Текст книги "Butterfly Dreams"
Автор книги: A. Meredith Walters
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Текущая страница: 4 (всего у книги 19 страниц)
“And I’ll work on ways to blow smoke up your ass in order to appease your need for validation,” she quipped, and I laughed. Corin looked startled. Maybe she wasn’t trying to be funny. But I couldn’t help it. After a strained moment she was smiling again and then quickly covered her mouth as though embarrassed to be found enjoying herself.
“You do that,” I snorted, grinning at her like a fool.
Corin gave me a thumbs-up with an exaggerated wink. And then I was laughing even harder. She stopped trying to cover her mouth and laughed with me unabashedly.
We were laughing together.
Laughing over nothing and everything.
It felt fantastic.
I ran my hand over the sore spot on my chest and noticed Corin watching me with questions in her eyes, our mirth fading until it disappeared. The silence that followed was thick and heavy.
“Why do you touch your chest like that?” she asked bluntly after a time.
It was on the tip of my tongue to tell her to mind her own business. But she wasn’t asking to be nosy. She simply had a question she wanted an answer for.
So I pulled down the collar of my shirt to reveal the bandage. “It’s my ICD incision,” I explained.
“Does it hurt?” she asked, her eyes glued to something she couldn’t see. The thing that was meant to keep me alive.
“It’s sore from the surgery but it’s not too bad. But I’ve heard it hurts when—” I stopped abruptly. I’m not sure why.
“When it shocks your heart?” Corin filled in, and I was surprised she knew what it did.
I nodded, smoothing my shirt back over the bandage.
Corin was gnawing on her lip again, which was starting to look raw. Her brows were furrowed and she looked deep in thought. She started rubbing at her chest again, something I had noticed her doing during the group. Her dark eyes were clouded and worried. Her breathing was shallow and she looked pale.
“Are you okay?” I asked, wondering if she was having another panic attack. I took her by the arm and pulled her toward a bench and had to forcibly make her sit. She resisted my help and tried to pull away from me, but I kept my fingers locked around her upper arm, worried that if I let go she’d fall over.
“I’m fine,” Corin wheezed, and I didn’t believe her for a minute. She was still rubbing at her chest.
“Take a deep breath. Tell me what hurts.” I knew firsthand the danger of ignoring the signs your body was trying to give you. If she was in this support group, then she had something seriously wrong with her.
She waved away my questions. “I’m fine. Just give me a minute,” she told me tersely, and I was reminded of that first time I had tried to help her. She had responded in much the same way. I was sensing a pattern here.
I was getting ready to suggest that she go to the hospital to get checked out when she stood up suddenly, all signs of her earlier discomfort gone.
“I have to go. Bye,” Corin said too loudly.
“Wait—”
She was gone before I could say anything else.
Chapter 5
Beckett
The apartment smelled like burned cheese and garlic.
“You’re home late,” Sierra said as I walked in and dropped my keys in the dish on the table just inside the door.
“There was a lot going on at the office,” I told her, which was a total lie. Lately I had been making more and more excuses to stay late at the office. Even if it was one of the last places I wanted to be, it was better than being home. With Sierra and her cold hostility.
I had been trying to make an effort to be more patient and understanding with Sierra. When I found myself getting annoyed with her, I’d remind myself that she was adjusting to a changed life as well. That we were in a transition period.
But the constant mental pep talk didn’t hold up very well when my girlfriend insisted on having her friends over to drink tequila late into the night when I had to get up early for work the next morning. Or insisting we eat Indian food for dinner when I had told her, more than once, that I had to cut a lot of overly spicy foods from my diet.
We fought all the time. Over small things. Unimportant things. Things that suddenly seemed to matter a lot.
So sitting in my tiny cubicle and staring at my computer screen was a hell of a lot more appealing than listening to Sierra complain about how I never go out anymore and how pissed she was that we couldn’t go hiking like she wanted to.
“I made myself some lasagna. I wasn’t sure when you were getting home so I didn’t make enough for two. But you can check,” Sierra remarked offhandedly, loading her plate with food.
“That’s nice of you,” I said blandly, going to the refrigerator and pulling out a bottle of water, watching her as she cut into the very burned lasagna and feeling a little like gagging.
I hated lasagna.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Sierra demanded, picking up on my tone. She whirled around to face me.
She was still dressed in her work clothes. And I could admit that I still found her attractive. Too bad her looks no longer overshadowed the less appealing parts of her.
