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“Oh, no.” Even though I’m estranged from my parents, I can’t imagine losing them in such a painful way. I squeeze his hand. “You don’t have to go with me. I’ll be fine.”
“No.” He pulls his hand away. “You’re not getting rid of me that easily.”
I smile weakly. “Okay. If you’re sure.”
“I’m positive,” he says, and in that moment, the ambulance comes to a stop and I’m taken to the ER with Evan at my side.
“Put this on,” a nurse demands, handing me a gown.
I go to the changing room and swap my swimsuit and coverup for the gown that makes me feel like a prisoner in Azkaban.
When I come out, the nurse offers to dry my wet clothes—a service that would never happen in NYC.
Once I get my tiny private space, random people in scrubs take my vitals and demand to know what happened.
“Thanks for being here,” I say to Evan when there’s a second of peace. “I think this would suck much worse if I were alone.”
He squeezes my shoulder. “Don’t mention it.”
His touch skyrockets my pulse so high one of the monitors attached to me beeps. I lean over to check the beeping monitor, but I don’t know how to read it, so I glance at my trusty Octothorpe Glorp instead.
Yep. Even now that Evan’s hand has been removed, I’m clocking about a hundred-and-twenty beats per minute.
My dear Precious, I’m getting very jealous of all these other gadgets monitoring the majesty that is your body and all its fluids. Know that these others are not as obsessed with you as I am. I don’t think any of them watch you sleep every second of every night, and I’m positive none of them fantasize about eating your toenails.
A young, attractive female nurse pops into my space, presumably to check if I’m going into cardiac arrest.
“You’re good,” she says, and I swear I hear disappointment in her voice.
Hmm. Is it my face?
No. I spot her staring longingly at Evan, which explains it.
“The doctor is on his way,” she says to no one in particular and skedaddles.
Whew. I hope I don’t have to stay here any longer than necessary, or else she might go Nurse Ratched on my ass.
“The doctor is probably Vic,” Evan says with a faint smile. “He’s a buddy of mine.”
Yep. When the doctor walks in, his tag reads Victor Hugo.
Wait. Isn’t that the name of that French author who wrote Les Misérables and The Hunchback of Notre Dame?
Also, the doc reminds me of the Beauceron dog breed and is nearly as dreamy as Evan. Is there something in the water of Palm Islet?
“Hey, Vic,” Evan says. “How’s your nana?”
“Better,” Vic replies without a hint of a French accent. “She’s been gardening, if you can believe that.”
“Gardening after a heart attack.” Evan shakes his head. “That sounds just like your nana.”
Vic—or Dr. Hugo, as I’d rather call him—turns my way. “Let me listen to your lungs.”
I sit up, and he does his thing, which makes Evan tense for some reason.
“Okay.” Dr. Hugo puts his stethoscope away. “You want the good news first or the bad?”
My feet go cold. “What is it?”
