Chapter 16
Scottie
I DON’T HAVE CHOICE
Who invented hold music? And why is it always the worst? Something about “Your call is very important to us” loses meaning the fifth time it loops.
I switch my phone to speaker and settle my feet on the barstool footrest, scrolling through an email from my agent for the twentieth time. Eight weeks. Paid rehearsals. Union scale. A job that could actually get me back on the health plan—if I can survive until then.
I’ve been trying to get through to my insurance ever since I tried and failed to get my medications. I’m hoping for better luck this time.
Finally, a voice comes through. “Thank you for holding. This is Jade. How can I help you today?”
“Hi, yes,” I say, attempting to sound competent instead of panicky. “I’m trying to figure out why my insurance isn’t active. I thought I was still covered from my last qualifying job, but when I went to pick up my prescriptions the other day, they said my plan had lapsed.”
“Okay, let me take a look.” Keyboard clicking fills the line. “Can I get your member ID or Social?”
I rattle it off, too nervous to sit, and start pacing the small kitchenette of the pool house. I figured I should take advantage of the privacy here—something my parents’ house doesn’t exactly offer.
“Alright,” Jade says after a pause. “So, it looks like your coverage ended at the close of the last qualifying period in July.”
“How?” I frown. “I had a job in June.”
“Yes, but coverage is based on your covered earnings from the previous twelve-month base period. Because your employment ended, you didn’t meet the minimum earnings threshold to maintain eligibility.”
I press my palm to my forehead. “So I’m just uninsured?”
“You’re currently in your grace period for requalification, but there’s no active coverage until new earnings are reported.
If you start a new union job, your coverage will begin the first of the month after your employer reports wages.
You’ll also have to pay your quarterly premium again once you’re eligible. ”
“So basically,” I mutter, “I need to start working again before I can afford to stay alive long enough to start working again.”
She hesitates, polite but awkward. “I can’t really comment on that, ma’am.”
Great. Another person on my ever-growing shit list of people who call me ma’am.
“Of course you can’t.”
There’s a moment of silence where I consider crying or screaming or both. Instead, I say, “I do have a potential upcoming project. A live show. The job starts in about six weeks. Would that reinstate me?”
“Yes, once your employer reports your earnings, you would regain coverage—most likely the following month.”
“Great,” I say weakly. “Assuming I don’t die before then.”
“I’m sorry, ma’am. You may want to check if you qualify for continuation coverage or marketplace insurance in the meantime.”
“Yeah, I’ll look into that,” I say, deadpan. I already tried—it was a bust.
When the line disconnects, the silence hits like a slap.
My throat tightens as I cup my face in my hands, trying to breathe through it. It doesn’t work. The tears come anyway—hot, sharp, and humiliating.
I literally can’t afford to stay alive.
I can go without ADHD meds—it’s not fun, but I can survive.
What I can’t survive without is the one thing my body refuses to make: insulin.
Every day, I fight to stay alive against a body designed to kill me.
Sure, I could afford it this month—but what about next month?
Or the one after that? What if this job falls through and my insurance never comes back?
It’s overwhelming, trying to figure out how I’m supposed to stay alive without someone’s help.
I sink into the couch, pulling my knees up to my chest.
Tears blur everything but my own shaking hands. The edges of the room start to dissolve as I slip deeper into panic. I should’ve been more prepared. Built a bigger savings. Worked more jobs. Maybe picked a career that didn’t hinge on luck and timing. I should’ve—
A heavy knock cuts through the spiral.
I freeze.
Through the glass door, Gavin’s shape comes into focus. He’s standing on the front porch, one hand resting on the frame.
I swipe at my face, but it’s useless. I probably look as awful as I feel, and there’s no pretending otherwise.
When I open the door, his eyes immediately find mine. He takes in the blotchy cheeks, the crumpled tissue, the way my lip quivers despite my best effort to hold it together. His face changes in an instant, his expression shifting into immediate concern.
“Hey.” His voice is low and careful, like he’s approaching a wounded animal. “What’s wrong?”
And that’s all it takes.
The sob I’ve been holding in breaks free before I can stop it.
I collapse into him, colliding with the solid strength of his chest. His arms wrap around me, pulling me closer, and I don’t think I’ve ever been held by someone strong enough to shoulder everything I’ve been trying to carry alone.
I’m not sure how long I stay there—long enough for the hiccups to start, for the tears to leave cold trails down my neck. Gavin doesn’t move, doesn’t say anything, just lets me cling to him like I’m trying to keep from unraveling completely.
When I finally pull back, I’m embarrassed by the wet patch on his shirt. “Sorry,” I mumble, swiping at my face again. “I didn’t mean to—”
“Hey.” He catches my wrist gently, forcing me to look up. “You don’t have to apologize.”
“I’m sure you weren’t expecting to have to comfort a crying mess,” I manage, trying for a laugh that doesn’t land.
He studies me for a long moment, his brow furrowed. “You want to tell me what’s going on?”
It’s such a simple question, one I want to brush off. He doesn’t look away, and something in that stillness comes undone. I want to lie. I really do. But I can’t seem to get the words I’m fine past my lips.
“No.” The word cracks on its way out. “Not really.”
He nods once, accepting that as an answer for now. Then, quietly, “Can I come in?”
I step aside, still sniffling, and he shuts the door behind him. The pool house seems to close in around us. Maybe it’s his height, or the breadth of his shoulders, but the air thickens the way it always does when I let myself get too close to him.
“Talk to me,” he says gently. “Tell me what’s going on?”
I sink back onto the couch, curling into the corner like I can make myself smaller. “It’s nothing. I just—had a phone call with my insurance.”