“Nothing,” I muttered, not wanting an argument. I was tired. I had a headache. I just wanted to eat something and go to bed. Alone.
“Obviously it’s something or you wouldn’t have said it.” If I was trying to avoid a fight, it was obvious Sierra was gunning for one.
I stared at her long and hard and tried to remember what it felt like to love her.
And I came up empty.
There was nothing there. Not anymore. We were strangers. This was not a relationship that either of us wanted or deserved.
Sierra ripped open the cabinet, pulled down a plate, and slopped a pile of lasagna onto the plate, shoving it in my direction.
“Here. Eat it. Though I’m sure you won’t like it. After all, nothing compares to your mother’s cooking,” she spat out. The venom in her voice drew me aback.
What was her problem with my mom?
“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” I asked, confused.
Sierra rolled her eyes. “Does it even matter?”
“Do you have a problem with my mother’s cooking?” I really didn’t understand what the hell Mom had to do with anything.
“No, I don’t have a problem with your mother’s cooking. Just how what I make is never good enough.”
It was my turn to roll my eyes. Before tonight Sierra had never bothered to cook unless it involved a microwave. I wasn’t sure when I would have had the chance to critique or compare her food-prepping skills.
“I hate lasagna.”
“Since when?” she scoffed, her eyes narrowed.
“Since always.”
The whole world knew I hated lasagna. But Sierra didn’t. Or if she did, it hadn’t mattered.
And right then, that stupid fucking lasagna said everything I couldn’t about our relationship. That after almost two years, she had no idea what foods I hated. That she had never bothered to know.
Or even worse, she totally disregarded it.
I thought I had loved her once.
But I knew now that what I had once felt had nothing to do with love. It was attraction, sure. A sexual chemistry that had made it easy to overlook the less palatable sides of her personality.
But never love.
That was something I realized that I had yet to experience.
She took my plate with the lasagna I hated and walked it purposefully across the kitchen. She lifted the trashcan lid and dumped the contents inside.
“You don’t have to do that—”
“It’s not like you’re going to eat it, Beckett. So what’s the fucking point?” she yelled, slamming the dish in the sink with a loud clang.
“This isn’t working, Sierra,” I said without preamble. I hadn’t been expecting to say that. Not like this. But the words sort of tumbled out.
We’ve wasted so much time being miserable.
Sierra stood at the sink, her face flushed, her chest heaving. When she looked at me, her eyes were on fire. “You’ve changed, Beck,” Sierra said, sounding so, so angry. And she was right. I wasn’t the same guy she met in the park all those years ago.
“I know,” I responded a little defensively. This was the crux of our problem.
I had changed. And she hadn’t. And we just couldn’t sync back up. Not that either of us was really trying to.
“You expect me to still be the Beckett who plays basketball with his friends and plans backpacking trips for the summer. I’m not that guy anymore, Sierra. And I know you can’t be happy with the person I am now.”
Sierra snorted and rolled her eyes, which pissed me off. But since I was going through with this, I might as well attempt to do it civilly. Even if Sierra seemed incapable of doing the same.
“You’re not happy, Sierra. I know that—”
“Don’t put this on me, Beck. Don’t you dare! This is all about you. You had that heart attack and you changed.”
“Damn right I changed, Sierra! I almost died! I don’t think you get that!” I yelled back. I felt a brief stab of pain in my chest and knew I should calm down. I couldn’t afford to get worked up.
Sierra threw her hands in the air. “You think I don’t know that? You won’t let me forget it! It’s there, all the time! Your heart attack. Your poor, pitiful heart. Woe is me. Wah, wah, wah. Cry me a fucking river! Well, screw you, Beckett!”
I pressed my palm over my chest and took a deep breath, willing myself not to fly off the handle. I felt light-headed again and closed my eyes briefly.
Think about pink bunnies and pretty beaches, I thought.
Sierra continued to scream at me and I just breathed through all of it, hoping I wouldn’t keel over at her feet because I was damn sure at this point she’d leave me there to die.
“Look, I’m not going to argue about it. If you could stop yelling for two minutes and think about it rationally, you’d see I’m right. You don’t want to be here with me. You don’t want to be shackled to a guy who can’t do the things you want him to do.”
Sierra narrowed her eyes. “I would have been happy to be shackled to a guy who couldn’t play basketball on weekends or go backpacking in the mountains. It wouldn’t have bothered me one bit, Beck.”
She dropped her plate in the sink where it cracked into pieces. If that wasn’t symbolic, I didn’t know what was.
“I just don’t want to be shackled to you,” she spat out.
