40. Reveal the Party
Chapter forty
Reveal the Party
Cameron
Hospitals are where people go to get better and apparently never sleep again.
By the time they discharge me midmorning on the third day, I would commit at least one minor felony for my own shower, my own clothes, and six uninterrupted hours without someone waking me up to take blood, check a pump, hang a bag, ask me my name, or shine a light somewhere.
My arms look like somebody lost a fight with a dartboard. My fingers aren’t much better.
There is adhesive residue on approximately forty percent of my skin.
And somehow, despite spending two and a half days mostly in bed, every muscle in my body feels tired.
Griffin and Micah come to get me.
Griffin handles the discharge paperwork because he can translate nurse at approximately twice the speed of everyone else.
Micah handles me while Griffin goes downstairs to the pharmacy.
Not because I need handling.
Because apparently walking from the hospital bed to the bathroom and putting on leggings has left me leaning one hand against the counter while I wait for the room to stop feeling vaguely too far away.
He waits outside the bathroom while I change, then takes my bag the second I come out.
“I can carry that.”
“I know.”
“Then why are you carrying it?”
“Because I can too.”
I narrow my eyes at him.
Micah stares back.
Usually I would fight harder.
Today, even forming the argument feels like unnecessary cardio.
“Fine.”
His mouth twitches.
Griffin joins us with the stack of paperwork, my antibiotic, and enough follow-up instructions to wallpaper a small bathroom.
His eyes move over me once. “Ready?”
“Please get me out of here.”
His smile comes easy. “Yes, ma'am.”
The house smells like coffee and whatever Dex has been cooking when we walk in.
I barely get into the kitchen before Ronan and Dex are staring at me.
Their expressions change at once.
Too much concern.
Too many eyes.
“No.”
Dex's mouth opens.
“Don't ask me how I am.”
It closes.
Ronan stops halfway out of his chair.
I point at him.
“You too.”
“I was going to say hello.”
“Oh.”
He waits.
“Hello.”
“Hello.”
Dex comes around the island with his arms already halfway open. “Can I hug you without asking how you are?”
“Yes.”
He folds himself around me carefully. "Good. I was running dangerously low on Cami."
Too carefully.
Like I might crack.
Normally, I would tell him to knock it off.
Instead, I close my eyes against his shoulder and let myself have it for a few seconds.
His cologne makes him smell like home.
My throat burns before I can stop it.
Fuck.
Apparently I missed him.
Micah takes my bag upstairs while Ronan approaches after Dex lets me go.
His hug is different.
Brief.
Deliberate.
I wrap my arms around his middle and hold on longer than either of us probably expects.
For one second I'm back upstairs with my head full of static and his voice somewhere far away, telling me he's going to poke my finger.
His palm settles between my shoulder blades.
“You scared me,” he says quietly.
My chest clenches. “I know.”
His fingers press once before he lets me go. “And for the record, I am not asking how you are.”
“Thank you.”
“Because you have already threatened us.”
“Also thank you.”
Dex points toward the living room. “We prepared the couch.”
I turn.
There are approximately twelve pillows, three blankets, my heating pad, two bottles of water, crackers, my phone charger, and what appears to be an entire pharmacy arranged on the coffee table.
I stare at it. “Prepared it for what?”
“Recovery.”
“It looks like hospice.”
Micah laughs from the stairs.
Dex puts a hand to his chest. “Fine. Next time you can almost die without ambiance.”
The silence that drops is instant.
Dex's face crumples before anyone says a word.
Griffin goes still behind me.
I watch Dex’s gaze drift to him.
“Bad joke,” Dex mutters.
“Yeah,” Griffin says.
Dex drops his eyes.
Griffin crosses the room and catches the back of his neck. “Bad joke doesn't mean you're in trouble.”
Dex swallows. “I know.”
“Do you?”
A beat.
Then Dex nods.
Griffin squeezes once and releases him.
No lecture.
No you should've answered the alarms.
No list of everything any of us could have done differently.
Just that.
Something hot pricks behind my eyes.
I clear my throat. “I want a shower.”
Micah points upstairs. “Your clothes are on the bed.”
“Actual comfy clothes?”
“The ugly gray pants.”
“They are not ugly.”
“They have a hole in the ass.”
“A small hole.”
Dex perks back up. “This feels medically significant.”
“Shut up.”
His grin returns.
Better.
Thirty minutes later, I come downstairs wearing my ugly gray pants and one of Griffin's old fire-department T-shirts, wet hair, and absolutely no intention of doing anything productive for the rest of the day.
The couch eats me immediately.
I end up tucked against Griffin with Micah's arm along the back cushion behind me, Dex stretched across the opposite end, and Ronan in the chair close enough that the toe of his sock rests against the couch.
Nobody asks how I'm doing.
I love them all very much for that.
