Page 2 of Scarlet Thorns

Stanley takes a slow sip of his drink, watching me over the rim of the glass. “For whatever the hell has been going on with you lately. The distance. The mood swings. The way you flinch every time I touch you.”

“I don’t flinch.”

“You flinched just now.”

Did I? I replay the last few minutes in my head and realize he might be right. When he grabbed my wrists, my instinct was to pull away. But not because of him— because any pressure on my lower body sends shockwaves of discomfort through my system.

“I’m in pain, Stanley. That’s not a mood swing or an excuse. That’s a medical issue that I’m trying to figure out.”

“Have you seen a doctor?”

“Not yet.”

“Why not?”

It’s a reasonable question with an unreasonable answer. Because I’m procrastinating, afraid of what they might find. Because my mother spent years dismissing my concerns aboutpainful periods as “something women just deal with.” Because part of me keeps hoping it will just go away on its own.

“I’ve been busy with work, and—”

“Bullshit.” Stanley sets down his glass with enough force to make me jump. “You’ve got excellent health insurance through your job. You could see a specialist tomorrow if you wanted to. So either this pain isn’t as serious as you’re making it out to be, or you’re using it as an excuse to avoid having sex with me.”

The accusation hangs between us like a loaded weapon. I stare at him, this man I’ve shared a bed with for eighteen months, and realize I don’t recognize the person standing in front of me. When did he become so cold? So calculating?

“You think I’m lying about being in pain?”

“I think you’re avoiding me. And I think there’s a reason for it.”

The pain in my abdomen chooses that moment to flare again, a sharp twist that makes me press my hand to my side instinctively. Stanley notices the gesture and his expression hardens further.

“See? You’re fine until I try to touch you. Then suddenly you’re clutching your stomach like you’re dying.”

“That’s not—” I stop myself before I can finish the sentence. What’s the point? He’s already made up his mind about what’s happening here.

“What I think,” Stanley continues, his voice dropping dangerously quiet, “is that you’re fucking someone else.”

I stare at him. For a moment, I can’t even process what he said. “What did you just say?”

“You heard me.” He picks up his scotch again, taking another measured sip. “The signs are all there. The emotional distance. The sexual withdrawal. The mysterious ‘health issues’ that conveniently flare up whenever I want sex.”

I stand up too quickly, and the movement sends another wave of cramping through my pelvis. “You think I’m cheating on you?”

“I know you are.”

The certainty in his voice is what gets me. Not anger or accusation, but flat, matter-of-fact conviction. Like he’s already tried and convicted me in his head.

“Based on what evidence?”

“Based on the fact that you disappear for hours with vague explanations. Based on the fact that you’ve completely shut down physically. Based on the fact that you’re sitting there lying to my face about phantom pain instead of just admitting what’s really going on.”

Phantom pain.

The phrase echoes in my head, dismissing weeks of agony with two casual words. This is the man who’s supposed to love me, support me, and he can’t even acknowledge that my suffering might be real.

“You want to know where I’ve been disappearing to?” I can hear my voice rising, but I can’t seem to control it. “I’ve been spending hours googling my symptoms because I’m scared and I don’t know what’s happening to my body. I’ve been taking long walks because sitting still makes the pain worse. I’ve been avoiding my friends because I don’t want to explain why I can barely function some days.”

Stanley rolls his eyes. “Dramatic as always.”

“Dramatic?” The word comes out as a near-shout. “I’m describing my actual life, Stanley. My actual experience. And you’re calling it dramatic?”