in, a flash in her eye. “Simone, do you know how many people live with a preexisting condition?” She scoffs. “Shit, being a woman seems to be a preexisting condition these days. But they’ve never denied anyone yet, and I’d sure raise holy hell if they tried to start with you.”

My throat burns with shame and gratitude for this woman who’d stand up for me even when I’ve secretly judged her. “Thank you so much,” I whisper. “And thank you for the job offer. I’m flattered, but I’m not looking to move back to Aberdeen anytime soon.”

“I can see why.” She winks. “Where did your hot guy run off to, by the way?”

I blush involuntarily and look around. “You know, I’m not sure.” Then I cringe. “I’d better go make sure our neighbor Dave doesn’t corner him and find out he’s a Democrat.” She giggles and I shake my head.

Kit waves me off, and I walk around the yard, saying hellos and scanning crowds—wow, there are a lot of people here; Mom and Dad sure know how to throw a party. But no Connor. I turn to walk up the steps of the back deck and almost run into someone. “Oh, sorry.” I look up and blink. “Walter?”

His smile is sheepish, and he raises his red Solo cup in salute. “Surprise.”

“I didn’t realize you were coming back for Memorial Day.”

“My parents needed help with some remodeling work, and you know my mom—she said it had to be this weekend.” He rolls his eyes and I laugh. Then he clears his throat. “I flew into Minneapolis to see an old friend and, uh, check out some houses.”

I raise my eyebrows. “You’re moving?”

“My parents aren’t getting any younger. Figure it’s time to be closer to home.”

“Well.” I nod. “Good for you.”

He clears his throat again. “Say, Simone, I wanted to mention something.” His tone is off, forced—oh God, please don’t ask me out. I search for an escape route, but there’s no way to bolt without being a total jerk, so I stand still, a smile frozen on my face. “I have a good friend in Minneapolis who is . . . well, she knows a lot about your disease.”

Slow blink—man, did I misread the situation. “Oh yeah?” My voice is flat. Walter was so cool about it last time. I hope he hasn’t turned into one of those people whose flaky friend has read on Facebook that all I have to do is pray more—like getting MS is my fault, the result of some sort of moral failing.

He nods. “She’s young, but she’s already really well respected in the field of neurology.”

Hold up now. “Wow,” I say, and I mean it.

“Yeah. My mom—again, I’m sorry, but you know how she is—she heard from your mom that you weren’t . . . entirely pleased with your neurologist. Amira is phenomenal. She really listens to her patients.”

I smile, cock my head. “Amira?”

He blushes. “Sorry. Dr. Amira Bukhari. We did our undergrad together, and we’ve . . . kept in touch over the years.” Suddenly it all makes sense—flying into Minneapolis to see an old friend. Maybe he’s moving back for more than his parents. He fishes in his pocket and pulls out a business card, then hands it to me. “Anyway, I don’t mean to be presumptuous, but she’s really great. I wanted to mention it in case you ever want to try a new neurologist.”