Everything is perfect for approximately eleven minutes.
Then Griffin sets his phone down. “So.”
I groan. “I knew this was coming.”
“This is not a lecture.”
“That's what people say before lectures.”
“It really isn't.”
I look at him.
He waits until I'm actually looking back.
No medic voice.
No furrow between his brows.
“We had a perfect storm.”
My stomach tightens anyway.
He must see it, because his hand closes over my knee.
“The UTI pushed insulin needs up. The Pod was probably failing, but not enough at first to make that obvious. Corrections worked until they didn't. Ketones were fine when Cami went to sleep.”
Micah shifts beside me.
Griffin's gaze moves around the room. “And everybody had been listening to alarms all day, so the notifications were turned off.”
Micah raises one hand. “Mine were.”
Dex reluctantly lifts his. “Also mine.”
Ronan says, “I lowered mine.”
Griffin nods. “I know.”
Nothing else.
No accusation hiding under it.
Just I know.
My chest eases.
“Cami and I told everybody the highs made sense,” Griffin explains. “Because they did.” He rubs his thumb once over my knee. “We were right until the situation changed.”
I study his face. “Are you trying to make me cry?”
“No.”
“Because this feels suspiciously emotionally mature.”
Dex points at him. “Growth.”
Griffin flips him off without even turning his head.
A laugh escapes me, followed immediately by a sore little pull through my abdomen.
Griffin's eyes flick down.
He doesn't ask.
“So,” he says, “nobody fucked this up. But something happened, and it'd be stupid not to learn from it.”
Ronan leans forward. “Like, not everyone should disable alerts simultaneously.”
“That seems like the headline.”
“We can rotate,” Micah says. “If somebody needs a break from them, say it first.”
Dex raises his hand. “Can my shift never be overnight?”
“No,” four voices answer.
His hand drops. “Worth trying.”
A smile pulls at my mouth. “Also, all of you need to know where my meter is and how to use it.”
“I know how,” Ronan says.
“I know.”
Micah leans forward. “Show me again.”
Dex looks at the meter like it personally insulted him. “Does it involve blood?”
“Yes.”
“I'm out.”
“You have tattoos.”
“Those are artistic blood.”
“That is not a thing.”
“It is emotionally a thing.”
Griffin picks up the meter but hands it to me instead of taking over.
“No one needs an endocrinology fellowship. If I'm awake and acting normal and Dexcom looks weird, this confirms it.”I hold up the ketone meter next. “This one is mostly for sick days and stubborn highs.”
Micah takes it when I hand it over, turning it to find the strip port.
Ronan watches his hands.
Dex watches everybody else.
“If I'm confused or unconscious?” I ask.
Dex answers immediately.
“Call 911.”
“Correct.”
“No stabby detective work first.”
“It’s helpful information, but not necessary.”
“Excellent. I am qualified.”
That gets another laugh.
Then we talk through backup insulin.
Not every scenario.
Not every possible emergency.
Just enough.
Where it lives.
What I might ask them to hand me.
When the solution is no longer help Cami troubleshoot and becomes get professional help.
Dex listens more seriously than he jokes, which might be the most alarming symptom in the house.
At some point Griffin says, “Also, I think if she’s ever having a day like she did leading into this with her sugars, maybe she shouldn’t be alone unless she really wants to be.”
I don’t discount the nod to my own autonomy there.
“You’ve all shared a bed with her,” he continues, “this would just be a practical reason to do that.”
Everyone nods.
Griffin leans back. “This is enough.”
The room seems to exhale with me.
Enough.
Nobody needs to become me.
They just need to know enough to help me stay me.
“Can we be done being educational now?” I ask.
“Yes.”
“Thank fuck.” I settle deeper into the couch.
Three whole quiet minutes pass.
Then Griffin ruins everything. “One more thing.”
I drop my forehead against his shoulder.
“This one isn't diabetes.”
“That doesn't improve it.”
His fingers move lightly through the wet ends of my hair. “Holden told me something while you were in the ICU.”
I lift my head. “What?”
“Alexis had medical power-of-attorney paperwork pretty early in their dynamic—with Ethan.”
“I remember her telling me some of that.”
Ronan nods. “Jeremiah and I have discussed it.”
Griffin gives him an unsurprised look. “Of course you have.”
Ronan does not appear insulted.
Griffin looks back at me. “I don't think we make decisions about anything today. But I think we should probably talk to a lawyer.”
The word “lawyer” makes the whole room feel heavier.
Micah's arm drops from the couch and rests along my shoulders.
“If something happens to me,” Griffin says, “you're automatically the person they go to. If something happens to you, that's me.”
His hand tightens slightly around mine.
“Clay is there too. But them?” He looks at the other three.
Nobody finishes the sentence for a second.
Then Ronan does. “We are people she has to give the hospital permission to speak to.”