“Okay then,” I muttered, not even hurt by the truth I had already known.
“And to think I was feeling a little guilty about Caleb!”
Wait. What? Who the hell was Caleb?
“Guess I shouldn’t have bothered hiding the fact that I’ve been screwing him for the past three months!” she shouted and then stormed from the room.
There was a lot of banging and slamming from the other side of the apartment. I didn’t follow her. I didn’t want to escalate the fight further. Maybe I should have demanded to know who the hell Caleb was. But honestly, I just didn’t give a fuck. The fact that she had been sleeping with another dude didn’t really matter. Sure, my pride was hurt a little, but my heart was fine. Not even a scar.
It was sad that after being together for so long, after sharing a home and a life, I couldn’t care less that she had been getting spread-eagle for the mysterious Caleb. I was just relieved that she was leaving.
The pain in my chest subsided. I sat down in a chair and listened as Sierra tore apart our bedroom.
I covered my mouth to try to stop myself from laughing. And failed.
Because this whole thing was pretty damn funny.
Sierra was in the other room, throwing things around, yelling at the top of her lungs as though I had just told her I was leaving her for her best friend. She was doing her best to play the part of the spurned girlfriend when she had, in fact, been cheating on me for months.
The irony was hysterical.
I was still laughing when Sierra came back to the kitchen, two bulging duffle bags in her hands. She scowled at me as I tried to stop snickering. “What’s so funny?” she demanded.
I shook my head. “Nothing.”
“I may have broken the stereo in the bedroom. Oops,” she told me, glaring.
I started laughing again. She was that ridiculous.
She threw her hands in the air in frustration. “I don’t think this is funny, Beck! I’m leaving! Don’t you get that?” she shrieked.
I schooled my face into a more neutral expression even as my lips continued to twitch. “Yeah. I get that.”
“I’m going to Caleb’s,” Sierra announced with a sneer, wanting to hurt me. “He’s my boss, just so you know.”
Of course he was.
“He has a house by the river and a summer home on the beach. He wants to take me hang gliding next weekend.” Why was she still here?
“Well, have a good time,” I said.
“Ugh! You’re such an asshole, Beckett! Good luck finding another woman to put up with your bullshit,” she huffed. “And don’t bother to call me ever again. I’ll come get my stuff when I know you’re at work. And don’t think you’re keeping the TV! It’s mine!” Sierra yelled a few minutes later.
Like I cared about the TV. I just wanted her to get the hell out already. This had been a long time coming, and all I could feel was relief that the moment was finally here.
“I deserve so much more than you,” Sierra seethed.
“I hope you found it with Caleb,” I replied, trying to sound sincere. I don’t think I succeeded.
Sierra glowered and then stomped out of the apartment.
And when the door closed, I felt better than I had in a long time.
Chapter 6
Corin
The tears just kept falling. I couldn’t stop them.
No sooner had they dried on my cheeks than they were replaced with new evidence of my grief.
My mother had been sent home from the hospital two days ago at her insistence.
“I won’t die in a hospital, Neil,” Mom had argued. Dad had fought her, insisting that the best place she could be was at the hospital, surrounded by doctors and nurses.
“What’s the point? I’m dying. Nothing is going to change that. And I’d rather leave this world on my terms. In my home. With my family.”
My mom was dying.
In a matter of weeks, days even, she would be gone, and I’d never get to see her again.
I lay beside her on the bed, holding her hand, her cheek rested tiredly on top of my head. We had been like that for hours. I couldn’t leave her. And I didn’t want to sleep. I was terrified that the moment I did, she’d slip away, and I would have wasted those last moments with her.
My mom was dying.
The tears clogged my throat and burned my eyes. They wouldn’t stop. I didn’t think they ever would.
My father stood in the doorway to their bedroom, his grief so plain on his face, mirroring my own.
“When will Tam get here?” my mother asked. She could barely keep her eyes open. She slept more and more these days. She was also pretty looped out on the morphine that the doctors had prescribed to reduce her pain. There were times when she was so high she couldn’t string coherent words together.
She was lucid at the moment, having just woken up from a four-hour nap. But I noticed the way she winced as she tried to sit up in bed.
And I clung to her hand, never wanting to let go.
“She should be here soon. She just left school and it’s a three-hour drive,” Dad told her.
Mom nodded, trying to lift her arm to reach for the glass of water on the bedside table. Her hand hung limply in the air for a moment before falling back to her side.
