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My MS is manageable. I don’t have seizures, so driving is fine. I don’t have the progressive type, and I’ve been able to keep it in a remittent state for years. Sometimes, I have tingling and numbness in my feet. I struggle with balance and have a cane if I need it.
Since I was fifteen, when I fell from the top of a cheer pyramid, and a series of hospital stays and tests concluded that I had the disease, I’ve been dedicated to my health. I don’t fuck around with food or alcohol or anything that could harm my body in any way.
Except that’s not entirely true. I squeeze my eyes shut to crush out the image of the blackmail video. I drank too much that one time, and someone got it on camera.
That one time I tried to be honest and ruined my business.
That one time I hooked up with a stranger on a road trip and ended up pregnant.
I’m starting to think that unless someone is hand-feeding me my decisions, I will keep messing all this up.
“I’m fine. I’m lonely sometimes, is all. I’m used to having you hovering over my shoulder, bossing me around.” I attempt the joke at the expense of my overbearing big sister. She chuckles, but I haven’t convinced her, so I switch gears. “The food up here is stupidly expensive, but I’ve been enjoying the trip. Everything is so gorgeous.”
“That’s good,” Dru says with a voice full of hesitation. “Well, Lisa’s taking some time off because she’s more of a nervous wreck than Mom, which is a talent in itself. I’m helping out for a while with some work stuff. This was supposed to be your job! I wish you were here to do it for me. Love you.”
“Love you too. Bye, Mom!” I call.
“Love you, Nova. Talk soon.” Her voice is far away, like she’s already halfway out the door.
I hitendon my phone and place the device on my chest. An intense wave of homesickness washes over me. Mom and Dru are in Nashville. Dad in Alabama. My brother, Caston, is in London, working in a fancy architecture firm—I haven’t seen him in ages. I think about calling, but it’s the middle of the night there.
The risk of answering Mom’s call was significant enough that I don’t want to push my luck.
I scroll through my texts to my dad. He's never texted me back, even though I’ve messaged him a bunch of times.
Dad used to make snarky comments on the regular about my YouTube channel and why I felt the need to document my every thought to people who do nothing but criticize me. The last conversation I had with him before I left proved that he still doesn’t approve. My life and my choices are a disappointment, and he’s obviously still upset that I left him for Tennessee.
The notification pings and a little envelope pops up on my screen.
Subject: Are we getting a bit too comfortable?
Nausea comes back with an aggressive lurch, and I swallow it down as I open up the email.
I think you’ve mistaken my silence for distance, Princess. Are you getting a little lonely? Are the Canadians not quite as friendly as we’ve been led to believe?
This is your only warning. I’m still watching you.
