“Abby!” I cry, hands flailing. “I amnotmasturbating to thoughts of him! Holy inappropriate!”
My eyes flick to my bedroom, where my vibrators are stashed.
I couldn’t. Could I?
Just to take the edge off?
No. No.
Bad Georgia.
“You say that now. Wait till that man has you ruining your own panties.” She bites her lip and sighs. “If you really aren’t going to fuck the grumpy cowboy, maybe you should go meet a different one in a bar. Find a way to take the edge off.”
I scoff, but my stomach flips at the idea. “You know I’m not a one-night stand kind of girl.”
“I know, you’re boring,” she whispers petulantly, eying the rows of food I’m organizing. “Wow. You seriously brought everything in your kitchen, didn’t you?”
“I had to.” I wince, holding up a crushed container of pasta. The sight makes my eyes burn. “Aw, shit.”
“What is that?”
“Itwasgluten-free mac and cheese made with chickpea pasta and unicorn tears. Now it’s dust and broken dreams.” Tossing it in the trash makes me sad, and I give up unpacking for now, turning to give Abby my full attention. “You know, I don’t think I’ve ever thanked you.”
“For?”
“Helping me get my diagnosis. Surviving college while sick and depressed.” I shake my head. “I couldn’t have done it without you.”
She scoffs, but her eyes are glassy. “Please. You’re a badass, Georgie. You never needed me, but you’re stuck with me anyway.”
Maybe it’s being so far from Abby—and the only home I’ve ever built for myself—but I miss her. And right now, I’m feeling more alone than I have in a long time. In a new place, searching for answers I doubt I’ll ever find, with an illness places like Heart Springs haven’t caught up to yet.
Celiac isn’t just afoodthing. It’s anexhaustionthing.
Atrust-your-gut-while-it’s-destroying-itselfthing.
It was a mystery that stole years of my childhood—years I can’t get back. I was always tired. Always in pain. Always dismissed. I didn’t get real answers until I was in my twenties, and even then, it took everything in me to keep fighting for them.
Sometimes I wonder if it would’ve been different—if it would’ve hurt less—if I hadn’t grown up in foster care. If I hadn’t been shuffled through seven homes by the time I turned fifteen. Maybe if someone had stuck around long enough to notice Iwas always sick, always small, always struggling... maybe then, I wouldn’t have felt like a ghost in my own body.
Maybe if someone had justseen me, I wouldn’t have disappeared for so damn long.
Abby saw me, though. She still does. That’s why she’s my ride or die.
“God, I miss you,” I murmur, blinking away the burn behind my eyes.
“I miss you more,” she says. Then she squints at the screen. “Are you cryingagain?!”
“No!” I sniffle and wave a hand through the air. “It’s super dusty.”
“You’re crying.”
“So are you.”
She blinks, wiping her eyes. “I love you, ginger tits.”
“I love you too, witchling.”
After we hang up, I plug my phone into the charger and clean up the mess of empty boxes. There’s still so much to do, but the thought of organizing this place, of trying to make it feel homey, is exhausting. I’m already running on fumes, and there’s a bit of work I need to wrap up before I can crash.