Dad hurried over as I carefully lifted her up so he could place the glass to her lips. She dribbled some water onto her shirt.
I tried not to look at my mother for too long. I hated seeing her gray, ashy skin and bald head from the intensive rounds of chemotherapy. She didn’t look anything like the woman she had once been.
Looking at her for too long made me feel sick to my stomach, and I hated myself for feeling that way.
After she was finished with her water and Dad wiped her chin, I pressed back into her side, touching my mother but purposefully not looking at her. I could close my eyes and remember her as she used to be. Not as she was now.
I stayed like that for days. Even after Tamsin came home to see our mother, I wouldn’t leave.
I remained in that bed until the final moments.
Holding her hand as the tears drowned me.
Touching her but unable to look at her face.
The face of the dying woman I loved more than anything.
I hated myself for my childish weakness.
It was a hate that would burn a hole through my gut and never really go away.
–
“Corin, your tests have all come back normal. I’m not sure your symptoms have anything to do with your heart. There are other things that can mimic heart problems,” Dr. Harrison said, and I felt the familiar crippling disappointment.
“Are you sure? Because my chest pains have been really severe,” I argued, rubbing at the sore spot I had become used to.
Dr. Harrison looked at my file and frowned as he flipped the pages and pages of results.
Deep down, I had known this was going to happen. But it didn’t change the horrible sense of dread that felt like a ball of lead in my stomach.
Dr. Harrison was younger than Dr. Graham. He couldn’t be more than five years out of medical school. He was attractive in a brainy sort of way and I appreciated how much he smiled. He had nice teeth, which was extremely important in my opinion. Straight, white teeth said, “Hey, you can trust me because I believe in stringent dental hygiene.”
But his inability to solve my ongoing medical mystery was going to put a serious crimp in our patient/doctor relationship.
Dr. Harrison scratched at his temple, his brow scrunched in concentration. “You’re still having chest pains?” he asked, and I hoped like hell that wasn’t incredulity in his tone.
I nodded. “All the time,” I told him emphatically.
Dr. Harrison seemed confused. “Do they come and go? Because that could be gas pains or indigestion—”
“It’s all. The. Time,” I said through clenched teeth. Slow. With emphasis.
Dr. Harrison closed my file and put it down on the desk. “Let me have a listen to your heart,” he said, fitting the tips of his stethoscope into his ears.
I slumped a bit, feeling disheartened and frustrated. I tried not to flinch at the feel of cold metal against bare skin and took deep breaths when instructed.
A few minutes later Dr. Harrison put the stethoscope headset back around his neck and conferred with my file once again. “Your heart seems to be healthy, Corin. In my professional opinion that isn’t the problem here.”
Not the problem…
“Then tell me why I have this pain, right here!” I demanded, pointing to the spot in my chest that I had gotten into the habit of rubbing constantly.
Dr. Harrison clicked his pen a few times, and I thought about grabbing the pen and shoving it up his nose.
“There are a lot of possible reasons for your chest pains. I tested for angina and that doesn’t seem to be the problem. But you could be suffering from gastric reflux or there could be a strained muscle—”
My humorless bark of laughter cut him off.
“Strained muscle? Are you kidding me?” I scoffed. I felt a pressure in my chest that seemed to get steadily worse the more upset I became. Like a giant hand had reached through my rib cage and was squeezing my heart.
“Anxiety and stress could also be a factor,” Dr. Harrison continued, and I noted the look of concern on his face.
“This is not because of anxiety!” I seethed, clenching my hands into fists and trying not to use them to inflict damage on the pretty doctor’s face.
“Corin, I’m only suggesting that the cause of your chest pains may be something more benign. And that’s a good thing!”
“Do you know what would be a good thing, Dr. Harrison?” I asked, my voice sounding weak and thready despite how angry I was becoming. I tried to take a deep breath but found my lungs wouldn’t expand. The harder I tried to suck in air, the harder it became.
I felt a little light-headed and I closed my eyes for a moment.
“A good thing would be to finally know what’s wrong with me,” I whispered, my eyes still closed. The room was starting to spin and it reminded me of that one time I had gotten drunk.
Adam had brought me a six-pack of wine coolers one evening after work, and I had thrown up after drinking three of them.
I rubbed at my temple, feeling a dull throb begin.
“I want that too, Corin. I just think we need to look at other possible causes than a heart problem.”
I barely heard what Dr. Harrison was saying. Because I wasn’t there, in his office anymore.
I was in another doctor’s office eight years ago. Listening to similar, placating words being spoken to someone else.
