Fighting For Normal

Pizza, Pinkies, and Promises

I followed quietly behind the nurse, her badge Scarlett or maybe Sage; I hadn’t caught her name - swinging with each step. My sleeveless cerulean sundress felt light against my skin, a nice relief from the heavy humidity outside.

We turned left twice under the humming fluorescent lights. The only sound besides my muffled steps in canvas espadrilles was the soft clink of the silver chain resting on my collarbone. The nurse opened a wide door labeled “Lab Services.” The air smelled faintly of latex and alcohol pads.

I sat down on the padded chair without being asked. The worn seat gave slightly beneath me. The nurse wrapped a rubber tourniquet around my arm, its cool tightness brief but sharp. She pressed lightly, searching for a vein. I watched her steady hands, still and focused. My silver hoop earrings brushed my jaw as I stayed motionless.

“LDH, right?” she asked softly, glancing at the order.

I nodded slightly and looked away just as the needle went in. A quick sting. I focused on a bright poster showing hydration levels in blue shades. The vial slowly filled with deep red blood. I felt the gentle pull as it flowed. The nurse chatted quietly - something about the weather or weekend plans - but I didn’t answer, lost in thought. I noticed my dress skirt had wrinkled where it bunched on the chair.

The needle clicked out, gauze pressed gently, and tape wrapped tight - it was over in seconds.

“You’re all set,” the nurse said calmly.

I nodded again and stood, adjusting the thin strap of my small black leather cross-body bag, just big enough for my phone and keys. I walked back to reception, the soft thud of my espadrilles on the linoleum the only sound, not looking back.

The reception room was quiet, with only the distant hum of a vending machine and the occasional rustle of paper at the check-in desk. My canvas espadrilles made soft, barely noticeable sounds on the linoleum as I walked across. I spotted Dad and Pops right away. Dad stood stiffly by a magazine rack, arms crossed, staring off into space, his silver watch shining under the bright lights. Pops, in contrast, was relaxed, slouched in a chair next to an artificial plant, elbow on his knee.

As I approached, they both looked up. Dad raised his brow slightly in acknowledgment. Pops stood, gently touching my arm, his warmth a comfort against my dress. His hand stayed for a moment, silently asking if I was okay.

“All set, sunshine?” Pops asked with a low, concerned voice.

I nodded, the silver chain around my neck moving gently.

Dad studied me carefully, then glanced at his watch with a quick flick of his wrist. “MRI’s not until 2:15,” he said evenly, showing no emotion.

There was a pause, broken only by the vending machine’s hum. I shrugged, the blue fabric of my dress shifting.

Pops looked at Dad with a playful sparkle in his eye. “We’ve got time,” he said with a cheeky grin. “How about a brunch detour? That bakery you liked, with the weird neon goat.”

Dad sighed softly, blowing air through his nose. “It’s fifteen miles the other way,” he said flatly, as if asking, “Are you serious?”

“Exactly!” Pops replied, smiling wider. “Perfect use of time.”

I almost smiled back, my lips twitching slightly.

Dad looked at me, thinking. The silence stretched between his practicality and Pops’ spontaneity. Then, his voice softened a little. “Do you feel up to it?”

I nodded again, the silver hoops I wore swinging gently.

There was a brief pause as our pre-MRI plans hung in the balance. Then Dad straightened, rubbed his neck with a sigh that felt like giving in.

“Alright,” he said firmly, “but we leave by one.”

Pops clapped quietly, a small victory sound. “Goat cheese pastries, here we come!” he said, eyes shining with excitement.

I followed them to the door, feeling a lightness settle over me. The afternoon heat still pressed down, but it felt a little easier to bear now.

The goat-shaped neon sign hummed softly above the pastry case, its pink light casting a playful glow on the window. Pops insisted on sitting by the window, saying it was perfect for “people-watching.” Dad rolled his eyes but took the middle seat without arguing. I settled into the corner seat, the cool vinyl a nice contrast against my bare legs. A waitress came by with menus shaped like vintage record sleeves, adding to the café’s quirky charm.

