Page 3 of The Last Love Story (Baker Girls #3)

CHAPTER THREE

JADE

“Surgery is the best option,” my doctor says, dashing any remaining threads of hope I had about avoiding it.

Carpal tunnel is the worst, and mine has proved to be a particularly bad case. I’ve battled it for years, but over the last six months, it’s gotten so severe that it’s been much harder than normal for me to write or do a lot of basic tasks without pain.

My doctor warned me this was coming, but we were exhausting every other option—and lots of physical therapy first. But nothing helped.

I even worked with an occupational therapist to set up my workspace and watch how I held my arms while I typed, but she was impressed with how much thought and attention I already put into it.

I tried switching to dictation, but it was difficult for me to write that way, and even when I did get some good content, the more frequent moving of the mouse to fix problem spots was even worse on my hand than typing .

It’s only on my right side, so I try to rely on my left more, especially for everything not typing related, but there’s only so much I can do since my right side is my dominant side.

I’ve done all I can do. Now… fuck. This is going to mess with everything. It will set back my writing schedule for the rest of the year unless I get a lot better at dictation.

“What does the recovery period look like?”

“It will probably take a couple of months to get back to normal for daily activities, and to fully restore hand strength can take between six months to a year. After the surgery, you’ll start with rest and then move on to physical therapy.”

“And how long before I can type again?” My voice is meek. I hate it. But it’s like the center of my life is slipping away from me.

“As much as you are currently? Probably two to three months. You can ease into it sooner, but building up to it and maintaining good posture is going to be important.”

“Okay. Thank you.”

“Of course. I’ll take you out to our receptionist so she can get you scheduled.”

I swallow and nod, following him out of the room and down the hall until I’m sitting in an uncomfortable chair in front of a perpetually upbeat woman.

“Carpal tunnel release surgeries take place in our outpatient surgery area. You’ll be awake for the surgery, and only a local anesthetic will be used.

” She slides a piece of paper across the counter between us.

“This goes into further detail about it, and a nurse will call you forty-eight hours beforehand to discuss the details and preparation. It looks like we’re scheduling a couple weeks out. I’m looking at June 29th.”

“Um, I can’t do that. I have to be out of town for work that weekend.”

“Okay, our next availability is July 8th.”

Nodding, I force a smile. “Yes. That should be fine.”

“Great. We’ll send everything along to your insurance company for prior approval. Sometimes they need to see proof you’ve tried other alternatives before they agree to pay for it. If that’s the case, just give us a call and we can send them more paperwork.”

“I can do that. Thanks.”

“Have a good day.”

Pushing out of the chair, I make my way toward the waiting room where my dad is sitting. He insisted on driving me so I don’t stress my wrist out more.

He stands when he sees me, always moving a little slow when he first stands up. His brow furrows.

“What did he say?”

“Surgery.”

“Sweetheart—”

I wave my hand, stopping his words. “Not here.”

He nods in understanding, but rests his hand soothingly on my upper back as we walk toward the elevator.

Once we’re safely out of the hospital and back in his car, tears burn in my eyes.

It’s probably going to be fine, but I’m terrified it won’t be.

I’m terrified this will derail me when I’m finally on track.

I’m continuously growing. And I almost have enough saved up to start audiobooks for the Mariano series.

Hopefully, I can keep growing and record more of my backlist from there.

But if my income starts crashing and I can’t release more books?

I bury my face in my hands as I cry. All this is threatening a part of who I am. Maybe that’s ridiculous. Plenty of people have successful careers with much worse situations than what I’m in. I know that. But I have to feel my emotions and let them out or they’ll eat away at me.

“Hey, we’re going to get through this,” Dad says gently. “We’ve gotten through worse. Remember the time we got stranded in that tiny cabin in the woods because a tree fell over the road, then we both ended up with a stomach virus and had to share that tiny pot of a toilet? ”

I sit up, laughing through my tears. “You went outside one time because you couldn’t wait.”

“And it was pouring.”

His deep brown eyes, that are just like mine, twinkle with mischief.

“Thanks, Dad.”

“It’s going to be okay, sweetheart. What do you say? Brunch before we head home? We can go to that café you like.”

