Page 50 of Carry On (Love Doesn’t Cure All #4)

NASH

We went to a diner around the corner from his doctor’s office, something small and out of the way.

It had a vintage feel, right down to the old ladies working there.

He ordered soup and a sandwich, and I settled for just soup and bread because I had no appetite.

Even when the food came, I wasn’t feeling it.

“Why does no one fucking care?” I was having trouble letting it go. This whole thing felt pointless. Our arrangement was supposed to help me, not leave me playing ping pong between doctors. I didn’t have it in me to do that shit. I’d rather just be in pain or be done with it all.

“I care,” Lincoln said quietly.

He doesn’t care, the voice interjected.

“I think we established that I’m not talking about you,” I retorted, my gaze flicking in his direction. He merely shrugged as he ate soup. “It’s just stupid.”

“It is,” he agreed. “What did the doctor say, if you don’t mind me asking?”

“He said because of my TBI that he couldn’t help me,” I explained. “He said I had to see a neurologist.”

“TBI… that’s,” he clicked his tongue as he thought about it, “that’s a—”

“Traumatic Brain Injury.”

“From your time in the military?”

“Yeah.” I left it at that. He didn’t need any more information than that.

“He gave me pain medication for the headaches, told me to get on a good sleep schedule, to reduce my stress, and gave me muscle relaxers to help me sleep. And then he put in a referral for a neurologist and put in a referral for blood tests, because since I was homeless, I should probably get tested for everything. I fucking hate needles.”

He arched a brow, an expression I was increasingly fond of.

“And yet, you’re covered in tattoos,” Lincoln commented.

“Different kind of needle.”

“Right.” I could hear the judgment in his voice. “I told you that Dr. Whitlock is thorough.”

“Not thorough enough,” I retorted.

“And if he thinks that seeing a specialist is the way to go, it’s not about you.”

Of course it’s about you, the voice cut in.

“It’s stupid.”

“My point is,” he continued over me, “that the system sucks for everyone. Yelling on the sidewalk won’t help anything.”

“I thought I was monologuing for the pigeons,” I countered a little too sarcastically.

“Even the pigeons don’t want to listen to you scream, Nash,” Lincoln said.

No one wants to listen to you, the voice agreed.

“I’ll happily talk it out with you, but the yelling has to stop,” he continued. He set down his spoon to stare at me. His expression was composed in a careful mask. “I don’t like yelling.”

It didn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out why, considering his history. Unfortunately, I didn’t think a lot when it came to my anger. I just reacted. Dealing with the world was exhausting. There was a reason I kept my space outside of all the bullshit and chaos.

What the fuck was wrong with me?

A lot, the voice chimed in.

Yeah, that much was true.

“Okay,” I said aloud, making sure to acknowledge what Lincoln had said before my brain spiraled too hard.

“Now, I get it, it’s not ideal,” he told me. “But it’s a process. It’s the process we’re here for. Getting you help was never going to be a quick fix.”

“I never expected it to be a quick fix,” I snapped. “It’s just…you don’t know what it’s like out there.”

The ins and outs of the haves and have-nots felt impossible to navigate. It was a canyon that needed crossing with a bridge I couldn’t see. I wasn’t built for leaps of faith and unrealistic trust falls.

“You’re right. I don’t,” he replied. “But in all fairness, you don’t know what it’s like over here either.”

Because you don’t belong in his world, the voice practically finished for him.

“I don’t know how to do this,” I admitted softly. “I’m just so fucking tired.”

Tired of fighting.

Tired of trying to carve my space.

Tired of trying to be seen.

I didn’t know why I kept trying. Nothing ever changed.

“I know,” Lincoln said. He didn’t. “But you’re not doing it alone, Nash. We’ll do whatever it takes.”

All I heard was more fighting. It sounded exhausting.

“We’ll get your medication picked up, and we’ll get the referral taken care of, so we can get you in to see the neurologist,” he continued. “And we always have the hospital if the headaches get too bad—”

“No more hospitals,” I interrupted. “No more migraine cocktails. I don’t like them.”

“But they help.”

“If that’s the help I have to rely on, I’d rather be dead.” The words came out before I could stop them. I caught the pained expression that flashed across his face before he nodded.

“Okay, no hospitals.”

“I don’t mean it like that.”

But we both knew I was lying.