The air inside smelled warm and comforting, filled with cinnamon, baked cheese, and rosemary oil. I ordered a lemon thyme scone, a goat cheese and fig tartlet, and a sparkling elderflower drink in a mason jar, the glass beaded with condensation. Dad chose black coffee and something called “The Practical Omelet,” which I guessed was just a plain omelet with a fancy name. Pops went all out: an almond croissant, a pistachio Danish, and a double-shot mocha topped with whipped cream and rainbow sprinkles. He winked at me as he ordered, and I couldn’t help but smile.

After brunch, we didn’t rush back to the hospital. Instead, we took a longer route home, windows down, letting warm air fill the car. Pops hummed along to an old song on the radio, and Dad didn’t complain. The ride was a quiet, peaceful moment we shared before the next step.

Back at the hospital, the MRI room felt more like a spaceship than a medical space. The pale blue walls muffled outside sounds, and the dim lighting focused on the glowing, circular machine. A tech named Conner gave me earplugs and helped me onto the sliding table.

“Just stay still. It gets loud, but you’ll be fine,” he said kindly, placing a cushion under my knees and a soft blanket over my legs. The blanket was a small comfort.

I nodded, watching his steady hands. The contrast dye from earlier still chilled my veins, a cold feeling unrelated to the room.

As the table slid in, the machine slowly enveloped me - first my shoulders, then arms - and my ears filled with the rhythmic hum of magnetic pulses. It felt like lying inside a giant drum, a mechanical heartbeat trying to read my own. The noise was overwhelming, a mix of beeps and clanks. I counted each sound - beep-beep-whirr-kachunk - to stay grounded. My fingers twitched slightly under the blanket, the only sign of my effort to stay perfectly still.

Time stretched and warped in that tight space. I thought about brunch, Pops’ silly pastry tower, and Dad tapping his spoon on the table - a quiet rhythm that always comforted me. I imagined the ocean, though I’d never been - cold salt spray, gulls frozen midair, cliffs like cracked porcelain rising from wild waves.

Conner’s voice crackled softly through the headset: “Almost done. You’re doing great.”

When the machine finally released me with a soft sigh, the sudden quiet felt overwhelming, almost loud in my ears. I stepped off slowly, feeling strangely light as I gathered my things carefully.

At home, the front door closed softly. No one spoke. The house felt heavy and quiet, filled with unspoken thoughts. The faint smell of Dad’s coffee and Pops’ sweet pastries still clung to my clothes, reminding me of our earlier stop.

Bernard padded into the entryway, his nails clicking softly on the hardwood floor. He stopped when he saw me, his tail wagging slowly in a quiet greeting.

I slipped off my espadrilles, leaving them crooked on the mat. One was nearly on its side, the canvas damp from the afternoon heat. Bernard sniffed the nearest shoe thoughtfully, a low rumble in his chest, but didn’t take it - showing his good manners.

I reached down to scratch behind his ear. His fur was soft and warm. “Hey, Bernie,” I said, my voice rougher than I expected.

He leaned into my touch, letting out a satisfied sigh, then followed me silently upstairs. The silver hoops I wore felt heavy, pressing against my earlobes. At my bedroom door, I paused. Across the hall, Stetson’s door was open - his chair was pushed back, a hoodie hung over it, and a mug sat half-empty on the nightstand. His absence filled the quiet with a familiar emptiness.

I stepped into my room. The blinds were halfway down, casting soft, diffused light.

I set my small cross-body bag on the bed, feeling its weight release. Then I pulled the silver chain over my head, the cool metal sliding against my skin, and laid it carefully in a small ceramic tray next to my lip balm, some coins, and an old bobby pin. I unclasped one hoop, then the other, using only my left hand as usual. The familiar motion calmed me.

The hospital bracelet was gone - removed in the parking lot and tucked deep into the zippered pocket of my bag, among gum wrappers and a linty mint. I still felt a faint, phantom pressure where it had been.

Bernard flopped down on the rug with a contented huff, resting his head on my ankle - a comforting weight. I sat cross-legged against the bedframe, palms up, eyes half-closed, letting the quiet settle. The memory of the MRI machine’s steady thrum still hummed in my mind.

Then a soft chime broke the silence. My phone lay face-down on the dresser, glowing quietly like a small beacon. I reached for it slowly, fingers tracing the cool glass. The message from Chandler read:

hey. thinking about u. pizza and mindless tv after my shift?