I smile at that. “Sounds perfect. I need all the comfort food.”

After a nice brunch with my dad, I’m lounging on the couch, catching up on the latest season of my guiltiest pleasure, Virgin River .

It’s not a guilty pleasure because it’s aimed toward women or because it’s drama and romance heavy.

Nope. References to those things as guilty pleasures can be left in the past. It’s my guilty pleasure simply because it’s so messy .

Sometimes not in a good way. But I’m addicted, and I can’t look away.

Tomorrow I’ll finish the final chapter of book eight and write the delicious cliffhanger I’ve been waiting to type for three books now.

Part of me wants to write it today, but I’m tired.

My hand is already tingling without doing much, and I want to pout and wallow.

Tomorrow I’ll get back at it, then I’ll start my read through—and take a serious look at my schedule and how I think it’s going to be affected by my surgery.

There’s no way I can comfortably bang out book nine beforehand, especially with my hand so sensitive.

Maybe I’ll wait to start it… even though that might kill me.

I’m about to spiral down a rabbit hole of dictation software when my stomach rumbles.

If I’m going to doom research things, it’s better to have coffee and some of my dad’s homemade chocolate chip banana bread while I do.

I head for the kitchen and get my little comfort snack before returning to the couch.

All it takes is one delicious bite of the banana bread to improve my mood a little.

My dad is a great cook—so great he runs his own YouTube channel teaching people how to cook simple but comforting meals. He does it alongside his part-time job as an accessibility consultant to contracting companies.

My dad worked in the contracting industry for years until he was involved in a forklift accident that left him with chronic pain and some limited mobility in his left leg.

He took all that and turned around and became an accessibility consultant.

My dad has never been one to let life get him down, and he’s a big part of the reason I chased my dream as an author.

I was still in college when I came home upset because another agent had rejected me without even laying eyes on my manuscript.

I knew my stories were good, but getting it in front of an agent who thought it had potential wasn’t happening.

My dad asked why I couldn’t just publish it myself. I didn’t have an answer.

The next morning, I woke up to find a pile research about how to self-publish and three books about it on the way.

My dad is my fiercest supporter and my best friend.

He’s primarily the one who raised me, since he and my mom split when I was young.

My mom is the type to wander around the world with a new guy every six months to a year.

She’s happy that way. At least, I think she is.

There’s no animosity between us, but we’re not close.

She’s obsessed with the newest beauty standards and the wellness lifestyle, and that’s not me.

Don’t get me wrong, I like taking care of myself, but my mom’s version of that and mine are two different things.

Dad always told me to let her live her life and for me to live mine in whatever way felt best.

I see my mom a couple of times a year, and it’s all very relaxed, but she’s more like a random relative than my mom, and I’m okay with that. It’s better than trying to force a relationship that would never work.

After years of the single life, my dad is dating someone now, and I hope they end up together because I really like her.

Another bite of heavenly banana bread, and I decide not to go down any rabbit holes right now. It’ll only stress me out. When I’m calmer, I can look into it all.

I send my dad a thank you text, and before I can put my phone down, it vibrates in my hand. I can barely contain my slightly chaotic smile when I see a message from Justin.

Justin Ayers: I’m suing you for emotional damage.

Me: I’m surprised it took you this long to message me. After our conversation last night, I was expecting to wake up to a string of messages cursing me out. But instead, I got crickets. I almost wondered if I made you so mad you blocked me. Not sure if that’s a good or bad thing…

Justin Ayers: You mock my pain. I ugly cried.

He sends a GIF of Jess Day from New Girl ugly crying.

Justin Ayers: Live footage of me reading that last night. You ripped my heart out, then did an Irish jig on top of it.

Me: An Irish jig? That’s very specific.

Justin Ayers: Are you enjoying my pain?

Me: What kind of author would I be if I didn’t like the fact that my words elicit such strong emotion ?

Justin Ayers: A human one. One with a soul.

I laugh as I take another bite of banana bread.

Me: Hey, my soul hurts when I hurt my characters. I cry along with them. Then I smile when I watch my readers cry.

Justin Ayers: Sadist.

Me: Aw, thanks.

Justin Ayers: Are you having tea with Satan right now?