It’s the first time I’ve been to Maggie’s house since the night we broke up. It’s a little weird, but it could be worse. Warren has always had this magical ability to make sure he’s weirder than any situation ever could be. And that’s exactly what’s happening right now. He just raided Maggie’s freezer and refrigerator and is standing in her kitchen, dipping soggy microwaved fish sticks into chocolate pudding.
“You eat some of the grossest stuff,” Maggie says, opening her dishwasher.
I’m sitting on Maggie’s couch, watching them. They’re laughing, making jokes. Maggie is cleaning her kitchen as Warren messes it up. I stare at Maggie’s wrist—at the hospital bracelet still attached to it—and try not to be upset that I’m here. But I am upset. I’m annoyed. If she’s well enough to sneak out of a hospital and clean her kitchen, what am I even doing here?
Maggie grabs a paper towel and covers her mouth with it while Warren beats her on the back a few times. I noticed in the car that she was coughing a lot. Back when we were dating and I’d notice she was coughing, I would put my hand on her back or her chest to feel how bad of a cough it was. But I can’t do that anymore. All I can do is ask her if she’s okay and trust that she isn’t downplaying her health.
This coughing fit lasts for an entire minute. She probably hasn’t used her vest at all today, so I stand up and walk to her bedroom. It’s in the chair by her bed. I grab the vest and the generator it’s attached to, and walk it to the couch to hook it up in the living room.
She’s supposed to use it two to three times a day to help break up the mucus in her lungs. When a person has Cystic Fibrosis, it causes their mucus to thicken, which then causes blockage to major organs. Before these vests were invented, patients relied on other people to do manual chest percussions, which meant beating on the back and chest several times a day to break up all the mucus.
The vests are a lifesaver. Especially for Maggie because she lives alone and has no one to administer chest percussions. But she’s never used it as much as she should, and that used to be a huge point of contention between
us. I guess it still is, because here I am, hooking it up, about to force her to use it.
After I get it hooked up, Maggie taps me on the shoulder. “It’s broken.”
I look back down at the generator and power it on. Nothing happens. “What’s wrong with it?”
She shrugs. “It stopped working a couple of days ago. I’ll take it in Monday and trade it in.”
Monday? She can’t go an entire weekend without it. Especially if she’s already coughing like she is. I sit on the couch to try to figure out what’s wrong with it. Maggie walks back into the kitchen and says something to Warren. I can tell by his body language and the way he looks over at me that she said something about me.
“What did she say?”
Warren looks at Maggie. “Ridge wants to know what you just said.”
Maggie glances over her shoulder at me and laughs, then faces me. “I said you haven’t changed.”
“Yeah, well, neither have you.”
She looks offended, but honestly, I don’t care. She’s always tried to make me feel guilty for worrying about her. Clearly nothing has changed and my concern still annoys her.
Maggie seems irritated by my response to her. “Yeah, it’s kind of impossible to stop having Cystic Fibrosis.”
I stare at her, wondering why she’s in such a shit mood. Probably for the same reason I am. We’re having the same arguments we’ve always had, only this time there isn’t a relationship between us to fall back on and cushion our feelings.
I’m annoyed that she left the hospital, but now that she’s so unappreciative of us being here trying to help her, my anger is starting to build. My girlfriend was crying because I was leaving her, concerned about us, and now Maggie’s scolding—mocking—me even though I came. For her.
I can’t sit here and have this conversation. I stand up and unplug the generator, then carry everything back to her bedroom. Maggie and Warren can eat their sacrilegious combination of fish sticks and chocolate pudding, and I’ll be in the other room, continuing to try to repair a vest that literally aids in keeping her alive.
I’m not even all the way into her room when I turn around and see that she’s following me. I set the generator on the table next to the chair and sit down, pulling the table closer. I turn on the lamp next to the chair. Maggie is still standing in the doorway.
“What is your problem, Ridge?”
I laugh, but not because anything about tonight is funny. “What did you eat this morning before you passed out from low blood sugar?” Maggie’s eyes
narrow. I’m asking her this because she probably can’t even remember. Hell, she probably didn’t even eat. “Have you even checked your glucose levels since you ate half of a King Size Twix bar?”
