“Would you like him to be in the room while I review the results? I don’t want to violate HIPAA. Since he’s not your husband.”
Husband. That word hits different. My throat tightens. I’ve always hated the idea of marriage, but something about hearing it now sends my heart into overdrive.
Nick moves to leave. “I can go.”
I don’t think. I just react. “You can stay.”
He stops cold. His back muscles flex and tense under his shirt. Slowly, he turns.
“You sure?”
“Yeah. I mean… how bad can it be? It’s not like I’m dying, right, doc?”
The doctor looks down at me with a gravity that makes my breath catch. My smirk fades. “No, you’re not dying. But I do have more questions.”
Nick leans against the doorframe, arms crossed. Watching. Listening. I can feel his heat from here.
“Do you have a history of high blood pressure, diabetes, or depression in your family?”
“Uh… no. Not that I know of,” I say slowly. “Never knew my biological dad.” My voice is low, shameful of not knowing who my real dad was since my mom got knocked up by someone she thought had money, but he was just a con artist. So when he found out she was pregnant with me, he left without a trace, and she’s never heard from him since.
The doctor scribbles something, and suddenly the room feels smaller—my skin prickles. I glance at Nick—his brows are furrowed, his jaw tight. He looks worried. Actually worried.
“I’m going to assume you drink?”
I blink, caught off guard. “Yeah…”
“How many drinks a week?”
“I don’t know… maybe five?”
He gives me a look. The kind that sees right through me.
“Probably more.” I swallow hard.
“Your blood pressure tells me it’s a lot more. And if you don’t cut back, it could lead to bigger issues.”
“Okay, can you just—cut to it? You’re kind of freaking me out here.”
The doctor lowers the clipboard, voice steady but firm. “Miss Thompson, your blood pressure is 147 over 90. That’s high, especially at your age. If you don’t start taking this seriously, you’re heading straight toward chronic illness. Heart disease.”
I want to sink into the mattress. I feel exposed. Ashamed. I wish I’d told Nick to leave. I don’t need him seeing me like this—cracked open and weak. “Yeah, I’ve heard this lecture before,” I mutter. “Stress. Booze. Bad habits. Got it. I’ll do better. Change my diet. Quit drinking. Get on a treadmill. Yada yada.”
He shakes his head slowly. “What can’t be reversed is your diabetes.”
I freeze. “My what?”
“You have type 1 diabetes.”
“Type one?” The words taste foreign. Wrong. “What does that mean?”
“It means this is primarily genetic. It’s not something you caused. But it can only be managed with insulin.”
“For how long?”
He looks at me evenly. “For the rest of your life.”
My lungs stop working. The air thickens like molasses. Everything narrows—his face, the sterile walls, the dull ache in my skull. My chest aches like something just cracked open. Nick straightens. I feel his gaze on me like a hand I didn’t ask for but suddenly need.
