Chapter 7 Melanie #2
“Mamma, non preoccuparti di questo. Non può farci causa solo per farci causa. è svenuta, non si è tagliata un dito.” Mom, don’t worry about that. She can’t sue us just to sue us. She fainted, she didn’t cut her finger off.
“Va bene, va bene, ciao.” Okay, okay, bye.
I push past the dryness in my throat and murmur, “I guess because I’m from California that makes me sue-happy?”
Nick whips around, startled. His phone nearly slips from his hand. His eyes find mine, and something flickers across his face—shock, relief, something softer, too.
“You’re awake. Wait… You speak Italian?”
“Un po’?”A little. I say weakly. A little.
His lips twitch. “You really love to surprise the shit out of me, don’t you.”
“And myself, apparently.” I glance around the stark hospital room. “What am I doing here?”
“You fainted.”
“I heard. But how?”
He raises an eyebrow. “Do I look like a doctor? That’s what we’re trying to figure out. The doc took some blood. Ran tests. You weren’t drinking on the job, were you?”
“No, smart ass.”
“Drugs?” His gaze sharpens, searching.
“No,” I snap, heat rising in my chest. That word burns.
“Because I don’t tolerate that shit. Favor or not, your ass will be fired if I ever catch you doing any of it.”
I prop myself up a little, ignoring the way my body protests. “Look, Commando, I drink. That’s not a secret. And yeah, I smoke occasionally. I’ve got a medical card for it. California, remember?” I lift a hand, palm open, like a surrender. “And I only do it to sleep. Nothing hardcore.”
“Doesn’t sound like your method’s been working.”
I glare at him, though my pulse flutters. “Thanks for the unsolicited therapy. You can go now. I don’t need another lecture from someone who barely knows me.”
He shrugs, calm and infuriating. “I promised Abigail I’d wait for the doctor. If they keep you another night, she’ll get you. If they don’t…” He smirks. “Then I’m your lucky ride.”
“I appreciate you being Captain Save-a-Hoe,” I mutter, voice dipped in sarcasm. “Real on brand—with the tattoos and military thing and all. But seriously, go. I’m fine. Abigail’s being hormonal.”
The door opens before he can reply. The doctor walks in, clipboard in hand. “Miss Thompson, you’re awake. How are you feeling?”
I smile lazily. “I feel fine. And yeah, I’m awake—not in a coma or anything. You doctors love your dramatics.”
He raises an eyebrow. “No, you lost consciousness. There’s a difference.”
I roll my eyes. “Semantics.”
He clicks his pen. “Do you find yourself thirsty a lot? Urinating often?”
My stomach drops. Ya, I’m a functioning alcoholic. Of course I do.
“Yeah. Why?”
“We got your test results back,” he says, then glances at Nick. “I’m guessing this is your…”
“Boss. And a friend of a friend,” Nick says, his voice smooth but quieter now.
I give a dry laugh. “More like an enemy.”
“Would you like him to be in the room while I review the results? I don’t want to violate HIPAA. Since he’s not your husband.”
Husband. That word hits different. My throat tightens. I’ve always hated the idea of marriage, but something about hearing it now sends my heart into overdrive.
Nick moves to leave. “I can go.”
I don’t think. I just react. “You can stay.”
He stops cold. His back muscles flex and tense under his shirt. Slowly, he turns.
“You sure?”
“Yeah. I mean… how bad can it be? It’s not like I’m dying, right, doc?”
The doctor looks down at me with a gravity that makes my breath catch. My smirk fades. “No, you’re not dying. But I do have more questions.”
Nick leans against the doorframe, arms crossed. Watching. Listening. I can feel his heat from here.
“Do you have a history of high blood pressure, diabetes, or depression in your family?”
“Uh… no. Not that I know of,” I say slowly.
“Never knew my biological dad.” My voice is low, shameful of not knowing who my real dad was since my mom got knocked up by someone she thought had money, but he was just a con artist. So when he found out she was pregnant with me, he left without a trace, and she’s never heard from him since.
The doctor scribbles something, and suddenly the room feels smaller—my skin prickles. I glance at Nick—his brows are furrowed, his jaw tight. He looks worried. Actually worried.
“I’m going to assume you drink?”
I blink, caught off guard. “Yeah…”
“How many drinks a week?”
“I don’t know… maybe five?”
He gives me a look. The kind that sees right through me.
“Probably more.” I swallow hard.
“Your blood pressure tells me it’s a lot more. And if you don’t cut back, it could lead to bigger issues.”
“Okay, can you just—cut to it? You’re kind of freaking me out here.”
The doctor lowers the clipboard, voice steady but firm. “Miss Thompson, your blood pressure is 147 over 90. That’s high, especially at your age. If you don’t start taking this seriously, you’re heading straight toward chronic illness. Heart disease.”
I want to sink into the mattress. I feel exposed.
Ashamed. I wish I’d told Nick to leave. I don’t need him seeing me like this—cracked open and weak.
“Yeah, I’ve heard this lecture before,” I mutter.
“Stress. Booze. Bad habits. Got it. I’ll do better.
Change my diet. Quit drinking. Get on a treadmill. Yada yada.”
He shakes his head slowly. “What can’t be reversed is your diabetes.”
I freeze. “My what?”
“You have type 1 diabetes.”
“Type one?” The words taste foreign. Wrong. “What does that mean?”
“It means this is primarily genetic. It’s not something you caused. But it can only be managed with insulin.”
“For how long?”
He looks at me evenly. “For the rest of your life.”
My lungs stop working. The air thickens like molasses. Everything narrows—his face, the sterile walls, the dull ache in my skull. My chest aches like something just cracked open. Nick straightens. I feel his gaze on me like a hand I didn’t ask for but suddenly need.
“A dietitian is coming to go over everything—meal plans, tracking carbs and fats, managing your levels. And you’ll need to start insulin therapy.”
His voice continues, but it’s already fading—the edges of my world blur. I don’t hear anything but the pounding of my heart and the echo of one truth that crashes over me like a wave. I’m fucked.