Chapter 33 The Clinical Trial
THE CLINICAL TRIAL
EMERY
Last night was a test. He tested me. He tested my boundaries. He tested my willingness to adjust and adapt to unfamiliar territory. I wasn’t planning on spending the night with him. I wasn’t prepared to fall asleep in his arms. I wasn’t ready to sleep with him. Only sleep. But I did.
Like a rat in a lab, he set up the appropriate environmental controls, sat back, and watched. He watched as I succumbed to his charms, to his veiled innocence, to his unnerving patience and gentle approach. I passed his test. But I failed my own.
Or did I?
When our heads hit the pillow, when we drifted off to sleep, I felt, despite my resignations, a sense of comfort.
The same solace I find in the stillness of darkness.
Now I don’t know what to think. It’s all jumbled.
Confusing. The equation is no longer linear.
It’s no longer quantitative. I’ve wandered away from the realm of simplicity into a world of theoretical principles.
I’ve always hated the unknown. But last night, the unknown didn’t seem too scary.
As I push open the door to New York City General, I’m hit with the sterile scent of hospital cleaner. A smell shouldn’t be scary either, yet there are goosebumps all over my arms. No matter where I go, tests always follow. One after another. Endless.
“Excuse me.” I grab the attention of a nearby security guard. “Can you tell me how to get to cardiology? I have an appointment at eight.”
“Follow the blue line to the elevator,” he mutters, pointing to the vinyl strips on the floor. “Sixth floor.”
I should’ve remembered that. But it’s been three years. A lot has changed in three years. The hospital received a facelift. Residents became attendings. People lived. People died. And I fell into the in-between.
My gaze stays glued to the blue line as I walk through the hospital, my heart racing as I near the closing elevator doors.
“Hold it!” I call out, picking up my pace as I round the corner.
“Hold—” My shoulder collides with a steady arm, and my purse drops on the ground, all the contents spilling.
“Fuck sake’s…” I drop to my knees, reaching for all my crap that’s sprawled on the floor.
The man crouches down, and we reach for a pill bottle together.
“I’m fine. I don’t need your…” I glance up, taken aback as Quinton frowns, reading the bottle. “Quin? What’re you doing—”
“Munosol?” His cloudy gaze flicks up, brows knitted together. “Why are you taking immunosuppressants?”
“None of your business.” I stiffen, yanking the bottle out of his hand. My gaze soaks in his three-piece charcoal suit as we both stand up. “Why are you here?”
“Emery…” His deep, gritty tone causes my spine to straighten and my throat to dry. Quin frowns. “Why are you taking Munosol?”
His question registers inside my brain like a command from an admiral, a man of high rank and earned respect. I have no control as my lips part, and I mumble out, “I had a heart transplant.” I swallow. “Your turn. Why are you here?”
“Following up on a clinical trial,” he says in a rush, gaze flitting down to my purse. “How long have you been taking Munosol?”
“Clinical trial for what?” I ask, deflecting as I cross my arms.
“That’s confidential,” he says, clearing his throat. His tone teeters between concerned and angry as he asks, “How long have you been taking Munosol, Emery? A year? Two?”
What is his deal? Did I do something to irritate him? “Closer to three,” I say, glowering at him. He’s being rude, and I don’t know why. And frankly, I don’t care to find out. “If you’ll excuse me, I’m late for an appointment.”
“Emery.” He reaches out, grabbing my arm as I attempt to duck past him. “Wait… Please—”
I spin around, baffled beyond belief. “What?”
His concerned gaze flits across my face. “What side effects have you experienced? Nausea? Loss of appetite? Vomiting?” He looks down at my clenched fist. “Any tremors?”
“I’m late, Doctor,” I grunt. “I don’t have time to fill out your Big Pharma survey.”
Quin runs a frustrated hand through his thick golden hair. “I’m not…” He sighs. “I’m just—”
“I’m fine,” I spit out, patting the center of my chest. “Still working, isn’t it? Happy?”
Quin swallows. “I did not mean to overstep my bounds, darling. I apologize for upsetting you.”
“Me?” I ask. “If anyone appears upset, it’s you. My reaction is simply mirroring yours.”
He nods in agreement. “My apologies again. It’s been a… It’s been a long night. I’ve been on the clock since midnight.”
“You’ve been here all night?” I ask, tilting my head. He looks surprisingly well-rested and handsome for a man who pulled an all-nighter. “You don’t look very sleep-deprived.”
He manages a smile. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”
“Don’t,” I snap back, forcing a scowl. “It’s just an observation.”
“Well, I appreciate the complimentary undertones of your observation,” he says with a grin. “And don’t try to deny it, little Emery. There were definite undertones.”
I roll my eyes. “If you say so.”
“I do,” he says. “You said you were late for an appointment?”
I check my watch. Shit. “Yes, I have an echo scheduled for, well, two minutes ago.”
He nods toward the elevators. “I’ll walk you.”
“There’s no need.” He places his warm palm on the small of my back, and I give in. “Fine.”
“So, you’ve had a heart transplant,” he muses as we wait for the elevator doors to open.
“Yup,” I say, dreading another inquisition. “Ask away, Doctor. I’m sure you’ve got loads of questions.”
“Not really,” he hums, standing beside me as we pile through the doors. “I’m glad you were able to find a donor. Has your health improved?”
“Seriously?” I shoot him a knowing side-eye. “You tell me, Doc. Prior to the surgery, I could barely walk up a flight of stairs without getting winded.” I smirk. “How would you rate my stamina now?”
