I wake at 3:17 a.m. to pain.
Not sharp. Not sudden. Just a steadily building pressure in my chest that makes it hard to breathe. My heart is racing, hammering against my ribs like it's trying to escape.
This is it. This is how it happens, the end.
Fuck! It can’t end now.
My fingers clutch at the twisted, sweaty sheets as moisture leaks from my eyes to run down my cheeks as my chest hurts and hurts.
No, this can’t be it. Not when I just found Jennifer.
I sit up too fast, and the room spins. Fresh sweat breaks out across my forehead and runs down my back. I fumble for the lamp on the nightstand and knock over the water glass. It shatters on the floor, but I barely hear it.
Can't breathe. Can't fucking breathe.
My phone. Where's my phone? Should I call 911? But what if it's nothing? What if I'm just panicking and I waste their time and-
The pill organizer. Tuesday night. I grab it with shaking hands, pop out the small white tablet. Nitroglycerin. Under the tongue. The doctor said if I ever felt chest pain-
It dissolves bitter and metallic. I close my eyes, counting my breaths like the cardiologist taught me. In for four. Hold for four. Out for six.
In for four. Hold for four. Out for six.
The pressure doesn't ease.
My laptop is across the room on the desk. I could check my symptoms. But I know my symptoms. I memorized them in the hospital after the collapse. This could be angina. Or it could be another panic attack. Or it could be the big one.
In for four. Hold for four. Out for six.
I think about Jennifer. About how she smiled at me today over lunch, our hands linked across the island. About how she looked at me like I mattered, like I was more than my net worth or my company valuation.
I think about dying in this bed before I ever get to kiss her. Before I get to tell her what she's starting to mean to me.
Slowly, so slowly I almost don't notice, the vise around my chest begins to ease. My heart rate drops from hummingbird-fast to merely too fast. Some of my panic ebbs away.
I sit there in the lamplight, surrounded by broken glass and fear, and realize how close I still am to the edge.
One month. The doctor gave me one month to prove I could change, could slow down, and choose to live over achieving. But old habits die hard. I spent hours on my laptop today when Jennifer left. Checked email. Reviewed quarterly projections. Let myself get pulled back into the current.
And my body is reminding me what happens when I forget.
I get up carefully and test my legs. Steady enough. As I clean up the broken glass, my hands still tremble slightly. In the bathroom, I take my blood pressure with the monitor on the counter: 158 over 98. Not as bad as it was in the hospital (180 over 120), but not good. Not where it needs to be.
Back in bed, I stare at the ceiling and make myself face the truth: I'm not out of danger. Not even close. This reprieve, this month, it's not a vacation. It's a lifeline.
And I'm going to grab it with both hands.
When I finally fall back asleep sometime after four, my last thought is of Jennifer's smile and the way her hand felt in mine.
I have to get better.
I have to survive this.
Because now I have something worth living for.
CHAPTER FOUR
JENNIFER
