Total pages in book: 161
Estimated words: 154890 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 774(@200wpm)___ 620(@250wpm)___ 516(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 154890 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 774(@200wpm)___ 620(@250wpm)___ 516(@300wpm)
But getting away was never just about that.
I sigh as, under my fingers, my heart beats like it should. For now. How long did it not beat for, I wonder. And who found me?
“Will you? Now?” My mother reaches for my hands. “Please, Mimi.”
“I didn’t say I wouldn’t have it fitted. I just said I needed time.”
“We nearly lost you,” she whispers, turning her face from mine. She shouldn’t spare me her tears. I know she should make me watch as I turn my hand under hers, my turn to offer her reassurance.
I’m here. It happened before I was ready for it. “I’ll do it.” Because really, what other choice do I have?
Doctors come and go, nurses, too. You’re not allowed to sleep in a hospital, it seems. I’m told that, while in a coma, my parents and Whit were told it wasn’t certain whether I’d survive the experience. I’m also informed I’m very fortunate because not only did I live but it seems I don’t bear the scars. Neurologically, at least.
Almost two days in a coma. Where did I go because I have no memory of it?
How they must’ve suffered, my parents and Whit. How they must’ve worried.
It’s safe to say I feel that guilt.
Given the choice, I’d still do it again. I’d still leave.
Sometime later, hours, I think—it’s hard to judge when you’re in the hospital—I open my eyes. It’s still dark, but Whit is seated in a faux leather chair at the left of my bed. His sweater looks wrinkled, and his jeans look less than pristine. His jaw is covered in a thick rasp of stubble, and his hair is a mess.
“Hey,” I whisper, reaching to rub the sleep from my eyes.
“How are you feeling?” His ankle slides from its place of rest on the opposite knee when he sits forward.
“Like I died, and someone shocked me back to living, I guess.” I try to laugh, but it comes out more like a hacking cough. My throat, I think, pressing my hand to it. “I hope I look better than you do.”
Something that looks like dark amusement skitters across his face as one of his beautiful hands lifts, sliding across the bristles. “I haven’t seen a mirror for a while, so I can’t comment.”
“Jeez. Kick a girl when she’s down, why don’t you?”
“Sorry.” As his gaze dips, I experience a pang of regret. Why did I have to hurt him? And then I remember. He wants children. He wants children, and I have a genetic condition that killed my brother and my grandfather, and Lord only knows how many people before him. I have a genetic condition that could kill a child of mine with no advent of science to prevent it. That’s ultimately why I had to let him go.
“No, I’m sorry,” I whisper. “About everything.” Because he knows my secret now. He knows about this thing I’m carrying. The rest he won’t understand. No one ever does. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you.”
He doesn’t lift his head, and he doesn’t immediately answer. But when he does, I feel incredibly small. “Your parents filled in the blanks when I called to tell them you were in a coma.”
“Oh.”
“When you were on a ventilator, a machine that did your breathing for you.”
“I know what a ventilator is.” My answer sounds harsher than it should. Harsher than I’d like it to.
“Then I told the doctors, which seemed to help them. Brugada Syndrome is genetic, right?
“Yes. It’s what killed Connor, though we didn’t know at the time.”
“You’ve known for a couple of years. Had regular testing and watched for the symptoms.”
“I see my parents have been very chatty.”
He stands abruptly, and my unreliable little heart does a jig, settling again when he lowers himself on the bed, taking my hand between his. “What on earth were you thinking?”
“I was thinking I didn’t want to live my live with a sword hanging over my head.”
“So you thought you’d just take your chances. Dice with death?”
“It’s not so cut-and-dried when you’re looking at it from this side.”
“If you’d had the surgery—”
“I see you’ve read the literature,” I mutter, pulling my hand away. “But just the parts that spoke to you. The same parts my parents liked. How it’d save my life. Shock my heart when it stopped. But do you know how?” Before he can answer, I rush on. “By sending eight hundred volts of power into me. Worse than being kicked by a horse, apparently.”
“A horse kick that would make sure you lived.”
That’s why I came to London. To live. Before I gave in to fear because that’s what having an ICD represents to me. Living in fear that I might die.”
“News flash, sweetheart. You already did.”
“I know—it wasn’t supposed to happen. I’ve lived with this for years, and the symptoms only started to appear a few months ago. I figured I’d have time, and I was going to use that time to experience freedom for the first time in my life.