Two years ago, Pen was diagnosed with chronic fatigue syndrome, or CFS, after an unusually lengthy bout of mono. Characterized by extreme fatigue, sleep issues, and joint and muscle pain, among other things, CFS had no cure or approved treatment. It was difficult to determine the cause, though her doctors suspected it was triggered by a change in the way her immune system responded to illness, and the best we could do was manage the symptoms.
Despite having no FDA-approved treatments, CFS had spawned a thousand and one snake oil salesmen who promised a “cure” via special vitamins, antiretrovirals, and other “miracle” medications. Pen’s parents had flushed a ton of money down the drain trying to find something that worked. Nothing ever did, so eventually, they gave up and simply shoved her at home where they didn’t have to think about her.
Luckily, Pen had mild CFS, so she could carry out everyday activities better than those with more severe cases, but she couldn’t play sports like she wanted or attend school like her peers. On bad days, it was difficult for her to walk. She was currently homeschooled, and Rhea stayed with her pretty much twenty-four seven in case she crashed.
“I made something for you.” Pen sounded out of breath, but my concern ebbed when she walked to the coffee table and returned without missing a beat. A knot formed in my throat. It was a good day; she deserved a good day on her birthday. “It’s a friendship bracelet.” She placed the jewelry carefully in my palm. “I have a matching one. See?”
The beaded bracelet simply had five hearts. Hers were pink; mine were blue.
The pressure from the knot wound its way up behind my nose and ears. “It’s beautiful. Thank you, Pen.” I slid the bracelet onto my wrist. “But you should receive gifts on your birthday, not give them.” Especially not when making the jewelry probably cost her hours’ worth of energy.
“I don’t get to see you on your birthday,” she said in a small voice.
I hated that she was right. We only saw each other a few times a year when Rhea could sneak me in. My family was spiteful enough that they’d lock her in a vault before they’d willingly let me visit, and I was proud enough never to apologize for something I wasn’t at fault for. I’d thought about it, but I couldn’t do it. Not even for Pen.
“Well, we’re together now,” I said, pushing thoughts of the past aside. “What do you want to do? We can watch a movie, play with your new doll…”
“I want to watch the Blackcastle versus Holchester game.” Pen looked at me with big doe eyes. “Please?”
I wasn’t a sports person, but she loved soccer, so I acquiesced to a taped replay. The game made headlines earlier this year because it’d been the first time Asher Donovan, the darling of the Premier League and the newest transfer to Blackcastle, had played against his old team.
Besides Xavier, Asher was my most difficult client, but he was also Pen’s hero. She’d nearly ruptured my eardrum when he signed with my firm a few years ago.
Speaking of Xavier…
While Pen curled against my side and watched the match with rapt attention, I quickly checked my phone for any new gossip items. I ignored a text from an old hookup asking to meet up again—the man could not take a hint—and scanned the news.
I had alerts for all my clients, but there were only two names that made my blood pressure rise whenever they popped up onscreen. One of their initials: XC.
Nothing. Good. He was behaving. I swore Rhea had an easier time taking care of Pen than I did keeping Xavier in line.
Pen and I didn’t talk throughout the game, but we didn’t need to. Even though we didn’t see each other often, the best part of our reunions was being comfortable together. Sometimes that meant talking nonstop; other times it meant watching a movie in content silence.
She shifted half an hour in, and when I looked down, my pulse spiked with worry. Pale face, glazed eyes—she was about to crash. “I’m okay,” she said when I called for Rhea. The older woman rushed into the room, her face wreathed with concern. “Stay.” Pen clutched my sleeve with her little hand. “I never get to see you.”
Despite her words, her voice faded into a whisper toward the end. The night had taken its toll, and it was a testament to her fatigue that she didn’t argue again when I kissed her goodbye on the forehead.
“We’ll see each other again soon,” I said fiercely. “I promise.”
I wished we had more time together, but Pen’s health came before anything else.
Rhea and I took her into the bedroom, where she instantly crashed. I hoped she slept through the night. Otherwise, tomorrow would be rough.
I smoothed back her hair, my throat clogged with emotion. Another visit finished too soon. Our time together never lasted as long as I would’ve liked, but at least I saw her. It was the best I could’ve asked for given our circumstances.
“It’s good she got to see you for a bit tonight,” Rhea said after we returned to the living room. “Mr. and Mrs. Kensington didn’t spend a lot of time with her before they went out.”
Of course they hadn’t. My father and stepmother considered Pen’s condition an embarrassment and kept her away from the public as much as possible.
“Thank you for letting me know about tonight,” I said. Rhea had called last week and told me they would be in London. George and Caroline had dinner and show reservations tonight, which gave me a large enough window to see Pen. “I appreciate—”
“…absolutely terrible.” A familiar voice outside the door stopped us in our tracks and made my stomach plunge. “Honestly, George, I’ve never had a more abysmal lobster.”
Rhea and I stared at each other, her huge eyes mirroring mine. “They’re not supposed to be back for another two hours.”
Her mouth trembled. “If they see you…”
We’d be done for. Rhea loved Pen like a mother. If she were fired, they would both be devastated, and if I couldn’t see Pen anymore…
Do something. CEOs and celebrities paid me exorbitant amounts of money to guide them through rough patches, but a strange disassociation rooted my feet to the floor. It was like I was watching an actor play me in the hotel room while the real me spiraled down a tunnel of unwanted memories.
Dating you is like dating a block of ice…I don’t know if you even like me…
Can you blame him for what he did?
If you actually cared that much, you’d cry or show some emotion.
Don’t embarrass us, Sloane.
If you walk out that door, there’s no coming back.
Pressure pushed against the backs of my eyes, desperate for a way out. As always, it found none.
A key whirred against the suite’s card reader.
Move! a voice inside my head screamed. Are you stupid?
You’re going to get caught.
