12.

Social anxiety is basically conspiracy theories about yourself.

Dice

D ICE

“How did it go this morning?”

I smiled as I lifted up another box for Tank to hand off to Amethyst and Tiny who were organizing the attic. “It went well.”

“How is she doing?”

“She ate some breakfast and held it down for about four hours, so she’s considering that a win.”

“That’s good.”

“According to that brain of hers, it takes anywhere from forty minutes to two hours for someone to digest food.”

I heard Amethyst laughing in the attic before she called down, “That brain of hers is filled with more trivia than you’d ever want to know!”

“That works because Dice’s brain is filled with questions that no one in their right mind would ever think to ask,” Tiny said as he lifted the box Tank handed to him. “Ask her one of your stupid questions, man.”

“It’s not just the questions that he gets you with. He makes these statements that have you questioning why you’re really friends.”

“Thanks, Tank, I’m glad to know our friendship is steady and stable,” I said sarcastically.

“Come on! Tell us one of those things that always start arguments,” Tiny goaded.

“I don’t have to argue because I’m right.”

“Now I’m curious,” Amethyst said as her head appeared at the top of the ladder.

“Is a hot dog a sandwich or a taco?” I blurted. Amethyst just stared at me without answering, so I thought I’d go ahead and get my opinion out there before my friends jumped in. “I think it’s a taco because of the way you hold it and also because of the condiments you put on it. For instance, you put lettuce on a taco and sauerkraut on a hot dog. You put pico on a taco and relish on a hot dog. See where I’m going with this?”

“Don’t engage, Amethyst. He’ll argue until you give up on life and then argue some more just to hear himself talk.”

“It’s a sandwich,” Amethyst said, ignoring Tiny’s suggestion. “A hot dog has bread as does a sandwich; therefore, a hot dog is a sandwich.”

“No. A hot dog is even shaped like a taco, that’s why it’s in the taco family rather than just being a sandwich.”

“No. A hot dog has condiments just like a sandwich,” Amethyst argued. “Mustard or even ketchup can go on a hot dog or a sandwich.”

“Salsa could be considered a condiment. So could crema or green sauce.”

“But . . . you’re wrong. It’s a sandwich.”

Tank sighed and took his phone out of his back pocket before he leaned against the ladder and got comfortable, more than ready to check out while we had our discussion because he’d been through many, many instances like this while we worked at the shop together.

I shook my head. “A hot dog is a taco. Look at the way you hold it.”

“If that’s the case, then a meatball sub is a taco, too, because you have to hold it the same way since only one side is cut.”

“Dammit. I never thought about that. If that’s the case, then a Philly is a taco too!”

“Shit. We’re gonna be here a while,” Tiny said as he disappeared into the darkness of the attic. “I’m gonna find a place to nap.”

“No, let’s work while we talk,” Amethyst said as her face disappeared. “We don’t have much more to put up here.”

Tank put his phone back in his pocket, and I picked up another box to hand him before I called out, “I’ve got another one for you, Amethyst. I think that a bowl of cereal in milk should be considered soup.”

“Oh, fuck, here we go with this one.”

“No! You’re absolutely wrong. If it’s anything, it’s a stew because there are chunks in it.”

“If you’re going to go down that path, then tapioca pudding is a stew,” I pointed out.

“That shit is gross,” Tank mumbled as he lifted a box up to hand to Tiny. “I always hated it when our pudding cups were tapioca. I’d trade that shit for just about anything.”

“If you’re going to start relabelling things, then I suggest that meatloaf is a cake as is cornbread dressing,” Amethyst called out.

“Lasagna is just a spaghetti cake made with different noodles.”

“Y’all are both insane,” Tiny said as he reappeared at the mouth of the attic.

“You started this shit,” Tank accused. “It’s all your fault.”

Tank and Tiny started exchanging insults and blame, but I was distracted when my phone rang and I saw Cydney’s face on the screen. I hit the button to answer, and before I could put it up to my ear, I could hear her being sick.

“Cyd! Are you okay?”

“No,” she was able to croak out between the horrible sounds of her retching. “Something hurts. Need help.”

“Fuck! I’m on my way.”

“What’s wrong?” Amethyst called out as I turned to go.

“Cydney’s sick and calling for help. I’m going to her house.”

“I’ll be there in a second,” Amethyst yelled as I pushed open her front door.

I jumped off the porch and sprinted across the grass, crossing Amethyst’s neighbor’s yard before I hit the asphalt and more level ground of the street. Once I got my stride, it was just a few seconds until I cut the corner of someone else’s lawn to sprint down Cydney’s street. I jumped onto her porch and yanked the glass door open as I reached for the door handle.

It turned, but the door wouldn’t open, and I remembered hearing Cydney throw the deadbolt as I walked across her porch. I let the glass door close as I stepped back and assessed the entry points of Cydney’s house. There was a window on the left in what I assumed was her office, but it was closed. To the right was a large picture window with no way to get through. I ran around the right side of the house, trying to remember the layout of her house to figure out which room she might be in. There wasn’t anything open on that side of the house, and as I ran back around the front, Amethyst’s truck came to a stop at the curb.

