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To claim my real independence.
To ask for Gabe to love me and if not, I’ll piece myself together and find love somewhere else.
How bad could that be?
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Gabriel
My heart is a drumbeat in my ears as I hastily try to unlock Ameline’s apartment door with the phone wedged between my shoulder and ear. Archer is on the other line explaining how to pick the lock. His voice is the only thing guiding my shaky hands.
The thought of Ame’s unconscious body sprawled on her floor is branded in my mind. The fear I felt hearing her scream over the phone still courses through me, lingering like a second skin I can’t shed.
What the fuck happened to her?
Archer is ready to call my uncle—maybe I should’ve called him myself or dialed 9-1-1 when she screamed and didn’t respond over the phone. I just . . . all I could think was reaching her at that moment, wanting to know that she was okay. I stayed on the line while I drove as fast as I could through the streets. When she didn’t open the door, I called Archer so he could help me with picking the lock.
“I’m in,” I sigh with relief. “I’ll call you later. Thank you for always being here for me.” I put the phone away.
But then panic clutches at my chest when I find her on the floor, unconscious. I kneel beside her, gently lifting her head into my lap. Her breathing is steady, but she remains silent, almost lifeless.
“Baby, Ame. Wake up,” I whisper, but she doesn’t move. She only breathes evenly.
With unsteady hands, I tenderly brush back her hair, my thumb lingering on her cool cheek. I remind myself that we’re wasting precious time. Even when she looks peacefully asleep, something bad could’ve happened.
After assessing Ameline and making sure she’s not hurt, I carefully move her to the bed and grab my stethoscope, needing to check her vitals. I brush a strand of hair from her face, my thumb lingering on her cheek. Seeing her like this, so pale and vulnerable, the truth becomes undeniable—I love this woman.
I love Ameline Lewis with every fiber of my being. I’ve tried resisting her, insisting my battered heart couldn’t risk such feelings again. But seeing her like this, so fragile and in need of protection, the last barriers around my heart crumble.
I can’t keep pretending that she’s just a friend. Not anymore. I finally accept that my heart has been quietly, irrevocably surrendered to her.
Love.
I’m in fucking love.
Those four letters are too fucking scary. But it’s the only emotion that fits what I feel for her. I swore I’d never go down this road.
Not again.
But here I am, head over heels for a girl who turned my world upside down three years ago.
As Ameline’s eyes slowly flutter open, a wave of relief washes over me. I’m careful to keep my expression calm, not wanting to add to her worry, but inside, a storm of concern is brewing. She mentions a headache, attributing it to stress-induced migraines. Part of me wants to accept her explanation, but a nagging feeling tells me there’s more to it.
Then there’s the pressure from her mother who apparently needs her soon. Seeing that she’s in the hospital makes me wonder if this is bad news and that’s why she suddenly appeared in her children’s lives. My mind races with possibilities, but I push them aside.
Thankfully, I persuade Ameline to let it go. Not to worry about her mother or anyone, at least not today. We don’t speak as we usually do when we text or during the rare occasions when I drop by the bookstore where she works. I miss the sound of her voice, her laughter, and her stories, but right now, her well-being is my priority. She needs to rest.
When she finally falls asleep, I tuck her in like she’s something precious, something to be cherished. I sit by her side for a while, just watching her, making sure she’s okay.
Once I know she won’t wake up, I step out onto the balcony; I dial Aunt Aspen’s number, my childhood doctor and current mentor. I need her professional insight, some reassurance that Ame’s symptoms aren’t life-threatening. She listens patiently as I describe the incident: Ameline’s severe migraines and the little she disclosed during our conversation.
I have the feeling that she’s hiding something. If there’s anything I’ve learned about Ameline, it’s that she hates to look weak or ask for help. She likes to be self-reliant and doesn’t appreciate when people fawn over her well-being. I need to teach her that it’s okay when others look after her. Today might be a good day to stop being stubborn and finally admit my feelings for her. Although, it’s really not the best time. I can wait a few days or weeks.
“I’d suggest bringing her to me, but, you know, I’m more the teddy bear and Band-Aid kind of doctor,” Aspen states with a chuckle. “Let me pull together a list of neurologists for her. They’ll need to run some tests. Not all migraines are the same and in my opinion every patient should have their own customized treatment. You should advocate for that personalized approach once they confirm the root of her issues. Make sure they take her condition seriously. It’s not just a headache.”
I can’t shake off my nagging concern. “You don’t think it could be something more serious, do you?” I ask, trying to keep my voice steady.
The pause on the other end feels heavy. “Losing consciousness isn’t typical for migraines. But let’s not leap to any conclusions. Get her checked out first,” she advises.
