‘GERD?’ I stare at the youth dressed in green scrubs, not fully convinced he’s a qualified doctor despite what his name tag reads.Dr. Child, of all things. It almost makes me want to look to see if he has baby teeth.
‘Yes, gastroesophageal reflux disease. The symptoms can mimic a heart attack, as seen with your grandmother.’
‘Aunt,’ I correct, feeling the tension draining from my body, the news, despite the words “disease” going off like a bomb of relief and confetti. Until I’m hit by another concern. ‘But her blood pressure was ridiculous.’ My gaze flicks to Paisley as though inviting her to back me up.
‘Yes, one eighty-five over one-ten, I think,’ Paisley supplies, her hand tightening on mine reassuringly. ‘She was crying and so uncomfortable, the poor dear, and complaining of pains in her chestandher head by the time I got here.’
‘Yes, how can a gastro... whatever kind of disease cause headaches?’ What if there’s been a misdiagnosis?
DrKindergarten’sexpression turns censorious, his finger sliding across the electronic tablet he holds in his hand. Okay, so we’re painting ourselves as overwrought females in this scene.
‘I see she was given trinitroglycerin,’ he says, ‘as a preventative. It can cause severe headaches—a common side effect of the drug. But I can assure you we’re quite certain Ms. Wolf is not having a heart attack.’ He goes on to discuss further investigations and possible treatments, telling me she’ll be kept in overnight. Then, with a curt nod, he swings on the toe of his squeaky running shoes—running shoes?—and leaves.
‘Oh, God.’ I grip Paisley’s hand tighter. ‘That’s... that’s the best thing I’ve ever heard.
I get a few minutes with Cam before she’s moved onto a ward. I hope for the sake of the nursing staff that it’s a private room on a side ward and nowhere near geriatrics.
With a quick goodbye and a promise to return in the morning, Paisley and I find ourselves in an almost silent hall, the smell of disinfectant and old building stretching the length of the long corridor.
‘I’ll take you home.’ She reaches into her bag pulling out both her car keys and phone, flipping the latter open to check for messages.
‘No. It’s late and you’ve done enough. I’ll get a cab.’
‘No way.’ She looks up from the screen, her expression firm. ‘I mean it. There’s no way you’re getting a cab after tonight.’ Her kindness forces the tears I’ve been holding back to stream down my cheeks. ‘Oh, honey,’ she says, wrapping her arms around me. ‘Don’t cry. It’s your birthday.’
She’s right; midnight has come and gone long ago. I am officially thirty years old and I feel at least ninety years older than that.
‘I can’t lose her.’ My voice is watery and sort of warbling. ‘What will I do without her when she’s gone?’
‘That’s a worry for another day. Camilla has acid reflux, she’s not dying anytime soon.’ I sort of snort through my tears. ‘She’ll be so mortified tomorrow and probably insist on a second opinion from Harley Street. Or need to convalesce in Barbados.’
‘That’s not a bad idea. Do you think she needs a companion?’ Paisley jokes. ‘I might be available.’
Pulling my shoulders back, I use the tips of my fingers to wipe the tears from my face. ‘God, what must I look like?’ I catch a glimpse of my reflection in the darkened window, my soft curls have begun to frizz and I’m currently sporting panda eyes again.
‘We look fabulous.’ She makes the sort of clicking motion with her fingers that would stand her in good stead on a drag show stage.
‘Speak for yourself. I look like a five-dollar whore.’
‘I’d pay you at least double that,’ a familiar voice says.
My heart then beats with a mixture of pleasure and surprise as Flynn takes me into his arms.
‘What are you doing here?’
‘I’ve come to take you home. No need to look so worried. I haven’t brought my bike.’
‘Donor cycle,’ Paisley mutters. ‘You’ll end up in here one day, if you’re not careful.’
‘I reckon,’ he replies., ‘but hopefully it’ll be on the maternity ward.’
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ she asks, letting the question hang in the air as her gaze flicks between us.
In a flash of panic, I open my mouth, overly effusive words just tumbling out. ‘You say some of the most ridiculous things, Flynn. Random, ridiculous things!’
A look of something resembling hurt flits across his expression, but before I’ve had time to process or examine this, Keir arrives.
‘Is this some kind of a meeting?’ he asks. So we all make our way to the elevators.