By the time she jumped out and started toward the door, I was rounding the left corner of the house and called out, “The deadbolt is locked. Do you have a key?”

“I don’t. Let me call . . .”

“I found a window!” I yelled, interrupting her.

“Come open the door!” Amethyst hollered as I pulled off the screen.

It didn’t take me but a second to push the window open, and I held onto the sill as I tried to find purchase with my boots on the bricks so I could lift myself up to crawl through. I heard someone behind me just as a hand touched my thigh, and before I knew it, I was flying through the window to land in a heap on the floor.

I hurriedly ran through the house to the front door and threw the deadbolt open before I turned and ran back toward the bathroom where I’d found Cydney yesterday evening. She wasn’t there, so I tore through the house looking for her until I found a room that I instantly knew was her bedroom. I skidded to a halt at the bathroom door and gasped when I saw Cydney curled up on the floor, naked and dripping wet, clutching her phone.

“It hurts,” she agonized when she saw me.

“We’ll fix it,” I assured her as I grabbed a towel off the rack and to dry her off and cover her.

“Tank, get the blanket off the bed so we can wrap her up. Tiny, go open the back door of the truck so Dice can carry her out,” Amethyst ordered as she dropped down beside Cydney. She reached out and put her hand on her forehead before she leaned down and whispered, “Tell me where it hurts, Squid.”

Cydney sobbed as she put her left hand near her ribs. “It’s squeezing, and something’s on fire. I can’t move.”

“We’ve got you, baby,” I said as I took the blanket from Tank. “I’ll pick you up.”

“I thought a shower would help but . . .” Cydney drew in a sharp breath as I lifted her up and then started crying again. “It hurts, Amy. Make it stop.”

“Oh, sweetie,” Amethyst said as tears streamed down her cheeks.

“Should we call an ambulance?” I asked as I got to my feet with Cydney in my arms.

“No,” Amethyst said firmly. “We can have her at the hospital by the time they get an ambulance here. Tama’i can drive, and we’ll sit in the back with her.”

“Let’s go,” Tank said as he stepped out of the way so I could get past him.

“Find her purse and keys. Lock up her house and then go lock up mine. Meet us at the hospital and bring her stuff with you,” Amethyst called out over her shoulder as she led the way to the truck. “I’ll call her doctor and parents on the way.”

“I’m sorry, Kenny,” Cydney whispered. “I really did want the baby.”

“I don’t think it’s the baby, Squid,” Amethyst insisted as she slid across the seat so I could get in. “But I think we’ve figured out why you’ve been so sick.”

“Make it stop,” Cydney choked out when I jostled her getting into the truck. “Please.”

“It won’t be long now,” I promised as Tiny shot away from the curb. “I promise, I’ll take care of you.”

The next bit was a whirlwind. When we pulled up to the ER, there was already someone waiting outside, anticipating our arrival. If I had to guess, I would say that was due to Amethyst’s frantic texting while we were on the road. We were led straight back to an exam room while Amethyst started spouting doctor gibberish to a man in scrubs. By the time I laid Cydney down on the gurney, there were two nurses there with supplies to start an IV and get her settled in, and before I could back away, the doctor was giving instructions about blood draws and tests he wanted to run.

“We should get out of here and give them some space,” Amethyst said to Tiny and Tank. She looked down at my hand that Cydney was still clutching and said, “Stay with her and call if you need anything.”

While the nurses inserted an IV into Cydney’s left arm, I held her right hand and leaned over to kiss her forehead. She seemed to be sleeping, but the second she felt my lips, she opened her eyes and squeezed my hand.

“What’s going to happen?”

“They’re testing you to see what’s wrong, but Amethyst is sure that it’s your gallbladder, which she swears you can live without.”

“They’re going to do surgery?” Cydney asked frantically. “Do you know what happens in surgery? What if I don’t wake up? What if they give me too much anesthesia, and I don’t wake up? I’ll be able to hear everyone around me, but I won’t be able to talk. No one will know I’m still in there, and I’ll be trapped forever. What if they get confused and take out my stomach instead of my gallbladder and then . . . Oh, God. I’ll be dead. I’m gonna die. Oh, God.”

I stood there, stunned, as Cydney began talking faster and faster until she was gasping for air every few seconds between words that made no sense to anyone but her.

“If I do live, will I ever be able to eat again? I can’t live on applesauce, Kenny! I don’t even like applesauce, and it’s unhealthy! I need to be healthy because what if the baby comes out and it can only . . . Oh, God! The baby! What if they don’t realize I’m pregnant and think it’s a tumor.”

“Cydney, calm down,” I whispered as I watched the numbers on the machine start to rise steadily with every frantic gasp. “It’s going to be okay.”