I stared at the screen, the words inviting. Pizza and mindless TV sounded simple, easy. Then I typed back:

might take you up on that.

I set the phone down, the screen darkening. Bernard lifted his head briefly, sensing the change in me. His warm fur was a comfort against my skin. When I looked at him, his brown eyes stayed fixed on me, unblinking.

The house was quiet. Dad and Pops were asleep, and the only sounds were the soft hum of the fridge, Bernard’s occasional sigh from the hallway, and the faint tick of the grandfather clock in the entryway.

I sat at the dining table, legs tucked under me, wrapped in an oversized hoodie I’d borrowed from Stetson when he wasn’t looking. The sleeves hung past my hands as I held a warm mug of ginger tea. I wasn’t tired enough to sleep, nor restless enough for my usual late-night distractions. An open sketchpad lay before me, its edges curling slightly, charcoal smudges on the page and my hand. I hadn’t drawn much - just some lines and half-formed shapes: a collarbone, the outline of a goat pastry, a storm cloud that looked like a heart if you tilted it right. My mind was too busy replaying the day.

The distant purr of a Jeep grew louder, familiar even before it turned into the drive. A car door slammed, then another. Voices whispered quietly, but I recognized them instantly.

Bernard was up before me, trotting to the front door and barking softly before settling back down, tail wagging.

Keys jingled. The lock clicked. And then I heard it - Chandler’s voice, low and amused, close.

My chest fluttered at the sound. I tucked a stray strand of hair behind my ear and pretended to focus on my unfinished drawing.

The door creaked open. Stetson came in first, smelling faintly of fryer oil, his cap flipped backward. He scanned the room and spotted me right away.

“Oof, she’s in Goblin mode,” he said, tossing his keys into the ceramic bowl on the entryway table with a clatter. “That’s my hoodie, isn’t it?”

I raised an unimpressed brow but smiled a little. “Possession’s nine-tenths, brother dear.”

Chandler followed, carrying three small pizza boxes stacked high. His gray T-shirt clung to his broad shoulders. His eyes softened when they landed on me, making my breath catch. “Hi.”

I stumbled over my words. “Hey,” I said too fast and cursed myself for it.

Bernard weaved between their legs, brushing Chandler’s shin with his tail, silently asking for attention. Chandler crouched down easily, scratching behind Bernard’s ears, murmuring, “Hi, buddy,” in a soft, gentle voice that made my stomach ache in a good way.

Stetson kicked off his shoes and flopped onto the sofa with a dramatic sigh, the cushions groaning.

“I vote something terrible,” he called from the couch, voice muffled. “Trashy reality TV, sea monster doc, cursed YouTube playlist - dealer’s choice. Let’s rot our brains together.”

Chandler crossed to the table and set the pizzas in front of me. His arm brushed mine, sending a faint shiver through me.

He sat beside me - not touching, but close enough that the space between us felt electric. The smell of pizza mixed with his laundry detergent.

“I got your favorite,” he said quietly, nudging the top box my way. “Buffalo chicken. Extra sauce. Ranch on the side.”

I opened it and blinked - mozzarella bubbling over spicy, orange-red edges, crispy chicken curls, just the right amount of heat. My stomach growled, but my chest felt warm for a different reason.

“Thanks,” I whispered, reaching for a slice, trying not to let my fingers shake, fully aware of him beside me.

Stetson turned on the TV behind us. The flickering blue light filled the room, casting shifting shadows. He lowered the volume so as not to wake Dad and Pops.

Chandler leaned back, resting his arms on the chair. I glanced at him; his fingers tapped a quiet rhythm on the wood.

Without thinking, I let my pinky curl around his, the lightest touch - just enough to say, “I’m here,” without words.

Chandler froze for a moment.

Then his finger curled around mine in return. Not tight, not demanding - just a quiet answer to a question I hadn’t asked. The contact was warm and steadying.

Neither of us looked directly at each other, but I caught a flicker of a smile at the corner of Chandler’s mouth. He didn’t pull away. Neither did I.

Behind us, Stetson yelled something about subtitles being a personal attack and threw a pillow at the TV. Bernard let out a confused huff.

But I barely heard it. My heart pounded loudly in my ears, a joyful drum against the memory of the MRI machine. Pinkies linked, pizza untouched, I let the moment stretch until it felt less risky and just right.