I can tell she’s about to yell. When she’s really angry at me, she signs and yells. It used to turn me on. Now I would just give anything to be able to yell back at her.
“You have no right to comment on the food I consume, Ridge. In case you don’t remember, I’m not your girlfriend anymore.”
“If I don’t get a say in how you take care of yourself, then why am I here?” I stand up and walk closer to her. “You don’t take care of yourself and you end up in the hospital, and then you call Warren, crying and scared. We drop everything to be here for you, but as soon as we get here, you leave the hospital without being discharged! Forgive me if I have better things to do than come running every time you’re irresponsible!”
“You didn’t have to come, Ridge! I didn’t even know the hospital called you guys. And I didn’t cry to Warren on the phone or tell him I was scared! He asked if I wanted company, and I told him yes because I thought we could all figure this stupid situation out like grown adults! BUT I GUESS NOT!” She slams the door on her way out of her bedroom.
I pull it right back open. I don’t do it to follow Maggie, though. I go straight to the kitchen and look at Warren. “Why did you tell me she cried and that she was scared?”
Maggie is standing on the other side of me, her arms crossed while she glares at Warren. He’s holding a soda, looking back and forth at both of us. His eyes finally land on me.
“I exaggerated. It’s not a big deal. You wouldn’t have come otherwise.”
I force myself to inhale a calming breath. It’s either that or I’m going to punch him.
“It’s a long drive from Austin to San Antonio. Besides, we needed to be together. The three of us. We have to figure out how to deal with all of this going forward.”
“All of this?” Maggie says. She motions to herself. “You mean me? We have to figure out how to deal with me? I guess this proves I really am nothing but a burden to you guys.”
She isn’t yelling anymore. She’s only signing. But even though I can tell she’s hurting and upset, I’m still not convinced things would be different if she would take all this a little more seriously like I’ve been trying to get her to do for the last six years.
“You’re not a burden, Maggie,” I sign. “You’re selfish. If you took care of yourself and monitored your blood sugar and used your vest like you’re supposed to and—I don’t know—
maybe didn’t jump out of fucking airplanes, none of us would even be
arguing. I’ve put Sydney in an awkward situation that she wouldn’t be in right now if you’d just take better care of yourself.”
Warren covers his face with his hand like I just screwed up.
Maggie rolls her eyes with exaggeration. “Poor Sydney. She really is the victim in all of this, isn’t she? Gets the man of her dreams and she’s healthy. Poor fucking Sydney!” She turns her attention on Warren. “Don’t ever force him to come take care of me again! I don’t need him to take care of me. I don’t need either of you to take care of me!”
Warren raises an eyebrow, but remains stoic. “With all due respect, you kind of do need us, Maggie.”
I squeeze my eyes shut and look down. I know that had to hurt her, and I don’t want to watch the sting. When I open my eyes again, she’s marching to her bedroom. She slams the door. Warren turns and punches the refrigerator. I walk to the table by the couch and grab Warren’s car keys.
“I want to leave.” I toss Warren his keys, but his eyes dart up to Maggie’s bedroom door. He rushes across the living room and swings the door open. Naturally, I rush with him because I can’t hear whatever it is he just heard.
Maggie is in her bathroom, hugging the toilet, vomiting. Warren grabs a washcloth and bends down next to her. I walk over and sit on the edge of the tub.
This happens when she has too much buildup in her lungs. I’m sure right now, it’s a combination of that and not using her vest for several days, and all the yelling she just did. I reach over and pull her hair back until it stops. It’s hard for me to be upset with her right now. She’s crying, leaning against Warren.
I don’t know what it’s like to be the one with this illness, so I probably shouldn’t be judging her actions so harshly. I only know what it’s like to be the one to care for someone with this illness. I used to have to remind myself of that all the time. No matter how frustrated I get, it’s nothing compared to what she must go through.
It looks like I still need that reminder.
Maggie won’t even look at me the whole time we wait with her to see if her episode is over. She doesn’t even look at me when we’re convinced it is over and Warren helps her to her bedroom. It’s her way of giving me the silent treatment. She used to refuse to look at me when she was mad because she didn’t want to give me the chance to sign to her.