“No! It’s not! Nothing’s okay about this. It’s not natural for them to put me to sleep and then think I’m going to wake up. What if I don’t and . . .” Cydney started blinking rapidly and panted before she started rambling again, going over worse and worse scenarios that seemed bonkers to me but she genuinely looked worried about.

“Hey,” I interrupted quietly as I got close enough to rest my forehead on hers. I rested a hand on her cheek and then slid it beneath her head to softly rub the muscles at the back of her neck while I squeezed her hand. “You’re freaking out here, Cyd, and I’m not sure how to fix it other than to say that I’ll be right here with you and make sure nothing happens, okay?”

“But what if . . .”

“Let’s look at other what ifs, okay? What if you come out of surgery just fine and your stomach isn’t all fucked up and you can have as many kolaches as you want to eat every morning for breakfast? The baby will grow so big that you won’t be able to see your feet, but that won’t be a problem because I’ll tie your shoes for you and rub your feet after a long day, okay? Do you like foot rubs?”

“Huh?” Cydney asked, her eyes still frantic. “What?”

“Do you like to have your feet rubbed? Do you want me to tell you a secret?”

“But what if . . .”

“I love to get pedicures. If the guys ever find that out, they’ll never let me live it down, but have you ever had one? Soaking my feet makes me relax. Does it do that to you?”

“Huh? Yeah,” Cydney whispered as her breathing started to even out.

“What’s your favorite polish color? When you were sitting by the pool that day, I remember thinking it was so cute that your toenail polish matched your bikini. Have I ever told you how much I liked that bikini?” I looked down at her feet, which were covered by a sheet now, and asked, “What color are your toes now?”

“I threw up in the foot bath at my last pedicure and was too embarrassed to stay to get them done,” Cydney whispered.

“Once they fix your gallbladder, you won’t throw up like that anymore. Amethyst said that’s what is making you sick, not the baby. Once they take it out, you’ll feel much better.”

I realized my error when Cydney’s eyes became wild again and she asked, “What if they take out the wrong thing? What if . . .”

“Take a deep breath, and focus on my voice, okay? I got into an argument with your friend Amethyst right before you called, and I don’t think we’re ever going to agree on the subject, so I want your input.”

“What? You argued with Amy? It’s my job to argue with Amy!”

“Do you want to know what she said?” I asked, pretending to be offended.

“What?” Cydney asked angrily.

“She said that a hot dog is not a taco, it’s a sandwich.”

“What?” Cydney asked again, but this time, she sounded confused.

I explained the conversation, giving her the arguments for both sides and ending with my summarization about why a hot dog really belongs in the taco family. By the time I finished, Cydney was breathing regularly and had a look on her face I couldn’t quite describe.

“What’s wrong with you?” Cydney asked, her voice getting fainter because of the drugs they’d put in her IV. “Are you smoking crack?” She scoffed before her eyes drifted closed. The last thing she said before she started snoring softly was, “Obviously, it’s a fucking sandwich, Kenny. Duh.”

◆◆◆

When the surgeon appeared in the doorway flanked by Roscoe, the doctor who had delivered the medicine to Cydney last night, the entire room went quiet. I stood up along with Cydney’s parents.

“Squid is going to be fine,” Roscoe said quickly as he put his hands out to calm her parents. “He removed her gallbladder without any issues.”

“We’ll have it tested, but from what I can tell, the pain and consistent illness was caused by gallstones blocking the bile duct. We removed the gallbladder, which will take away the cause of the pain, and within a few days, she should be feeling much better with a few diet restrictions that will hopefully diminish over time.”

“I’ve been monitoring her and did a quick sonogram. The baby is just fine, and even though having surgery at this point wasn’t optimal, it was very, very low risk. If anything, it will help her thrive during pregnancy because she’ll finally be able to keep some food down.”

“She’s in recovery now, and as far as I’m concerned, she can be released, but Dr. Hamilton would like to keep her overnight.”

“I just want to get her hydrated with an IV and monitor her to make sure nothing else comes up,” Roscoe said calmly as he took Cydney’s mom by the hand. “One of you can come back to sit with her so she’s not alone when she wakes up, and I’ll let everyone else know what her room number will be when I get it.”

“Thanks, Roscoe,” Grady said as he reached out and patted the doctor’s shoulder.

Mrs. Mason threw herself into Roscoe’s arms for a hug and then smiled at him before she said, “Take me to her.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Roscoe said as he nodded my way and then smiled at Grady. “I’ll get back with you guys in a minute.”

“I’ll call Gamma and let her know,” Amethyst said as she grabbed her phone and stood up. “I’ll send the queens a text, too, and suggest that they not show up en masse.”

“Thanks, Amy,” Grady said before he turned to me and asked, “How are you faring?”

“Me? I’m not the one who passed out on the bathroom floor or the one whose daughter passed out on the bathroom floor.”

Grady smiled before he said, “I’m fucking fine. I was taking your temperature to see if you’re already done with the drama of everything that comes with pregnancy or if you’re going to stick around.”

“I get that you don’t have any faith in me, but it will come over time.”

“We’ll see.”