51. When I Am Too Much

51

WHEN I AM TOO MUCH

Maeve

I pad quietly down the steps, looking for Asher. It’s nearly six in the morning, and my eyelids are heavy, but once again, I woke to an empty bed after a restless night’s sleep thanks to Asher’s tossing and turning. Ruby Rooster was curled up at the foot of it, sleeping soundly, but Asher wasn’t there. And when I turn the corner of the hallway and see the soft glow of the kitchen light, my heart sinks.

There he is at the counter again, bent over his laptop, his back to me, sipping coffee and scrolling through whatever’s holding his attention this time.

A knot tightens in my stomach. If I didn’t know better, I might be worried he was cheating. But that’s not Asher. I know exactly what’s consuming him. And that’s the problem.

I step into the kitchen, and he still doesn’t notice me. His gaze is glued to the screen.

I stop in my tracks, my jaw dropping as I catch sight of the browser. Easily seventy-two tabs are open. Carpal tunnel syndrome. Wrist therapy. Arthritis. Muscle weakness. Chronic pain. Surgery for carpal tunnel. Permanent nerve damage. Disability. Neuroma. Wrist X-rays. Electromyography . Can this turn into MS? Can this become ALS? The list goes on.

I had no idea his googling was this bad. I knew he was worried, but not this worried.

“Asher,” I say, my voice thin with a fresh wave of concern. My best friend is spiraling into something dark.

He jerks around, snapping the laptop shut in one swift move.

For a second, guilt flashes in his eyes. Then he shifts to his easygoing self. “What’s going on? You having trouble sleeping?”

He sounds casual, too casual—like he’s trying to cover it up. Because he is.

“I sleep fine. But you? You don’t.” My voice cracks.

“I was looking something up, you know, some exercises like we talked about last night,” he says, at least partially telling the truth.

But I think he was lying to me last night. He has that same look in his eyes as he did when he left the table, part guarded, part concern. My throat tightens, but I push past it, asking, “Your agent didn’t call during dinner, did he?”

His expression falters. “Why do you ask?”

I press on. “Were you googling in the restroom?”

He gulps, swallowing hard, and I see him mentally cycling through excuses as he asks, “Why are you asking?”

I don’t back down. He’s hurting and I can help. “You’re traveling today. You have a game tomorrow afternoon. You need your sleep, Asher. You can’t be up all night, googling worst-case scenarios,” I say, my voice trembling, fighting to stay steady. I’m swimming in my own emotions, but I push through them and take a step closer, reaching for his hand.

He pulls his hand back.

That’s so unlike him. This whole thing is so unlike him. And that’s exactly why I don’t back down. “Were you up all night, looking at everything that could go wrong? Because it’s okay if you were. I just want to help.”

“I wasn’t up all night.”

Emphasis on all.

Like that makes this okay. Like he’s fine, just fine.

“You hardly slept. You have to have been awake for a while,” I say, gentle but firm too.

His jaw tightens. He glances away, shame written across his face. There’s so much denial in the way he avoids my eyes. But when he finally looks back, his voice is sharp. “Fine, you want to know? Here you go.”

He flips the laptop open again, showing me the dozens of tabs filled with his fears. My chest tightens, and a lump forms in my throat. But this isn’t about me right now. It’s about him. I scan the tabs in more detail, and it’s more of what I saw earlier—worries, solutions, worst-case scenarios, repeated over and over. Rinse, lather, repeat. When I caught him looking up his dad’s medicine’s side effects, I’d thought it was only concern, but now I see a pattern. When he obsessively researched my neck pain during a show, I’d thought it was borderline cute. But now, I see it all differently.

My laidback best friend is anything but. He’s hurting, and he’s managing it by trying to protect the people he loves from being hurt. Like me. By trying to “fix” some minor wrist soreness. Yes, I know about wrist pain for artists. Yes, I do exercises to stretch and strengthen my wrists. Yes, I take breaks from painting. And yes, sometimes I pop ibuprofen.

I take a breath, trying to steady the sudden pounding in my chest. “This feels obsessive. I’m worried about you. Seems like you’re anxious about something bad happening to the people you care about?”

“No,” he scoffs, without hesitation. The refusal is instant and ironclad.

“Asher,” I say, more worry seeping into my voice than I want, “you’re not sleeping. Or when you do, it’s poor. You’re a pro athlete—you need rest, but instead, you’re googling health issues. I know it’s hard to talk about, but…do you think this is because you almost lost your dad?”

His eye twitches, and for a second, his face flickers with something raw—fear. But it’s gone as quickly as it appeared. “I don’t know why you think that,” he snaps, his voice rough and defensive, and so unlike him. “There’s nothing wrong with this. This is how I help. I’ve always helped. People come to me for this, and I fix things. Let me just do this, okay? You didn’t mind when we were friends, but now you want me to change?”

The sharpness in his voice stings. That’s not the answer I’d hoped for. He’s so defensive. I raise my hands in a gesture of peace. “I’m not asking you to change, Asher. I’m saying I want to help you. I think…I think maybe you have some obsessive tendencies.”

“I’m just trying to help!” He drags a hand through his hair, clearly agitated. His hands shake slightly as they drop to the counter. “Let me do this. Just give me the space to do this. Give me some fucking space.”

The words hit me hard— give me space —and for a second, it feels like a punch to the gut. But they don’t sting the way they might have before. This isn’t about me. I’m strong, and right now, I need to be strong for him. I dig in. This is one of those moments where I have to be too much. It’s not about wanting his attention—it’s about wanting him to feel better.

“You can’t push me away,” I say, my voice steady. “You’re my best friend. We’re going to deal with this.”

He exhales hard, his frustration palpable, radiating off him in waves. “Fine. What do you want me to deal with?”

I take a moment. I need to get this right. After I collect my thoughts, I say in a calm, caring voice: “Asher, listen to me. I wonder if you feel like the more you know, the more control you have. You seem to be compelled to research every health thing—when we watch TV, when we’re out to dinner with family, and most of all…when you should be sleeping. Your team needs you. You need them. And you can’t be there the way you want to if you’re up doing this. Your focus should be on hockey, but also…you deserve to have some peace. You deserve to feel better. You shouldn’t have to carry these worries.”

“I’m having a good season,” he points out, and he’s not wrong, but he’s also fixating on the practical impact on his profession rather than the impact on his mind and his heart.

“I know, but somehow, sometime, this could catch up with you. You can’t get by on caffeine and little sleep forever,” I say, waving my hand toward the laptop, pleading with him to hear me. “ This isn’t helping you. All this googling seems to be stressing you out and is consuming so much of your time. You’re filling your mind with information that’s feeding this anxiety,” I say, and he winces at that word, like it’s pricked him. “You think learning more gives you control, but it’s actually controlling you .”

Asher stares at me, his face blank for several long seconds. Then his lips part, but no words come out. My best friend, who always has a solution, who loves helping, who relishes fixing things for his friends, is left speechless.

I’m not though. I have something else to say. I haven’t researched his brand of anxiety, but I know this to be true: “You could talk to someone. You could get help,” I say.

He takes a quiet breath, and for the first time this morning, his eyes soften. It’s small, a flicker of recognition, but I hope it’s a start.