It no longer really matters that I love her, because all she’s going to hear when I tell her the truth is that I lied to her, just like her parents did.
And then I’m going to lose her.
CHAPTER23
Savannah
Ineed everyone to join me in wishing a huge get well soon to one of our own this week, Trash Panda fans.Tittle-tattle tells me that the girlfriend of our beloved captain, Justin Ashe, is having surgery today while the team heads to Kansas City for a double header against the Cyclones. We’re all thinking of you, Savannah. Hit me up if you need anything!
I don’t know whether I’m honored to be mentioned in this week’sTrash Can Tattle with Tabitha,impressed at her sleuthing skills, or grumpy at the invasion of my privacy. But now anyone who reads the weekly column by the secretive hockey journalist knows I’m going under the knife. It’s not a bad thing that people know, it’s just, I kind of wish she didn’t make it sound like I was getting a nose job, you know?
I assume it’s a “she” anyway. In reality I have no idea, none of us do. We could be being cat-fished by one of the team, or even an opposing team for all we know. “Tabitha” could be anyone, and while her weekly column gives me serious Lady Whistledown vibes fromBridgerton, I’m not thrilled to be mentioned in it. As helpful as it is for hockey newbies with all the technical information they need to learn the game, it’s a gossip column, and I hate being the subject matter fortittle-tattle.
I groan. It’s notTabithaI’m grumpy at, it’s myself. I told him I’d be fine. I had no idea just how not-fine I’d be until just this second. I mean, I had my suspicions of course. I’m sitting in a hospital bed ahead of my “very minor and every day surgery.” While a laparoscopic cholecystectomy might be an everyday procedure for the surgeon and the surgical team, it’snotan everyday occurrence for me.
I’m not too proud to admit that I’m freaking the fuck out right now. Until today I couldn’t even spell cholecystectomy. But there was nothing else to do other than tell him I’d be fine. I couldn’t exactly tell him, “Hey, Justin, can you abandon your brothers, your game, and your life’s work to sit at my bedside and hold my hand this weekend because I’m a big fat scaredy cat?”
I mean, I wanted to. Obviously. And right now I’m kind of wishing I had. But I shouldn’t have had to, right? I mean, surely if he wanted to stay and hold my hand he would have, no matter what I said to him. Because that’s what people do for the people they love. They’re there for them when they need them most.
I know I’m going in circles. And I hate it.
Anxiety brings out the worst in me sometimes, and while I’m often aware of the cycle I’m caught in, there’s often no way to stop it all from rolling around inside my head.
I don’t like being scared. I don’t think horror movies are the shit, I hate being home alone in a dark house, and sometimes I manage to scare the crap out of myself even if I’m the only one around. I have an over active imagination which loves to play tricks on me. Even the Goosebumps books gave me the creeps as a kid.
It’s why I read romance novels and not psychological thrillers. I read a Patricia Cornwell novel once, followed by a Kathy Reichs book the next day. Then I didn’t sleep right for almost a week. I was tempted to light the books on fire to purge the scary from my life, but instead, after a brief book time out in my freezer, I just donated them to a women’s shelter to let someone else deal with the bad guys.
I’m acutely aware of all the things that could go wrong in my surgery, and all the traits and genetic conditions I could have from my birth mom. I Googled. The list of possibilities is endless, every single inherited disease, disorder, anomaly, and mutation. This list could fill a notebook.
“Savannah?”
I’m pretty sure they haven’t given me the good drugs yet and those two people standing in the doorway of my room are my parents, but I blink a few times just in case I’m imagining they’re here.
“Mom?”
She nods and shuffles just enough inside the room that Dad can close the door behind her.
“What are you doing here?” I fold my arms. I’m not sure if it’s to hide the fact my hands are shaking or to let her know I’m still sort of mad at them right now or even to stop myself reaching for her. Maybe it’s all three. Inside my chest the anxiety and tension I’ve been holding for days unfurls just a little and I’m kind of mad about that, too.
Her face scrunches into a frown like my question makes no sense. “You’re having surgery, honey. Why wouldn’t we be here? Planes were grounded or we’d have been here sooner.”
I huff out a breath at her confronting me with logic right now. I’m torn inside. I want my parents here for this big scary thing, sure. Of course I do. But there’s a part of me—a really big and potentially irrational part of me—that is super pissed at them.
What else might be wrong with me? I know nothing about my genetics, my birth parents, their family history, or what health skeletons lie in that closet.
I’ve spent my life thinking that Mom’s anxiety, Dad’s mom’s high blood pressure, and my mom’s great grandfather’s diabetes were the only things I had to worry about getting when I’m older. And now I’m faced with a black abyss of uncertainty.
“How did you know I was having surgery?”
They both blush. I know exactly where they heard it from. Athena wouldn’t have called them without my express consent, and now I’m not only pissed at Justin Ass for not being here, I’m pissed at him for ratting me out to my folks.
Seems I’m pissed at pretty much everyone.
Pissed and scared.
Scared and pissed.
I hate it. I’m usually a pretty live-and-let-live kind of girl. I mean, other than the years of hate I harbored in my heart for Justin breaking my girl Molly’s heart, I’m pretty chill. With Athena as a best friend there’s only so much space in our friendship for savage, and she makes up like 92% of it.