“I’m positive your symptoms are a result of a nasty virus, Neil. I recommend going home and getting plenty of rest and drinking lots of fluids. You should be feeling much better in a few days.”
My father’s doctor hadn’t believed him either. Dad had known that something was wrong but let himself be convinced by a man with a medical degree that he was “fine.”
“No,” I mumbled, shaking my head.
“Corin, I think it’s time we look at other possibilities. Psychosomatic ailments can manifest severe physical symptoms…”
“No,” I said a little louder. Not this again.
And then I couldn’t breathe. I was gasping and struggling for air.
“Corin!” Dr. Harrison’s alarmed voice cut through my panic. I collapsed in a heap, the good doc catching me before I slid to the floor.
I was covered in a fine sheen of sweat, and the harder I tried to get air into my lungs, the more impossible it seemed.
I recognized this feeling all too well.
The butterflies smothering me. Pulling me under…
But in that instant the only thing I could think was that I was dying.
“Take a deep breath, Corin. In through the nose, out through the mouth,” Dr. Harrison instructed, but it sounded as though his voice was echoing down a long tunnel.
The pain in my chest felt like a knife digging through skin. I fisted my hand over my frantically beating heart.
“Hurts—” I gasped.
I heard Dr. Harrison talking to someone, but I couldn’t make sense of what they were saying. Dark spots swam before my eyes and the last thing I thought before I lost consciousness was I told them there was something wrong.
–
I woke up sometime later flat on my back. It could have been seconds. It could have been minutes. Who knew?
What I did know was that I now felt an uncomfortable breeze in places that should definitely be covered up.
“Corin?” Dr. Harrison peered down at me and I squinted as he shone a flashlight in my eyes.
“That’s what my parents called me,” I rasped dryly. At least I hadn’t lost what little sense of humor I had.
My head hurt. My elbow was throbbing. And that breeze I mentioned was because my skirt was now up around my waist. Just great. I was showing the world my undergarments once again. I should just give up on wearing clothing altogether with the frequency I was flashing the goods.
The only silver lining was that at least I had learned my lesson and wasn’t wearing the ratty undies that could house a family of four.
I tried to sit up but a nurse I didn’t recognize put a gentle, yet insistent hand on my shoulder, keeping me down. “Just lie still for a minute. No sudden movements. You took quite a spill.” She spoke as though she were at a cheer rally and not in a doctor’s office. Her overly excited enunciation made my head hurt even more. All she needed was a set of pom-poms and we’d be set.
I lay back down and stared up at the ceiling. I felt incredibly exposed with my limbs askew and the good doc and perky nurse staring at me like something icky under a microscope.
“You hit your head when you fell. How do you feel?” Dr. Harrison asked, pocketing his penlight.
I rubbed a sore spot on the back of my skull. I hit my head? That couldn’t be good. How did I feel? Like total shit.
“Maybe I should go home and rest,” I suggested as Nurse Perkalicious helped me into a sitting position. I quickly repositioned my skirt so that it covered all parts of my body that were meant to be covered.
Neither Dr. Harrison nor Super Nurse responded to my very rational suggestion but instead fussed over me like I had contracted some horrible disease in the last couple of minutes.
“What happened?” I asked, my voice sounding like I had been gargling broken glass. It was almost hot in a sex phone operator kind of way. I tried to clear my throat but it was no use. Cheer Nurse—I really should find out her name—picked up on my discomfort and brought me a glass of water, which I downed quickly.
Dr. Harrison spoke in a low voice with Bouncy Nurse, and I tried to hear what they were whispering about. I thought I caught the words “panic attack” and “observation.” There may have been “psychological issues” and “counseling” sprinkled in there as well. I felt my face flush and a familiar, indignant anger begin to simmer.
“You passed out for a few seconds. You were having a panic attack. Was that the first time you experienced something like that?” Dr. Harrison asked, finally helping me up off the floor and depositing me into a chair.
I rubbed at my pounding temples trying to get my thoughts straight. I had experienced another panic attack. This was becoming a serious problem. But that didn’t mean I had “psychological issues.” And I would rip my hottie doctor a new one if he so much as suggested it. I wasn’t above junk-punching a physician.
“No, it wasn’t the first time,” I admitted grudgingly. A little brokenly. I took a deep, shuddering breath and opened my eyes, forcing myself to meet the worried doctor’s gaze. I hated to see it there. It annoyed me. It irritated me.
It made me worry too.
“How often do you get them?” Dr. Harrison asked softly.