Warren gets her in the bed, and I take her generator back to the living room. Once Maggie is settled, Warren leaves her door halfway open while he comes back to the living room and takes a seat on the couch.
I’m still pissed that he lied about their phone call in order to guilt me into coming. But I also understand why he did it. The three of us do need to sit down and figure this out. Maggie doesn’t want to be a burden, but until she
buckles down and makes her health her primary focus, she’ll never be as independent as she wishes she could be. And as long as she’s dependent, it’s the two of us who will be taking care of her.
I know we’re all she has. And I know that Sydney understands that. I would never walk away from Maggie completely, knowing how much she needs someone in her corner. But when you do things that continue to belittle and even disrespect the efforts of those in your corner, eventually you’re going to lose your team. And without your team, eventually you lose the fight.
I don’t want her to lose the fight. None of us do. Which is why Warren and I stay, because she needs a treatment. And that can’t happen until I repair her vest.
Warren watches TV for the next hour, getting up once to take Maggie a glass of water. When he comes back into the room, he waves his hand to get my attention.
“Her cough sounds bad,” he says.
I just nod. I already know. It’s why I’m still trying to work on this vest.
It’s after 2:00 a.m. when I finally figure out the issue. I found an old generator she used to use in her hallway closet. I switched out the power cords and can get it to kick on, but it won’t stay on unless I’m holding the cord with my fingers.
Warren is asleep on the couch when I take the vest to Maggie’s bedroom. Her lamp is still on, so I can see that she’s still wide awake. I walk over to her bed and plug in the generator and hand her the vest. She sits up and slips it on. “There’s a short. I have to hold the cord while it’s powered on or it’ll cut
off.”
She nods, but she doesn’t say anything. We both know this routine. The machine runs for five minutes, and then she has to cough to clear out her lungs. I run it for another five minutes and then let her take another coughing break. The routine continues for half an hour.
When the treatment is over, she slips off the vest and continues to avoid eye contact with me as she rolls over. I lay it on the floor, but when I look back at her, I can tell by the movement in her shoulders that she’s crying.
And now I feel like an asshole.
I know I get frustrated with her, but she isn’t perfect. Neither am I. And as long as we’re doing nothing but arguing and pointing out each other’s shortcomings, we’re never going to get her health on the right track.
I sit next to her on the bed and squeeze her shoulder. It’s what I used to do when I felt helpless to her situation. She reaches up and squeezes my hand, and just like that, the argument is over. She rolls over onto her back and looks up at me.
“I didn’t tell Warren on the phone that I was scared.”
I nod. “I know that now.”
A tear falls from her eye and slides down into her hair. “But he’s right, Ridge. I am scared.”
I’ve never seen this look on her face before, and it completely guts me. I hate this for her. I really do. She starts crying harder and rolls away from me. And as much as I want to tell her it wouldn’t be so scary if she’d stop acting like she was immune to the effects of her illness, I don’t respond. I wrap my arm around her because she doesn’t need a lecture right now.
She just needs a friend.
•••
I made Maggie do a second treatment in the middle of the night last night. I’m pretty sure I fell asleep somewhere in the middle of her second treatment, because I woke up at eight o’clock this morning and realized I was on her bed. I know Sydney wouldn’t be comfortable with that, so I moved to the couch. I’m still on the couch. Face down. Trying to sleep, but Warren is shaking me.
I reach for my phone and look at the time, not expecting it to be noon. I sit up immediately, wondering why he let me sleep so long.
“Get up,” he signs. “We need to get Maggie’s car and drop it back off here before we head back to Austin.”
I nod, rubbing the sleep from my eyes. “We need to go to the medical supply store first,” I tell him. “I want to see if they can give her a generator until hers gets repaired.”
Warren signs “okay” and walks to the bathroom.