He waits, silent. “And?”
“And they basically told me I don’t have any.”
His brows draw together. “What do you mean?”
“I mean it’s gone.” My laugh sounds sharp, almost hysterical. “Apparently, I didn’t make enough in the last twelve months to stay covered under my union plan, so they dropped me. Just like that. And my next possible job doesn’t start until October, so…” I wave a hand vaguely, “I’m screwed.”
He leans forward, elbows on his knees, eyes fixed on me. “You’re telling me you don’t have insurance right now?”
“Pretty much.”
“And your medication—”
“I was able to pay for insulin this month. I had to choose between that and the medication I take for my ADHD.” My voice shrinks to a whisper. “But after that, I don’t know.”
A silence settles between us, and what’s left hangs in the air. He looks like he’s still trying to make sense of what I’ve said, disbelief etched along the line of his jaw.
“What about your parents?” he asks carefully.“Would they be able to do anything?”
“They’d help,” I cut in quickly. “But I don’t want to ask. They’re finances are already stretched as it is, and they’ve been burdened by my illnesses for most of my life.” I shake my head. “I can’t do that to them.”
He nods slowly, absorbing that.
“And your union? No short-term coverage?”
“Not unless I start working again.” I huff out a bitter laugh. “It’s poetic, really. You have to work to live, but you can’t work unless you can afford to stay alive.”
He’s quiet for a beat, his jaw tightening. “Scottie, that’s not sustainable. You can’t go without your medications.”
“I know.” The words come out sharper than I mean them to. “Believe me, I’m aware. It’s just—” I drag in a shaky breath. “It’s terrifying. I feel like everything’s falling apart, and I don’t even have the right to panic about it because technically it’s my fault.”
“Hey.” He shifts closer. “You’re allowed to panic.”
The softness in his tone almost breaks me open again.
He studies me for a long moment, then lowers his voice. “Can I ask you something?”
I nod.
“How bad is it?”
“What do you mean?”
“With your diabetes,” he says quietly. “If you couldn’t afford insulin—what happens?”
I swallow hard. “Eventually? I’ll die. If I’m not hospitalized and given insulin, that’s it.”
His face pales.
“That would be a worst-case scenario,” I add quickly. “But insulin isn’t something I can stretch or skip. It’s not like coffee or rent.”
He rubs a hand over his face, exhaling slowly. “Jesus.”
His jaw works, like he’s fighting the urge to say something he’ll regret. I don’t know what to do with that—how the weight of his concern makes it hard to breathe.
“I’ll figure it out,” I say, trying to sound more confident than I feel. “I always do. There are social media groups, support networks—there’s always someone out there willing to help.”
He looks unconvinced.
“I’ve got savings,” I lie. “A little. And once I start the show in Chicago, my coverage should restart the following month. Assuming I actually get the job.”
“The following month,” he repeats flatly.
“Yeah.”
He leans back, elbows resting on his knees again. “I can’t believe you deal with all of this by yourself.”
“I don’t have a choice.” I straighten my shoulders. “It is what it is. I’m used to it. It’s fine.”
“It’s not.”
He stands then, crosses to the kitchenette, and grabs a paper towel, dampening it under the faucet. When he comes back, he crouches in front of me, holding it out.
“Your eyes are red,” he murmurs.
I take the cold, damp paper towel, unsure what to do with it. “What am I supposed to do with this?”
His mouth tilts, a hint of a smile reaching his eyes. “Here.” He takes it back from me, our hands skimming. “The cold helps.”
Before I can ask what he means, he reaches up, his thumb tracing beneath my eye as if he could smooth away the sting himself. The touch is so careful it steals the breath right out of me.
“Better,” he whispers.
I nod, but the word that comes to mind isn’t better. It’s worse. Worse, because I can feel every place our skin meets. Worse, because he’s still crouched in front of me and I can smell his cologne—clean and rugged, like a sexy forrest. Worse, because for one dizzy second, I want to lean in.
His gaze briefly settles on my mouth before returning to my eyes, and that small, traitorous movement sends a spark through me I have no business feeling.
The silence is so drawn out it feels alive between us, stretching thinner by the second. If I don’t break it, I might break with it.
I clear my throat, the sound too loud in the small space. “You really don’t have to worry about me,” I say, though my voice betrays me halfway through. “I’ll figure it out.”
He tilts his head, still watching me. “You said that already.”
“Because it’s true.”
“Or because you need it to be?”
I blink, stunned by how easily he sees through me.
He sighs, rubbing the back of his neck. “You’re too good at pretending you’re okay.”
“I can’t help it.”
“Why’s that?”
“I’m an actress.” I manage a small smile. “Faking it is kind of the job description.”
He doesn’t smile back. “You shouldn’t have to fake being okay.”
We sit there quietly for a minute.
Finally, he’s the one to speak. “You said the new job starts in October?”
I nod. “October.”
“And until then?”
“I’ll find a way.”
He exhales through his nose, pacing a few steps before turning back to me. “There is a way.”
I tilt my head, staring at him. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
He hesitates, and for a second, I think he’s going to drop it. But then he meets my eyes again, that same steady calm I’ve come to recognize as Gavin to his core.
“I think I have an idea that could solve your problem.” His tone is cautious, voice hesitant.
I frown. “Unless you’re about to tell me you’re secretly a health insurance fairy, I’m not sure—”
“Marry me.”
The words hit the air between us, and everything inside me stutters.
“What?”
He doesn’t flinch. “You heard me.”
My mouth opens, but nothing comes out.
He moves closer, crouching again so we’re eye level. “You need coverage. I have it. We’re already pretending to be married for the house. Why not make it real? Marry me, Scottie.”