Page 28

chapter nineteen

Jillian

T here were a lot of things I hated about doctor’s offices–the bright lights, the crinkly paper, and the people who coughed into their hands before touching everything.

But most of all, I hated having to repeat my symptoms to multiple people, my confidence wavering each time I had to say the words “whole body aches and pains.”

By the time I heard my doctor laughing with his nurse, pumping hand sanitizer into his hand just outside the door, my heart was beating so loud I was half-convinced Dr. Boyd could hear it. As he entered the room with his hand extended, I sat up a little straighter, my feet crossed at the ankles.

“Ms. Taylor, how are you?”

Another thing I hated about the doctor: answering that question. “I’m okay,” I said, shaking his hand as I looked up at his face from the exam table. He reminded me of my father, with his overgrown eyebrows half-hidden behind rimless glasses.

“But you’ve been better, huh?” he asked, lowering himself to the wheeled stool in front of the computer. “Let’s see what you’ve got going on.”

As he read everything the nurse typed, I ran through my symptoms again—how the pain seemed to move from one location to another, how I woke up tired no matter how early I went to bed.

“And I walk around all stiff like a ninety-year-old woman,” I said with a laugh, fully aware of just how pathetic that sounded.

He tapped away on the keyboard without looking at me. “Is there anything you do that seems to ease the pain?”

“Resting,” I said, scratching my elbow, even though it didn’t itch. I just needed something to do with my hand. “My symptoms seem to flare up when I’m under a lot of stress and working a lot. Which is, you know, always.”

Doctor Boyd nodded, smiled, and turned toward me on his stool, pulling his stethoscope off his neck and sticking it in his ears.

“You were in here last November with shoulder and elbow pain,” he said, pressing the stethoscope against my back.

Naturally, I took a couple of slow, deep breaths. “How’s that doing now?”

My right shoulder ached a little as I sat there, but like most days, it was overshadowed by my hip pain. “Better.”

“Good, good.” He moved his stethoscope to my chest, “Deep breaths again.”

I inhaled and exhaled slowly, staring at the white tile floor. A moment later, Doctor Boyd removed the stethoscope from his ears and returned to the computer, scrolling through all the notes about me on the screen.

Was the word “hypochondriac” in there somewhere?

“I see you’ve been on the same dosage of citalopram for two years now,” he said.

“Oh, yeah. I still have anxiety, but it’s manageable, I guess.”

He peered at me, dipping his chin toward his chest like he didn’t quite believe me. “Sometimes, over time, a low dose isn’t quite enough. Especially under times of stress. So, we could bump your dosage up to fifteen milligrams and see if that takes the edge off?”

“Um,” I said, folding my arms on my lap. “Yeah, that might not be a bad idea.”

Dr. Boyd turned back to the computer and began typing.

Sitting there on that exam table, it felt like my head was about to explode, but it wasn’t from the pain or pressure this time.

I wasn’t here to talk about my fucking anxiety.

I was here because I woke up every morning feeling like I’d been hit by a speeding dump truck.

If anything, that was the root cause of my anxiety, and no amount of antidepressants would fix that.

I pressed my palms against the white paper. “What about my chronic pain and fatigue, though?” I paused for a couple of seconds, waiting for him to look at me, but he didn’t. “Could I possibly have an autoimmune disease? Like lupus, fibromyalgia, or—”

He cut in with a raised hand. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.”

I shut my mouth.

“I’d like to get some blood work done,” he continued, clicking the mouse. He still wasn’t looking at me. “We’ll run a basic panel and see if anything jumps out. But from what you’re describing, stress and anxiety could easily be the main culprit here. What kind of shoes do you wear?”

I blinked at him, completely dumbfounded, as he turned to me with his arms crossed. How was this relevant? “Heels or sandals, usually, but I have the tendency to go barefoot in the studio a lot.”

Dr. Boyd shot me a smug grin like he’d just cracked the case. “There you go. I’m going to recommend some more supportive footwear. Poor arch support can cause pain to radiate up your legs and back, like you’ve described today.”

I stared at him, unsure whether to laugh or scream. I nodded, but I already knew I’d be leaving that place feeling just as confused as when I walked in. Maybe more.

