“You sure? Athena doesn’t have her phone with her. She forgot it at home when we left for Portland.”
So who the heck is she talking to?
The door opens, and Athena steps out. I peek past her. She’s the only person in the staff room.
“We’re heading out now,” Garrett tells me. “Are you coming over later?”
“I probably shouldn’t. I have a meeting with some of the small-business women whose products I’ll be stocking here soon.” A meeting that wasn’t stopping me from seeing Garrett tonight…until I heard Athena’s cutting rant.
She was talking to herself. That’s who she was ranting to.
“You’ve also got to keep up with the treatment plan,” Garrett continues, oblivious to my inner turmoil. “Otherwise, your symptoms will worsen.”
His words are a slap to the face, though that’s not what he intended. They’re just one more reminder Athena is right. I could never be Peony’s mother, not in the way Kenda was for her daughter. Not in the way Athena is now, in Kenda’s place.
“I will. Don’t worry. I’ll be fine.” I curve my mouth into a smile for Peony’s benefit. “Bye, Princess Peony.” I wave at her.
Don’t let him see how much Athena’s words hurt.
As soon as I turn away from them, I give in to the heavy pull of gravity on the corners of my mouth.
And my heart sinks with it.
43
ZARA
The July 4thsunlight streams through the partially closed bedroom curtains, telling me it’s time to get up. I have a busy day ahead of me, finalizing plans for the grand reopening next week.
But afterward, once all those big events have passed, I can take things easier and respect the limitations spondyloarthritis has placed on my body. I can take the metaphorical bull by the horns and craft it into something we can both live with, in relative harmony.
I flip over to check my alarm clock. At the sudden, unwelcome movement, my body wails at me, like a toddler throwing a tantrum.
I feel like crap. But it has nothing to do with the SpA—and everything to do with the symptoms that hit me yesterday. I’d played ostrich when I woke up yesterday morning, shoving my head in a hole and pretending I didn’t have a sore throat. Pretending I wasn’t getting sick.
Ignoring the symptoms didn’t make them go away.
And now they’re too drastic to pretend they don’t exist. The aching body. The chills. The headache. The exhaustion. The brain fog that swept in overnight with no plans to dissipate in the morning sun.
Of all the days for me to get sick, it had to be July 4th—one of the busiest days of the year for Picnic & Treats.
Get out of bed and move around. You’ll feel better in no time.
I half-heartedly shove the bedding aside and cautiously swing my legs over the edge of the mattress as I sit upright. Being hit with a sledgehammer would hurt far less than this.Shit.
I lower my feet to the floor and slowly stand, testing my balance, testing what my body thinks of my plans.
My legs wobble under my weight, and I grab the corner of the nightstand, steadying myself.
Once I’m positive my equilibrium won’t fail me, I take a tentative step.
My muscles scream,What the hell do you think you’re doing?and I drop my ass back onto the edge of the bed.
I gauge the distance between me and the bedroom door. I don’t exactly want to stay in bed all day. My body will hate me if I even try. But I’m not sure I can make it to the living room either.
I pick up my phone and speed dial Keshia’s number.
“Good morning, Z,” she cheerfully chirps.
