Page 40 of Lift Me Up

Times when my body would send itself into septic shock.

I tell him about the pain, about the fact that doctors don’t believe the pain is real, they don’t feel like it’s worth sending me to pain management, they tell me it’s something I will just have to endure for the rest of my life. I tell him about my ways of coping, about these debilitating days that make it hard to feel as semi-normal as I can. That this may only get worse because of my drug resistance to essentially every treatment I have tried.

I talk of the scars that are not going anywhere, ones I was ashamed of and afraid of showing or sharing my story to the people in my past, and that was ultimately the reason why I have been single for so long. That I’ve learned to love my body for what it is, to feel beautiful in my skin even if it’s not the traditional standard of beauty. I take a deep breath, I meet his eyes, and I show him the scars, my thighs and underarm surgery scars, keeping myself mostly covered by the towel. I tell him of the more hidden, private scars in the creases of my legs, show him the pockmarks of my back from old HS spots that scarred and went away after so, so, so many rounds of steroid injections.

The whole time he holds my hand, rubbing his thumb across the back of my hand and doesn’t let go.

“The reason I am telling this to you is because I really like you. More than I’ve liked anyone in a very long time. Call it what you will, fate, destiny⁠—”

“An elevator,” He supplies in the same tone, trying to make light. It works.

I smile, “Yes, that damn tin death trap. Whatever it was, it brought us together. And while I don’t want to lose this, the potential of whatever this can be, I also know that being with someone who is chronically ill is not for everyone. Sometimes… Sometimes a person doesn’t mean to, but they grow to resent the person who is ill in the relationship. I’ve lived that once. I never want that again. I need to know what you’re thinking, if you have any questions, and if you’re still interested. With that in mind, you have to tell me if you ever start having doubts or⁠—”

“Georgie,” He stops me and kisses my hand, “Tell me something good?”

His words, four simple words, the words that started it all for us… They are almost as good as the three golden words everyone wants to hear. He doesn’t care that I have scars, that I am not perfect. He wants this, he wants me, and I have never wanted something so much or been so terrified in all my life.

“I really like you,” I tell him, watching him beam.

“I really like you, Georgie.”

“I am really scared,”

“I know. Me too.” He agrees.

“I am really cold.” I shiver, making him laugh.

“Get dressed, silly.”

“But most of all?” I say, scooting closer to him and then closer still.

“Yes?” His eyes watch me with fascination, a light in his eyes that outshines the stars.

I press my forehead, my nose, my lips to his gently in a smile, “I really want to kiss you,”

“I really want you to do that,” His voice has gone airy, his hands touching my sides, gripping the towel like he never wants to let go. I kiss him, he kisses me, and everything slips away until it’s only us in the universe.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

GEORGIE

“How do I find me a Noah of my own?” Franny asks me while sticking a Bailey’s-soaked spoon of French vanilla ice cream in her mouth.

She video-called me after a failed date to vent about how the guy she was out with nearly put her to sleep with how dull he was. Somehow, we got on the topic of Noah, and how I told him everything and how he stayed, and how he stayed for two days after that just because he could. He went home, and I’ve missed him the three days he’s been gone, but the texts are constant and highly encouraged. I snort at her comment, “Maybe don’t be so picky?”

“Not helpful.” She glares at the camera to glare at me.

“Okay… Get stuck in an elevator?”

“Georgie,” she whines, making me laugh.

“How do you want to meet a guy, Fran? You have tried the ‘sit in the coffee shop and hope the barista will slip me his number’ method, the ‘bump into a girl in the store and hope they magically fall in love with me’—”

“Hey, that one almost worked.” She defends and then sighs when I give her the look of lowered lids and a ‘come on now’ expression.

“You’ve also tried every dating app under the sun, and you say every single one is a failure because they’re not⁠—”

“Don’t. Don’t say it.”