And just as predicted, I walked out of the office with an order for labs, another opioid prescription I didn’t ask for, and an increased dosage of my anxiety meds. None of it felt like a solution.

I slid into the driver’s seat of my car and didn’t move. Didn’t even start it. I felt a trickle of sweat slide down the back of my neck, but I ignored it, slumping over my steering wheel. What was a little more discomfort?

I wish Graham were holding me right now.

That thought slammed into me without warning, and I lifted my head from the hot steering wheel, blinking away the tears stinging my eyes.

Why had my mind jumped to Graham so quickly?

Two weeks ago, I might have thought rolling around between the sheets with Xander was the cure for everything—though it never really was. There wasn’t an inch of my body that craved his touch now.

Intimacy with Graham somehow felt a little… deeper. Safer. And we’d only spent one night together.

I held my arms tight against my body, remembering what it felt like to wake up wrapped around Graham’s body. I knew an embrace from him wouldn’t cure me, but it would at least fix some of my inside wounds.

***

“A Woodvale woman is going viral this week after a security camera caught a goose chasing her down her driveway, causing her to trip and let go of a gender reveal balloon.”

I pressed my lips into a smile, forcing out a little laugh as my eyes followed the words on the teleprompter. That Tuesday morning, the pain was still lingering, and so was the weight of everything left unanswered after that doctor appointment.

But I had a show to get through.

“The video, seen here, has racked up more than two million views since it was uploaded Saturday morning.”

There was no co-anchor beside me to spar with, so the awkward laughter, forced smiles, and fake amusement were all on me.

It was getting harder to pretend these stories were funny and cute when pain radiated down my hips and legs.

Even the lights felt more aggressive than usual, making my head pound every second my eyes were open.

So when it was time to cut to commercial, I breathed an audible, shaky sigh of relief, slumping forward on my stool.

It was the first time all morning I didn’t have to hold myself upright like a damn puppet.

“You good?” Clint, one of the camera operators asked, but someone else in the studio called his name, pulling his attention away from me before I could even answer. I was going to lie and say I was fine, anyway.

For a moment, I was distracted by the email notification on my phone.

I didn’t always make a habit of keeping my phone on the news desk—hidden from viewers’ sight, of course—but I was awaiting my bloodwork results.

I tapped the alert, half-expecting it to be a coupon code from a local boutique or a reminder about half-off appetizers from Poppy’s.

My stomach dropped when I saw the words: LAB RESULTS AVAILABLE.

That was fast. Too fast. I wasn’t ready. In a matter of seconds, I logged into the medical chart app and let the results load, only for my stomach to sink all over again with a strange mix of relief and dread.

On the plus side, there were no red flags to indicate any of my levels were too low or too high.

But that meant that everything looked normal, and I was right back at square one without a plan or a single answer. I glanced over at Marco in the control room before reading the comment Dr. Boyd left beneath the results.

Everything looks good! :)

Right. Good.

No, this was worse. Because if my bloodwork was fine, what the hell was wrong with me? I would always be in pain, wouldn’t I?

And that fucking smiley face was patronizing as hell.

I swallowed the lump in my throat and flipped my phone over before adjusting my hair. It had to be just about go time. Sure enough, Marco began counting down in my ear. “Five, four, three, two, one. Aaaaand we’re live. Go, Jill.”

The words on the teleprompter blurred.

And all around me, everyone was frozen, like they were waiting for something. I took two sharp, deep breaths, realizing a few seconds later everyone was waiting on me to begin. I’d missed my cue. Tuned it out. “Welcome back, folks. Let’s get you caught up on a few more local stories. Today, we’re…”

I stopped.

The next sound that came out of my mouth was some kind of awkward hybrid between a squeak and a forced laugh. “I’m sorry,” I said, looking down at the desk, needing a total reset. I blinked hard like that would somehow help, but that only made a few tears come to the surface.

Oh, God . This was happening. My throat felt scratchy, and my entire body trembled beyond my control.

Focus. You’re Jillian Fucking Taylor.

I gave it another try. “Today, we’re showing you a peek behind the scenes of…”

That was all I could manage. I couldn’t think about anything besides the deep, throbbing ache in my hips and that fucking smiley face in my medical chart.