Chapter 21
Chapter Twenty-One
Alexis
The shrill blast of my phone cuts through the darkness like a knife through butter.
I fumble for the pillow beside me, pressing it hard over my head as if I can suffocate the sound into submission.
The ringing stops. Thank God. I sink back into the warmth of my mattress, already drifting back toward the dream I’d been having—something about Noah and freshly baked bread that made my whole house smell like heaven.
The phone explodes to life again.
My eyes snap open. Two calls in a row. The emergency signal.
I lunge across the bed, sheets tangling around my legs like seaweed, nearly sending me face-first onto the floor. My fingers close around the phone just as it threatens to vibrate right off the nightstand. Flick’s name glows on the screen.
“Hey.” My voice comes out rough with sleep. I push tangled hair from my eyes, trying to focus. “What’s up?”
“Hi, I’m at the hospital.” The words tumble out between ragged breaths. “With Devin.”
The fog of sleep evaporates instantly. I bolt upright, my spine straightening like someone’s yanked a string attached to the top of my head. My heart hammers against my ribs. “What’s wrong? What happened?”
“She’s okay—I think. We were supposed to have coffee before she went to work this morning, but she didn’t show up. I went to her house and she was passed out in the living room. She hit her head when she fell.”
My limbs turn to water. I grip the phone tighter, as if it’s the only solid thing in the world. “O—okay. What did the doctors say?”
“Nothing yet. I’m in the waiting room and they’re running tests on her.”
The tremor in Flick’s voice makes my chest tighten. She’s always the steady one, the rock we all lean on. Hearing her this shaken sends ice through my veins.
“Um, okay.” I’m already moving, muscle memory taking over. My free hand grabs yesterday’s jeans from the hamper—they’ll have to do. “I’m on my way there now. Do you need me to bring anything?”
“I... I don’t know.” The admission comes out small, lost.
“Everything will be fine. I’ll be there soon.”
I end the call and yank on the jeans, then grab the first shirt my fingers touch in the closet.
No time for my usual hour-long routine of hair and makeup.
A quick swish of mouthwash will have to suffice.
My reflection in the bathroom mirror shows dark circles under my eyes from last night’s writing marathon, hair sticking up at odd angles. It doesn’t matter.
Keys. Purse. Out the door.
The morning air hits my face, crisp and startling. I slide into my car, the leather seat cold through my jeans. The engine turns over on the first try—small mercies—and I reverse out of the driveway faster than I should.
The coffee shop appears like a beacon. I swing into a spot right out front, leaving the engine running. Flick sounded so lost, so unlike herself. She needs fuel, something to ground her.
The bell above the door chimes as I burst in. The barista looks up, startled.
“Four coffees, whatever’s fastest. And those.” I point at the croissants in the display case. “All of them.”
“All six?”
“Yes. Hurry, please.”
She must see something in my face because she doesn’t ask questions, just starts moving with purpose. I shift my weight from foot to foot, checking my phone. No new messages. That’s either very good or very bad.
The three-minute drive to Pine Island’s small hospital stretches like taffy. When I finally pull into the parking lot, Hannah’s car is just sliding into a space two rows over. I grab the coffee carrier and pastry bag, meeting her and Maya at the entrance.
“Hey.” I thrust coffees into their hands as we walk, our feet moving in synchronized urgency. “Did you hear anything yet? About the tests?”
“No.” Hannah’s voice carries its usual clarity, but her face tells a different story—pale as paper, worry etched in every line. “Did you?”
“No.”
The word sits heavy between us as we push through the hospital doors. The antiseptic smell hits immediately, that particular blend of cleaning products and anxiety that every hospital in the world seems to share.
Flick paces the waiting room like a caged animal, her usual graceful movements replaced by sharp, jerky steps. The space is otherwise empty—one of the few benefits of living on an island where nothing much happens outside of Fourth of July fireworks accidents.
