Page 115 of The Temporary Bride

The examination room is smaller than I remembered from my last appointment, or maybe it just feels that way today. There’s the paper-covered table, the rolling stool, the eye chart on the wall, and the subtle smell of antiseptic underneath everything. I climb onto the table as Tristan takes the chair in the corner and leans forward with his elbows on his knees, watching me.

The doctor is thorough. He checks my ears with a small light, runs several tests, and writes out questions for me to answer as he tries to get a clear picture of what happened. My right ear is the focus—the one that’s been deteriorating for years, the one that’s now throwing fits instead of quietly losing ground the way it usually does. Doctor Ranklin has known me for several years, and he doesn’t flinch or look alarmed when I write out what happened, which I should find reassuring. It’s hard to be reassured by anything right now though.

As we talk, the buzzing gradually fades. The ringing drops away until I can make out his words properly again, his voice resolving back into actual language, and the relief of hearing clearly is so overwhelming that my eyes sting. I blink hard and keep my face even.

Doctor Ranklin pulls up my file on his tablet and scrolls through it, his reading glasses pushed up on his nose. “You’ve been on an immunosuppressant for the hearing loss. Is that right?”

“Yes,” I say.

He nods slowly and sets the tablet down on the counter. “It doesn’t appear to be having the effect we’d hoped for. The progression hasn’t slowed the way we’d like to see.” He folds his hands in his lap. “We have some options. We can adjust the dosage or move to a different immunosuppressant, and there are some newer treatments worth considering. I’d like to start by switching your medication and monitoring your response over the next few months.”

I nod. Across the small room, Tristan goes still.

Doctor Ranklin continues, talking about hearing aids, about the technology available, about what different models can do at different stages of loss. I listen and try to hold on to the specifics. He hands me a pamphlet with photographs of small discreet devices on it, and I look at it while my brain refuses to take in information it doesn’t want.

And then he says the word “surgical,” and my stomach drops hard enough that I have to press my feet flat against the footrest of the examination table.

He says it as a distant possibility. Something to consider down the line if the new medication doesn’t help, not something to worry about right now, but it still sends a jolt of fear shooting through me.

Tristan asks two or three questions, specific and practical, his voice level. I’m grateful for it because I still feel dazed and disoriented, staring without really seeing as I try to fight down the lump in my throat.

“One more thing,” Doctor Ranklin says, looking at me directly. “Stress can accelerate this progression significantly. Managing your stress levels will matter as much as any medication changes we try.”

I nod. Avoid stress. I’ll get right on that.

I knew this day might come. I’ve known it since the original diagnosis, carried it around as this abstract future possibility that lived far enough away that I could look at it without flinching. But sitting in this too-bright room with a hearing aid pamphlet in my hand and the word “surgical” sitting in my chest, it doesn’t feel abstract anymore. It feels too fucking close.

I keep my face even through the rest of the appointment. I ask the right questions, nod at the right moments, take the pamphlets and the new prescription and the follow-up card, but I feel like it’s all happening to someone else.

When we finally leave, Tristan holds the room’s door open for me. Once we’ve checked out, we step outside into the afternoon sun. Its rays are warm on my face and the air smells like hot concrete, but somehow, none of that reaches me.

I’m not okay.

Tristan guides me to the car with his hand at my back. I get in, sit in the passenger seat with the pamphlets in my lap, and stare at the dashboard. I’m going deaf. Not someday, not eventually, not in some ephemeral future I’ve been keeping it in. Actually going deaf, the progression speeding up, the medication not working. Maybe new meds will help for a while, but how long can it last?

The drive home is quiet. The hum of the car engine does little to slow my racing thoughts. I feel Tristan’s gaze move toward me every few moments, his concern obvious.

After a few miles, he reaches over and takes my hand. I grip his fingers tightly, finding some comfort in the simple gesture.

The ocean comes into view, an expanse of deep blue on the horizon, a sign that we’re nearing the house. The palms that line Tristan’s street are a familiar sight, but everything feels different now, as if the world has shifted slightly off its axis.

We pull into the driveway, and Tristan cuts the engine. He turns to me, his eyes searching mine. “Chloe, talk to me,” he murmurs.

I take a deep breath, the words caught in my throat. “I’m… it’s fine. This is… this is all fine.”

Tristan shakes his head, a crease between his brows. “You don’t have to do that, dimples. You don’t have to pretend you’re okay. I’ve got you.”

Those simple words break something inside me. The facade I’ve been holding up crumbles, and I feel the tears welling up, unstoppable. I try to blink them away, but it’s no use. They spill over, and I start to cry, my shoulders shaking.

Tristan is out of the car and around to my side in an instant. He opens the door and pulls me into his arms, holding me close. I bury my face in his chest, my tears soaking his shirt. He rubs my back, murmuring quiet words that I can barely hear through my crying.

“I’ve got you,” he repeats in a low voice. “I’ve got you.”

I clutch at him, my fingers digging into his shirt as I let all the fear and frustration pour out. I feel like a mess, my face hot and my eyes stinging with the sudden rush of tears.

Tristan lifts me out of the car seat, carrying me inside in his strong arms. We head upstairs, and he sits on the edge of the bed, keeping me on his lap.

I bury my face in his chest again, letting the tears flow. It feels like I’m crying out all the fear, frustration, and sadness I’ve been holding in for so long. Tristan holds me tightly, his presence solid, whispering words that slowly seep into my consciousness.