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I stagger out of the building and head toward my car, gripping my chest. The pain has worsened today.
Just breathe, I tell myself. You’re okay.
But dammit, I think he just broke my heart in half.
Brylee’s tears yesterday. And today Riddick’s anger. His words. I hurt them. And I need to push them away from me.
He doesn’t love me. She doesn’t, either.
They can’t.
I climb into the car and grab my pills, swallowing them dry, waiting for my heart to settle. For the pain to dull.
Outside, on the street, cars roll, pedestrians stroll by. The rain has turned to drizzle, but the clouds promise snow.
Love is a bittersweet medicine.
It’s eleven. If I don’t leave now, I’ll be late for my doctor’s appointment. I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t scared to death of doing this. I managed to mostly avoid the hospital since the diagnosis.
I’ve had angina on and off, over the years—chest pain, a crushing pressure making breathing difficult. Nothing too bad. It happens when I over-exercise, when I get too stressed.
But the pain in my chest on Sunday, after the mind-blowing sex, caught me by surprise. It was bad. It shocked me. It unnerved me. I thought I might be dying.
It reminded me I was playing with fire, and more than that… that if something happens to me, the people around me will suffer.
Like my father suffered. Like I suffered when Mom died. And my heart is a landmine waiting to go off. This isn’t being paranoid.
It’s being pragmatic. Practical.
Realistic.
I rub my chest in circles as the pain subsides, the pills working their magic. Yeah, what I did was for the best. The best for Brylee and Riddick. They have each other now. They’ll be fine. They don’t need me. Nobody does.
Even my father rarely sees me anymore. I just canceled our lunch once more. He’s already living a life without me, has been ever since Mom died. He withdrew from life then, and apart from our uncomfortable lunches once a week, he has his own routine.
I don’t blame him. I’ve been the same.
Until Brylee and Riddick, but that… I need to stop thinking about that. About them.
Starting the car, I pull off the curb and head off to face my demons.
***
“You skipped many checkups. Your father said he’d talk to you about it,” the doctor says.
“He did,” I say shortly, staring up at the white ceiling. Is that a crack? Or a spider web?
“He worries about you.”
Yeah, I know. I bite the inside of my cheek and say nothing as she draws back and sighs.
“You can get dressed now,” she says.
“How very clinical of you,” I mutter, and she smiles.
I like Dr. Jensen. She’s nice, and relaxed, and a good doctor, from what everyone says. But she’s a doctor, and this is a hospital, and she won’t look me in the eye.
“Your heart does seem to be working harder,” she says, confirming my fears. “More than last time I saw you. Did you change something in your routine?”