“Hey.” I wrap my arms around her, feeling the tension vibrating through her body. “Croissant?”
“I’m not...” Her eyes land on the bag, and something in her expression shifts. “Actually, yeah. I could eat. Thank you.”
We arrange ourselves in the uncomfortable plastic chairs, the kind designed to discourage long stays. The silence that settles over us is thick enough to cut. We all know this dance too well—the waiting, the not knowing, the fear that coils in your stomach like a living thing.
“Why would she faint?” Maya’s teeth work her bottom lip, a nervous habit she’s had since I’ve known her. “That’s never happened before, has it?”
“I don’t know.” Flick stares at the coffee cup cradled in her hands as if it holds answers.
“It’s a symptom of chronic fatigue syndrome,” I offer, though we all know what this might mean.
The silence returns, heavier now. We’re all thinking the same thing: chronic diseases are shape-shifters. What’s manageable one year becomes unbearable the next. New symptoms appear like unwelcome guests, settling in without warning or invitation.
The squeak of rubber soles on polished linoleum makes us all rise like marionettes on the same string. A doctor approaches, his scrubs wrinkled from what’s probably been a long shift. His smile is gentle, practiced.
“Are you here waiting for Devin?”
“Yes.” I step forward, designated spokesperson by some unspoken agreement. “Did you find out anything yet?”
“Overall, she’s fine. No head injury, other than a small goose egg from the fall.”
The collective exhale from our group could probably be measured on the Richter scale.
“Did she faint because of her chronic fatigue syndrome?” Maya asks, voicing what we’re all wondering.
He nods, just once, economical with his movements. “Somewhat. It’s possible that she has postural orthostatic tachycardia syndrome. It sometimes manifests when a person has CFS.”
Relief washes through me. At least this doctor believes in chronic fatigue syndrome. Too many don’t, dismissing it as laziness or attention-seeking or all in your head. We’ve all been there, sitting across from medical professionals who look at us like we’re making it up.
“So what is that?” I ask. “The, uh, the condition you just mentioned?”
“Postural orthostatic tachycardia syndrome,” he repeats patiently. “It involves an increase in heart rate when the person stands. This can lead to dizziness, lightheadedness. Palpitations.”
“And fainting,” Maya finishes, always quick to connect the dots.
“Yes. However, I don’t want to rule other conditions out. She’s safe to go home today, but I’d like to have her back in a few days for more tests.”
“I can bring her,” Flick says immediately, already pulling out her phone, probably to clear her schedule.
“Until then,” the doctor continues, “she’ll need to take it easy. Not get up unless she needs to. Is there anyone who can stay with her?”
“Yes,” we chorus, our voices overlapping like a practiced choir.
The doctor’s eyes crinkle at the corners as he looks around our semicircle. A soft chuckle escapes him. “She’s lucky to have friends like you.”
Tears prick at my eyes, hot and sudden. “Luck” is such an inadequate word for what we have.
This group, these women—we’re each other’s lifelines.
My family loves me, supports me from their distance, but they can’t understand what it’s like to live in a body that betrays you randomly, unpredictably. Only these women truly get it.
“We’ll get her discharged shortly,” the doctor says. “Hang tight for a bit.”
“Thank you,” I manage as he walks away, his shoes squeaking their retreat down the hallway.
We stand there for a moment, four women bound by shared experience and fierce love, just looking at each other. The adrenaline is starting to fade, leaving that shaky, hollow feeling in its wake.
“I’ll call the clinic,” Flick says, already scrolling through her contacts. “Let them know what’s going on.”
I nod, watching her step away to make the call. Devin’s coworkers at the physiotherapy clinic must be climbing the walls with worry.
Exhaustion hits me like a physical weight.
I sink into one of those terrible chairs, my body suddenly remembering the all-nighter I pulled finishing that article.
The adrenaline crash isn’t helping. I check my phone—the screen shows three things that make my stomach drop: a meeting with Elaine in an hour, my urology appointment after that, and the time ticking away mercilessly.
