Chapter 22 #2
“However,” Doc continues, “given your family history of hypertrophic cardiomyopathy, we’re not taking any chances. We’re going to admit you overnight. Link you up with a cardiologist for observation and schedule an echocardiogram first thing in the morning.”
Cami nods slowly. “Okay.”
“We’re also monitoring your postural vitals. Your heart rate is jumping significantly when you shift positions, so we’ll run a tilt table test after the echo. If the echo is clear, we’re leaning toward POTS: Postural Orthostatic Tachycardia Syndrome. It’s treatable and might explain what happened.”
“And if the echo’s not clear?” I ask, throat tight.
“Let’s cross that bridge if we get to it,” the doctor says, tone calm.
Her words land like a safety net I don’t quite trust yet. My back stiffens anyway, instinct bracing for the worst-case. When I glance at Cami, fragile, quiet, trusting, I reel myself back in.
“Right now,” the doctor continues, “she’s stable. And in good hands.”
The doctor types something into the monitor. “We’ll transfer you to a room upstairs soon. In the meantime, rest. And try not to google anything.”
The door closes behind her, and the room goes quiet again.
“Soon as they release you, I owe you that bagel and coffee run.” I squeeze her hand, trying like hell to steer us back to something small. Normal. “And this time, I’ll actually make it out the door.”
That sparks a ghost of a smile. “I hate hospitals.”
“Me too,” I say.
She turns to me, soft-eyed. “Knox…”
I give her a half shrug. “But in case you’ve forgotten, you’re worth it.”
Cami’s not alone in this. Not now. Not ever.
Even if neither of us is ready to say anything out loud yet.
Her hand tightens in mine.
And finally, since the moment she collapsed, her breathing evens out.
I wait until Cami’s eyes drift closed before I slide my phone from my pocket and send a quick update.
Me: Stable. They’ve admitted her. Stripe and Shadow owe you big. Thank you.
Millie replies within seconds.
Millie: Always. Kittens are fine. We’re trying to figure out how to kidnap them before you two get back home. Tell Cami we love her. And don’t let her flirt her way out of those hospital socks.
A smile tugs at my mouth as I tuck the phone away.
The room is dim now with just the monitor blinking, steady at her side, a trace of hallway lighting spilling through the partially closed door. I shift in the vinyl chair, elbows on my knees, eyes on her.
She looks so damn small in that hospital bed. And all I want to do is crawl in next to her, wrap her up, and keep bad news away.
Instead, I reach for her hand again, and her fingers curl into mine like they’re already waiting.
Minutes pass like hours.
Eventually, a nurse wheels in a tray with a sandwich and a bottle of water.
“Brought you some sustenance,” she says, smiling. “Looks like you’re staying a while?”
I nod. “Yeah. Not going anywhere.”
“Good. She’ll probably rest better knowing that.” She sets the tray down, then walks over to check the IV monitor. “I’ll bring you a toiletry kit, and a pillow and blanket. That chair over in the corner actually folds out into a bed.”
“Appreciate it.”
When the nurse steps out, I take a bite I barely taste, my eyes never leaving Cami.
Sometime later, she stirs, voice hoarse. “You still here?”
I lean in, fingers brushing hers. “Right here.”
She opens her eyes, finds me in the low light. “It’s probably nothing, right?”
“Probably,” I say. “But we’re not betting on probably.”
She nods, then swallows. “It’s not how I pictured today going.”
“No? Fainting into my arms wasn’t part of the summer-fling fantasy?”
A breath of a laugh slips out, dry and amused. “Definitely not the sexy part.”
“I don’t know, Bubble Girl,” I murmur, brushing my thumb across her hand. “You collapsing dramatically in the kitchen? Pretty cinematic.”
Her eyes glint, even in the low light. “I’m scared.”
I shift forward, inching closer, my hand rising slowly, brushing a strand of hair from her cheek. I let my fingers linger there, and she leans into them.
“Me too,” I say, barely above a whisper. “But we’re gonna figure this out.”
I dip down and press a kiss to her temple, tender, to keep us both calm.
“What if it’s not POTS?” Panic ripples through her eyes. “What if it’s the same thing that took my mom?”
“Then we fight it. With answers, with doctors, with whatever the hell it takes.” I steady her hand in mine. “You’re not alone in this.”
“Thank you for being here with me.”
“Nowhere else I’d rather be.”
The following day, everything comes in fragments: food neither of us really eats, another round of tests, and finally, the cardiologist. She’s a short, efficient woman with kind eyes, her scrubs embellished with an assortment of hearts.
“The echo was clean,” she says, flipping through the chart. “Your heart muscle looks strong. No signs of HCM.”
Cami exhales, slow and careful, like she’s been holding her breath since early this morning.
“I’ve scheduled your tilt table test for this afternoon,” the cardiologist adds. “It’ll help us confirm what we’re seeing.”
Cami nods slowly, eyes glossing over like she’s still absorbing every syllable.
Without a word, I slide my hand into hers again.
Her grip tightens in mine, and mine does, too, a quiet way to reassure her I’m not going anywhere.