Thankfully, she doesn’t argue.
When she’s completed the forms, I return them and we wait. Five minutes, ten. A cooking show plays on the TV mounted in the corner and a chef aggressively whisks something in a copper bowl. The waiting room hums with low conversation, a kid coughing in the corner, and the receptionist typing.
I glance at Natalie from the corner of my eye. She’s still pale, her breathing a little too careful, like she’s concentrating on each inhale. Her hands are folded in her lap, fingers laced tight.
My dad died of a heart attack at fifty-eight years old. He collapsed in his office on a Tuesday afternoon. I was in my second year at the firm, and at work reviewing a contract whenmy mom called to let me know. By the time I made it to Connecticut, he was gone.
I shake the thought away, but it clings. Natalie’s young and healthy. This is probably nothing. But what if it’s not nothing?
I want to reach over, take her hand, but before I can, a nurse steps into the doorway. “Natalie?”
We both stand. Natalie steadies herself, and I follow her down the hall into a small exam room. She sits on the paper-covered table, and I hover near the doorway.
“I can wait outside,” I say. “If you want privacy.”
She looks at me for a long moment, something unreadable flickering across her face. Then she shakes her head. “Stay,” she says quietly. “Please.”
The invitation settles me somehow. She’s letting me in, just a crack, and I’m not about to waste it. “Okay,” I say, stepping inside and closing the door behind me. I lean against the wall, close enough to be there if she needs me, far enough to give her space.
The nurse checks her vitals and lets her know the doctor will be right in. The silence stretches, that awkward kind that’s too loud for such a small room. Finally, there’s a knock and a woman in a white coat walks in.
“Hi, Natalie. I’m Dr. Patel. I hear you had a dizzy spell?”
“Yeah,” Natalie says. “I’m sure it’s nothing.”
“Let’s just make sure.” Dr. Patel reviews her notes. “Start from the beginning.”
Natalie explains waking up nauseous, her nerves, the meeting, and standing up and feeling like the roomshifted.
Dr. Patel nods, listening carefully. “Any other symptoms? Fatigue? Headaches?”
“I’ve been tired,” Natalie says. “But I’ve also been stressed. Big week.”
“Understandable.” Another note. “Okay, I want to run a few tests. Standard bloodwork, urine sample. Just to rule things out.”
Natalie nods. “Okay.”
The nurse returns with supplies, and I step into the hallway, giving her privacy. When they let me back in, Natalie’s perched on the table again, a bandage on her arm.
“They said about fifteen minutes,” she says softly.
I nod, then return to my vigil against the wall.
five
. . .
Natalie
The exam roomfeels smaller with every passing minute, like the walls are quietly inching closer while we pretend not to notice.
I sit on the thin paper that keeps crackling under my thighs, hands clasped in my lap so I don’t fidget with them. The fluorescent light above me hums in a way that makes my already-frayed nerves feel like exposed wires.
This is ridiculous. I’m fine. I stood up too fast. I probably need a sandwich and a nap, not a full medical workup. My dad and Jake are being dramatic, which would be sweet if it wasn’t also mildly suffocating.
Across from me, Jake is leaning against the wall, one ankle crossed over the other, scrolling through his phone. He looks casual and relaxed. Or at least putting on a very convincing performance. His still looks annoyingly perfect, even after the walk over here. His top button is undone and every time he tips his head back to stretch his neck, I can see the long, clean line of his throat.
I remember exactly how that neck feels under my lips. How he sounded when I kissed him there. How his pulse jumped against my mouth.
