Total pages in book: 154
Estimated words: 148473 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 742(@200wpm)___ 594(@250wpm)___ 495(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 148473 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 742(@200wpm)___ 594(@250wpm)___ 495(@300wpm)
But the second I think that, something nags at me. Like a fly buzzing around my head. Like a hum that won’t go away. A fear I’ve been afraid to face.
What if I lose her?
The thought grips me for most of the night, and I toss and turn until nearly five in the morning when I’m wide awake, staring at the ceiling.
Fuck it.
I get out of bed, get dressed, and go downstairs. When I turn on the laptop, I’m ready to fix this problem for my wife.
51
WHEN I AM TOO MUCH
Maeve
I pad quietly down the steps, looking for Asher. It’s nearly six in the morning, and my eyelids are heavy, but once again, I woke to an empty bed after a restless night’s sleep thanks to Asher’s tossing and turning. Ruby Rooster was curled up at the foot of it, sleeping soundly, but Asher wasn’t there. And when I turn the corner of the hallway and see the soft glow of the kitchen light, my heart sinks.
There he is at the counter again, bent over his laptop, his back to me, sipping coffee and scrolling through whatever’s holding his attention this time.
A knot tightens in my stomach. If I didn’t know better, I might be worried he was cheating. But that’s not Asher. I know exactly what’s consuming him. And that’s the problem.
I step into the kitchen, and he still doesn’t notice me. His gaze is glued to the screen.
I stop in my tracks, my jaw dropping as I catch sight of the browser. Easily seventy-two tabs are open. Carpal tunnel syndrome. Wrist therapy. Arthritis. Muscle weakness. Chronic pain. Surgery for carpal tunnel. Permanent nerve damage. Disability. Neuroma. Wrist X-rays. Electromyography. Can this turn into MS? Can this become ALS? The list goes on.
I had no idea his googling was this bad. I knew he was worried, but not this worried.
“Asher,” I say, my voice thin with a fresh wave of concern. My best friend is spiraling into something dark.
He jerks around, snapping the laptop shut in one swift move.
For a second, guilt flashes in his eyes. Then he shifts to his easygoing self. “What’s going on? You having trouble sleeping?”
He sounds casual, too casual—like he’s trying to cover it up. Because he is.
“I sleep fine. But you? You don’t.” My voice cracks.
“I was looking something up, you know, some exercises like we talked about last night,” he says, at least partially telling the truth.
But I think he was lying to me last night. He has that same look in his eyes as he did when he left the table, part guarded, part concern. My throat tightens, but I push past it, asking, “Your agent didn’t call during dinner, did he?”
His expression falters. “Why do you ask?”
I press on. “Were you googling in the restroom?”
He gulps, swallowing hard, and I see him mentally cycling through excuses as he asks, “Why are you asking?”
I don’t back down. He’s hurting and I can help. “You’re traveling today. You have a game tomorrow afternoon. You need your sleep, Asher. You can’t be up all night, googling worst-case scenarios,” I say, my voice trembling, fighting to stay steady. I’m swimming in my own emotions, but I push through them and take a step closer, reaching for his hand.
He pulls his hand back.
That’s so unlike him. This whole thing is so unlike him. And that’s exactly why I don’t back down. “Were you up all night, looking at everything that could go wrong? Because it’s okay if you were. I just want to help.”
“I wasn’t up all night.”
Emphasis on all.
Like that makes this okay. Like he’s fine, just fine.
“You hardly slept. You have to have been awake for a while,” I say, gentle but firm too.
His jaw tightens. He glances away, shame written across his face. There’s so much denial in the way he avoids my eyes. But when he finally looks back, his voice is sharp. “Fine, you want to know? Here you go.”
He flips the laptop open again, showing me the dozens of tabs filled with his fears. My chest tightens, and a lump forms in my throat. But this isn’t about me right now. It’s about him. I scan the tabs in more detail, and it’s more of what I saw earlier—worries, solutions, worst-case scenarios, repeated over and over. Rinse, lather, repeat. When I caught him looking up his dad’s medicine’s side effects, I’d thought it was only concern, but now I see a pattern. When he obsessively researched my neck pain during a show, I’d thought it was borderline cute. But now, I see it all differently.
My laidback best friend is anything but. He’s hurting, and he’s managing it by trying to protect the people he loves from being hurt. Like me. By trying to “fix” some minor wrist soreness. Yes, I know about wrist pain for artists. Yes, I do exercises to stretch and strengthen my wrists. Yes, I take breaks from painting. And yes, sometimes I pop ibuprofen.