Total pages in book: 121
Estimated words: 115577 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 578(@200wpm)___ 462(@250wpm)___ 385(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 115577 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 578(@200wpm)___ 462(@250wpm)___ 385(@300wpm)
Inside, I was fourteen again, watching helplessly as my sister struggled to live.
My stomach churned, hollow and sick, my throat tight with emotion as I smoothed my thumb over her knuckles. I longed for the version of her we’d had just a week ago, the one who was gaming and roasting us and making the whole world brighter just by existing.
I held onto hope that she’d be back to us soon, that we’d return to normal, but fear sank its claws in deep and whispered that even if we got her back, it might not last.
This was the reality of AFM. This was the inevitable the doctors always warned us about.
It made everything else in my life seem so small, so insignificant. It made me wonder why I ever thought anything was more important than spending every day by her side.
I should have been here.
I should have checked in more after her last scare. We’d been given a sign and I’d ignored it, too caught up in my life in Seattle, in football.
In Emily.
My heart ached at the thought of her, just like it had the last thirty-six hours since we sat in Claire’s office together having our asses handed to us. That was just another plate of pressure compounding on my already overextended chest.
We’d been caught. We’d been warned.
We were done.
My heart kicked in my chest in protest, and I squeezed Ginny’s hand, holding onto her for dear life. I used her as my anchor, but nothing and no one could keep me from drifting into the dark sea of my own mind.
I startled at the feel of a hand on my shoulder, looking up to find my mom’s sleepy smile aimed down at me. Dad was behind her, each of them holding a cup of coffee and a decade of pain.
“How are you doing, sweetie?” Mom asked, rubbing my shoulder as if I were the one who needed comforting, as if it had been me and not her who’d had to live through the terror. She was so fucking strong — she and Dad both. I would never understand how they survived everything life handed to them.
I sighed, looking back to Ginny. “I’m okay.”
Mom squeezed my shoulder. “Take a break. Your father and I will sit with her.”
“I’m fine.”
“You need some fresh air.”
I shook my head, swallowing past the lump in my throat.
If Ginny can’t get fresh air, I don’t deserve it.
“Son, look at me.” Dad stepped into my line of sight, covering my hand where I held Ginny’s. “It’s okay. She’s okay.”
My eyes watered, and I sniffed, looking up at the ceiling and willing the tears not to fall. I needed to be strong for them, for her. But I was breaking.
“Besides, you have a visitor.”
This from my mother, whom I assessed with a questioning brow. She only smiled, her expression so warm despite the circumstances.
“Emily is here.”
I blinked, unbelieving, before fishing my phone from my jacket pocket. I hadn’t checked it since I told Coach what was going on. I skipped past the myriad of texts, including a dozen in the group chat with my college friends, and right to the texts I’d missed from Emily.
Trouble: Where did you go? Are you flying to Baltimore?
Trouble: I’m coming.
Trouble: Hey, just landed. No rush in responding. I just want you to know I’m here.
Trouble: Checked in with the ICU desk. I’m in the waiting area. I’ll wait as long as I need to, just know you’re not alone.
Every text made my chest tighten more, and the tears I’d been holding back spilled in a quick sweep down my cheeks to the floor. I wiped away the wetness, sniffing as I tucked my phone away again.
She’s here.
After everything, she’s here.
My immediate response was relief. I wanted her here. I wanted to see her so badly, I was sick with the need.
But on the heels of that instinct was the cold, harsh reminder of what had happened before I left Seattle.
She shouldn’t be here.
“Go,” my dad said, and he didn’t let me protest before he was pulling me up from the chair. “Get some coffee. Talk to Emily. We’ll be here when you get back.”
“And don’t rush,” Mom added. “Ginny is okay.”
I nodded, but one look at Ginny told me that was just part of the story.
She was okay for now.
My chest was on fire as I slipped out of Ginny’s room and into the bustling common area of the ICU. The lights were bright, and I squinted against them as my hands dove into my pockets. I walked slowly toward the family waiting area, torn between wanting to sweep Emily into my arms and bury my face in her neck, to hold onto her like the lifeline she was…
And to do the right thing, the hard thing, the thing we both knew was best.