Quinton’s jaw ticks as I verbally teleport him back to Club Hades. “I’d give you a solid three out of five.”
I scoff. “A 3? Need I remind you—”
“No need.” His eyes harden, and my tongue freezes as he shifts his weight, looming over me with debilitating power.
He lifts his hand, stroking my hairline.
“I remember it quite well, darling.” He swallows, gaze floating across my stunned features.
“However, to achieve a five requires great practice, and you’re still…
” He pauses, the corner of his lips quirking into a taunting grin. “A novice.”
“I guess I’ll just practice more,” I mumble, offended by his arbitrary grading system. “A lot more.”
He smirks, clicking his tongue. “You can practice for decades, darling, but if you don’t have the right partner, your efforts will be futile.”
I frown at him, both intrigued and surprisingly protective. “I quite like my current partner.”
He chuckles. “And I like crème br?lée, but you don’t see me eating it every day. Simply because you like something, little Emery, doesn’t mean it’s good for you.”
“Is that your professional opinion, Dr. Marquis?” I ask, cocking my head. “I thought researchers aren’t supposed to be biased.”
“Ah…” He holds up a finger as the elevator doors ping open. “But we do posit a hypothesis, don’t we? And this is mine.”
“Well good luck with proving your theory,” I say, rolling my eyes despite my amusement. “Might be hard without a willing participant.”
“Oh, I think the participant is more than willing, darling,” he says, leading me toward the cardiology wing. “In fact, I’ve already begun amassing incredible data. It’s all very promising.”
“Fascinating,” I hum, stopping in front of the department doors. “Maybe one day, you can share your findings with me.”
“Oh, I intend to share every sordid detail.” He opens the door for me. “After you.”
“Thanks, I got it from here.” Unable to shake Quinton off, I approach the reception desk. The MOA glances up at me. “Hi, I have an appointment for an echo. Emery Jones.”
“Oh, yes.” She peers down at the computer. “I have you scheduled for a TOE with Dr. Newman. Room three. He’s ready for you.”
My face falls. “A TOE? No, Dr. Yang said it’s just a basic TTE. I don’t—”
The MOA scrunches her nose, double-checking. “Mmm… It says transoesophageal echocardiogram.” She glances up at me. “I could call Dr. Yang’s office and—”
“It’s fine,” I sigh, a lump forming in my throat. God, when will it end? “Room three, you said?”
“Mhmm.” She motions down the hall. “Whenever you’re ready.”
I turn around, facing Quin. “Well, thanks for… I’ll see you around.”
He frowns. “You’re scared.”
“No,” I reply far too fast. “I’m not—”
“It’s a bit invasive,” he says in a soft tone. “You’re allowed to be scared.”
“I just…” I let out a breath. “I don’t like things inside of me.”
He reigns in a dirty thought. “It’s unnerving, I know.” Without hesitation, he reaches down and clasps my hand. “You’ll be fine, Emery. Let’s go.”
My gaze snaps down to his firm grip. “I don’t need a babysitter, Quinton.”
“No,” he hums, leading me to the procedure room. “But you could use a friend, can’t you? Plus, you’ll be all loopy afterward. Better safe than sorry, right?”
All I can think about as I enter the exam room is Damon. How angry he’d be that Quin is with me right now. How furious he’d look knowing Quin’s fingers are locked with mine. How discouraged he’d feel knowing I didn’t give him access to this depressing part of my life.
A fountain of guilt cascades onto me as I lay down on the table, exposed, weak, and terrifyingly vulnerable. I want this room to swallow me whole. Make me disappear. I can’t stand it.
“Relax, darling,” Quinton whispers as the technician hands me a sedative. “I’m right here.”
It shouldn’t be comforting. His words shouldn’t lull me. But they do. Or it’s the effects of the drugs. Must be the drugs.
Quinton stays close by my side, his steady breathing and the warmth of his hand in mine soothing me through the anxiety and discomfort.
The transoesophageal echocardiogram is disgustingly invasive, and I can feel the probe moving inside my esophagus as images of my heart are captured. I try to focus on my breathing and not let the fear take over, but it's hard.
What if they find something wrong? What if I fucked it all up? What if I’m dying all over again? What if this heart doesn’t like its new home? It’s not a very hospitable environment. I would understand if it wanted to leave.
Quinton seems to sense my worry and squeezes my hand gently. "You're doing great, darling," he whispers. "Just a few more minutes."
But it’s not a few more minutes. It’s the rest of my life. Wondering. Worrying. Waiting for something to go wrong. This heart has an expiration date. Survival rates aren’t disputable. They're facts.
Five years: 64 percent. Ten years: 53 percent. Fifteen years: 40 percent. Twenty years? A measly 26 percent.
I usually love numbers. But these ones? These ones break my fucking heart.
“Alright, we’re done here,” Dr. Newman says as Quin helps me sit up and hands me a little cup of water. I take a few small sips. “Dr. Yang will follow up with you in a week or so.”
“How…” My voice comes out hoarse and groggy. “How does it look?”
Dr. Newman remains neutral. “Dr. Yang will—”
“Thanks,” I wave him off. So useless. I glance up at Quin, deflated and disoriented. “Let’s go. I want to leave.”
“Let’s just wait a minute,” he suggests, clamping both his hands around mine, stopping the trembles of anxiety. “Let’s just sit, okay? There’s no rush to leave.”
And so we sit there in silence. Another test. Another set of complex equations. Am I failing? Or will I pass?
Is there a difference?