Page 28 of The Mafia's Septuplets

9

Willa

The exhaustion hits me like a freight train at two in the afternoon, washing over my body with the relentless force of an incoming tide. I set down my measuring tape and grip the edge of the cutting table, waiting for the wave to pass while my client drones on about buttonhole preferences.

This isn’t normal tiredness. I’ve worked fourteen-hour days before, surviving on coffee and determination through Henri’s most demanding seasons. This feels different—deeper and more consuming, like my body is betraying me from the inside out.

Mrs. Patterson’s voice sounds distant despite her standing three feet away. “Miss Reynolds? Are you all right?”

I force a smile and straighten, though my head spins slightly with the movement. “Just a bit tired. It’s been a long week. You know how it is.”

She nods sympathetically, though concern lingers in her expression. “Perhaps we should reschedule? I’d hate for you to push yourself when you’re not feeling well.”

I shake my head, mustering professional composure. “No, please. I’m fine. Let’s finish your measurements so I can get started on your jacket.”

The next twenty minutes pass in a haze of professional competence and carefully hidden nausea. Mrs. Patterson chatters about her daughter’s wedding while I record numbers that blur together on my notepad. The scent of her perfume, usually pleasant, makes my stomach lurch with unexpected violence.

When she finally leaves, I lock the front door and flip the sign to closed, though it’s barely three o’clock. The shop feels too warm, too small, and too full of competing scents that seem designed to trigger the queasiness that’s become my constant companion.

I sink into Henri’s old chair behind the counter and rest my head in my hands, trying to make sense of what’s happening to my body. The exhaustion started two weeks ago, subtle at first but growing stronger each day. Then came the nausea, striking at random moments without warning or apparent cause. The mood swings appeared last week with sudden tears over misplaced scissors, and an inexplicable irritation with clients I’ve worked with for years.

My phone buzzes with a text from Harper:Coffee after work? You look like death warmed over lately.

The blunt assessment is too accurate. I’ve been avoiding looking at myself because I know I look horrible. I figured if I didn’t act like I noticed, maybe nobody else would.

Obviously wrong. Harper isn’t a moron.

I type back:Already closed early. Come by the shop?

Her response is immediate:On my way.

Twenty minutes later, Harper arrives carrying two iced coffees and looking like she’s prepared for a serious interventions. She takes one look at me and sets both drinks on the counter. Then, she perches on the edge of the cutting table, studying my face intensely. “We need to talk.”

I attempt levity, but it falls flat in the face of her obvious concern. “Hello to you too.”

“Willa, you look terrible. When’s the last time you slept more than four hours or ate a full meal?” Her voice carries the particular firmness she uses when she’s worried. “Something’s wrong, and don’t try to tell me it’s just stress or even grief.”

The denial I’ve been rehearsing dissolves under her scrutiny. Harper knows me too well and has seen me through too many crises to be fooled by surface reassurances. I try anyway. “I’m just tired. The business transition has been more complicated than expected, and with everything that happened to Henri...”

“This isn’t grief exhaustion.” Her voice softens slightly. “This is something else entirely.”

I take a sip of the iced coffee and immediately regret it. The bitter taste makes my stomach churn, and I push away the cup with a grimace that doesn’t go unnoticed.

Harper’s eyebrows climb toward her hairline. “Since when do you not like coffee? You’ve been mainlining caffeine since high school.”

I shrug, trying to appear casual. “My stomach’s been sensitive lately. It’s probably stress affecting my digestive system.”

She doesn’t sound convinced. “Probably. What about the crying jag last Tuesday? Or the way you snapped at that client over thread color yesterday?”

The examples pile up like evidence in a case I don’t want to face. Each symptom individually could be explained away but together, they paint a picture I’ve been desperately trying to ignore.

Harper crosses her arms, settling into full protective mode. “I think you need to see a doctor. Just to rule out anything serious.”

I instinctively shake my head. “I don’t need a doctor. I need a vacation and about twelve hours of uninterrupted sleep.”

“When’s the last time you had a physical? When’s the last time you had any medical checkup?” Her voice carries stubborn determination. “You’ve been avoiding taking care of yourself since Henri died, and that’s not healthy.”

I lean back in the chair, hoping distance will soften her resolve. “I’m fine, Harper. Really.”