There’s technically time to race home, grab the world’s quickest shower, and make it to Elaine’s office. But my body feels leaden, rooted to this uncomfortable chair.
I don’t want to go to any of it. The scheduled obligations of my day feel absurd in the face of what just happened.
This is what chronic illness does—it strips away illusions, forces you to confront the brutal uncertainty of everything.
Most days I can push it down, pretend I’m just like everyone else.
But then something like this happens—because it always does, eventually—and reality crashes in.
Health is a house of cards. Life is a tightrope walk without a net.
The thought makes me want to grab hold of everything that matters, clutch it close, never let go.
That list is painfully short.
My friends—these warriors who understand without explanation.
My family—far away but always in my heart.
Noah.
His name sends warmth spreading through my chest like spilled honey.
I need to call him. Need his voice in my ear, that steady presence that somehow makes everything feel more manageable.
After what just happened with Devin, after this stark reminder of how quickly everything can change, hearing him feels essential.
“I need to get to an appointment,” I tell my friends, though leaving feels like tearing off a piece of myself. “Is there anything I can do before I go?”
They wave me off with promises and reassurances. Flick will wait for Devin, get her home safely. They’ll set up a care schedule in the group text. Everything’s handled. Go.
After a round of hugs—the kind that last a beat too long, that say everything words can’t—I head for the parking lot. I drain the last of my coffee as I walk, the caffeine a poor substitute for actual sleep.
The all-nighter weighs on me now, but it was worth it. That article about the toxic cancel culture in the food world, the piece that might help repair Noah’s reputation—it’s finally done. Today I can start shopping it around to outlets. The thought gives me a small spark of energy.
But sitting in my car, I’m hit with a wave of loneliness so acute it takes my breath away. I don’t want to face the urology appointment alone. But my friends have enough on their plates. They’re dealing with their own battles, and now Devin needs them.
If only...
I stare at my phone, Noah’s contact information right there. One tap away. It’s too soon to ask him to come to a medical appointment with me. We’ve only been together a month. That’s definitely crossing some unspoken relationship timeline boundary.
But God, I want him there.
I take a breath and tap his name. Not to ask him to come—just to hear his voice. To remind myself that there’s good in this world, that despite the chaos and uncertainty, there are still reasons to feel giddy and hopeful.
The phone rings. Once. Twice. Three times. Four.
Voicemail.
Of course. I check the time—eight thirty. Peak rush hour at Rye Again. He’s probably juggling French presses and sourdough orders, charming customers with that smile that makes my knees weak. I’m an idiot for calling now.
I end the call without leaving a message and back out of the parking spot. The drive home stretches ahead, but I’ll see Noah eventually. The thought should be comforting.
Instead, it triggers something unexpected. This urgency, this need to grab him and hold on and never let go—it’s not just about comfort or support.
Oh.
Am I falling for him? As in... falling in love with him?
I wait for the panic. For my hands to go white-knuckled on the steering wheel. For that familiar dread that’s accompanied every serious feeling I’ve had for a man in the past five years.
It doesn’t come.
Instead, there’s this warmth, this lightness, like helium filling my chest. I’m not scared. Not like last time with Miles, when every deepening feeling came with a side of terror. Or the time before that, when love felt like walking into a trap.
This is different. This is Noah.
A smile spreads across my face, completely involuntary. I catch sight of myself in the rearview mirror—exhausted, no makeup, hair a disaster, and grinning like an idiot.
I’m falling in love with Noah Reynolds.
The realization doesn’t feel like falling at all. It feels like flying.
I smile the whole way home, this secret knowledge glowing inside me like a candle behind glass. Even with everything that’s happened this morning, even with the uncertainty and fear and exhaustion, this one truth makes everything else bearable.
I’m falling in love with Noah Reynolds, and for once in my life, I’m not afraid of what that means.