I shook my head, not wanting to answer that particular question. “I really need to get back to work,” I mumbled, reaching down to pick up the purse I had dropped in my rushed meet and greet with the floor.
“How often do you have these panic attacks?” Dr. Harrison asked again, disregarding my attempts to flee.
I waved my hand in front of me, dismissing his question. I wasn’t going to get into this. Not now. I had come in wanting answers for my physical problems. I most certainly hadn’t signed up to hash out my supposed psychosis.
“I need to get back to my shop—” I began, but Dr. Harrison cut me off. He was proving to be a lot pushier than Dr. Graham had been. And I didn’t do pushy. It made me want to throw things and yell. A lot.
“Corin, this isn’t something you should brush aside. If your anxiety is a problem, it needs to be addressed. It could, quite possibly, be the cause of many of your physical issues,” he explained calmly, rationally. Too rationally. It made me feel small. And moronic. And dense.
I reconsidered the whole junk-punching thing.
Nurse What’s-Her-Face stood in the corner, tidying up cotton balls or whatever, trying to be discreet as she nosed up in my business. She was failing miserably. I glared in her direction. She responded with a toothy smile that looked as though she had stepped out of a Colgate commercial. I narrowed my eyes and she finally got the point and excused herself from the room.
There was only so much positivity I could stomach.
I rubbed at my chest that for the moment didn’t hurt. “I have a heart problem, Dr. Harrison. I know that’s the issue,” I argued, feeling my face grow hot.
Dr. Harrison didn’t say anything. But he stared at me for a long, long time. Long enough that I started to feel extremely uncomfortable.
“I am not ruling out a heart issue, Corin,” he placated, pulling out a pad and writing on it. He ripped the top sheet off and handed it to me. I looked down at his messy script and saw that it was a prescription.
“What is this for?” I asked suspiciously.
Dr. Harrison tucked his pen back into his shirt pocket and took off the glasses that had slid down his nose and laid them on the desk. “I’m prescribing you a very mild antianxiety medication. If these panic attacks are occurring frequently, then this could help. You only need to take half a pill when you feel the first symptoms of a panic attack.”
“I don’t think I need these,” I said, trying to hand back the prescription.
Dr. Harrison shook his head. “Corin, we have to examine all possible causes for your heart problems. Severe anxiety can often mimic heart issues. Have you ever spoken to a counselor about your anxiety? I can provide you with a referral, make a phone call—”
“No!” I shouted and felt embarrassed by my outburst. But I didn’t apologize. Fuck that.
Dr. Harrison did the staring thing again that was starting to seriously get on my nerves. “Let’s make another appointment for next week and we can talk about some more tests,” he said finally.
I let out a sigh of relief. “Okay. That sounds good.”
“Make an appointment on the way out. And Corin, just have the prescription filled and hang onto the medication. There’s no shame in admitting that you need help in managing your anxiety. I really think it’s important that you address the root of what’s causing it.”
I didn’t want to argue about it and I certainly didn’t want to talk about it any longer. I simply nodded and got to my feet. “I’ll make that appointment. See you next week, Dr. Harrison,” I responded quickly, wanting to leave before he started trying to shrink me.
I hurried out to the lobby, my head bowed, eyes trained on the floor. I still felt shaky. My heart was thumping wildly and I felt bruised and battered from the inside out.
Another anxiety attack.
Just great.
I felt sick to my stomach and I debated whether I should just go home and spend the rest of the day in bed with hours of Grey’s Anatomy on the DVR.
I really didn’t want to deal with anyone.
“Corin, hey!”
Because the universe didn’t already hate me enough…
I looked up and almost groaned out loud. Beckett stood at the reception desk, leaning casually on the counter, a bright smile on his pretty, pretty face. He must have gone to the same school of perky as Dr. Harrison’s nurse. “What are you doing here?” he asked.
“Taking Pilates,” I muttered.
Beckett chuckled and moved aside as I pulled out my wallet. “I need to schedule an appointment with Dr. Harrison for next week,” I said a little sharply to the receptionist who seemed unfazed by my rudeness.
“You see Dr. Harrison? He’s pretty good. I go to Dr. Callahan,” Beckett announced as though I had asked. I tried to ignore him. Even though standing so close to him had my stomach doing the nausea dance again. Fluttery wings tortured my insides and I fought the urge to smile at him. Stupid, traitorous mouth.
Beckett waved his hand in front of my face. “Hello! Anyone there? Cat got your tongue?” he asked, and I swatted his hand away.