I fall back against the couch and sigh. I hate how this whole trip has gone. It’s left me with an unsettled feeling, which, funny enough, is exactly what Sydney was hoping for. I smile, knowing she got her way and she doesn’t even know it. I haven’t spoken to her since all the fighting between me, Maggie, and Warren last night. I open my texts to her and notice she hasn’t texted since we talked last night. I wonder how her night with Bridgette went.
Ridge: Heading back soon. How was your sleepover?
She begins texting back immediately. I watch the text bubbles appear and disappear several times until her text comes through.
Sydney: Apparently not as eventful as yours.
Her text confuses me. I look at Warren, who is walking out of the
bathroom. “Did you tell Sydney about the argument last night?”
“Nope,” Warren says. “I haven’t talked to either one of them today. My guess is that they’re hungover and still in bed.”
My chest tightens because her text is unlike her.
Ridge: What do you mean? Sydney: Check Instagram.
I immediately close out my texts to her and open Instagram. I scroll down until I see it.
Son of a bitch.
Maggie posted a picture of us. She’s making a silly face up at the camera and I’m next to her. In her bed. Asleep. The caption reads, “Haven’t missed his snoring.”
I fist my phone in both hands and pull it to my forehead, squeezing my eyes shut. This. This is why I should have stayed home.
I stand up. “Where’s Maggie?”
Warren nods toward the hallway and signs, “The laundry room.”
I walk to her laundry room and find her casually hanging up a shirt like she didn’t just try to sabotage my relationship with Sydney with her petty Instagram post. I hold up my phone. “What’s this?”
“A picture of you,” she says, matter-of-fact. “I see that. But why?”
She finishes hanging up the shirt and then leans against her washing machine. “I also posted a picture of Warren. Why are you so mad?”
I roll my head and throw my hands up in frustration. I’m confused why she did it in the first place, and now I’m confused as to why she’s acting like it isn’t a big deal.
She pushes off her washing machine. “I didn’t realize we had rules to this friendship. I’ve posted pictures of all of us for six years. Are we catering our lives to Sydney now?” She tries to walk toward the door, but I step in front of it.
“You could show a little respect for our situation.”
Maggie’s eyes narrow. “Are you serious right now? Did you really just ask me to show respect to the relationship you’re in with the girl you cheated on me with?”
That is not fair. We’re past that now. At least I thought we were. “You could have posted any picture of me, but you chose to post one of me in your bed. A bed I was in because I stayed up for hours to make sure you were okay. Using that as an opportunity to throw my mistake back in my face is not fair, Maggie.”
Her jaw hardens. “You want to talk fair? How fair is it that you’re the one who had an emotional affair, but I’m the one who has to be sensitive about what I post on Instagram? How fair is it that I’m the bad guy for eating a Twix? I wanted a fucking Twix, Ridge!” She pushes past me, so I follow her. She spins around when she reaches her living room. “I forgot how I’m never allowed to have any fun when you’re around. Maybe you shouldn’t come back, because this is the worst day I’ve had in months!”
In all my years of knowing her, I’ve never been this mad at her. I don’t know why I thought this could work. “If you have an actual emergency, let me know, Maggie. I’ll be here for you. But until then, I can’t be friends with you.” I walk to the front door and swing it open, then face Warren. “Let’s go.”
Warren is standing in the living room, frozen, at a complete loss as to what to say or do. “What about Maggie’s car?”
“She can take an Uber.” I walk out of Maggie’s house and head for Warren’s car.
It takes him a few minutes to finally walk outside. I’m sure he was reassuring Maggie. Let him. Maybe he can reassure the unreasonable, but I sure can’t.
When Warren finally makes it to his car, I open up my texts to Sydney. I don’t even try to justify the picture with an excuse. I’ll explain it all to her when I’m face to face with her.
Ridge: I’m sorry she posted that, Sydney. I’m on my way back to my apartment now. Sydney: No hurry. I won’t even be at your apartment when you get here.
I get a separate text from Bridgette.
Bridgette: Dick. You’re a dick. Dick, dick, dick.
Sydney: And don’t bother coming to my apartment. Me and Bridgette are having another sleepover.
Bridgette: NO DICKS ALLOWED!
I close out the texts to both of them and lean my head against the seat. “Drive to Sydney’s apartment first.”
