Page 89 of Campus Crush
I kissed my way up her body until my lips found hers. My kiss was filled with the three words I hadn’t said yet. I wouldn’t say them now either. I refused to say them right after sex. I wanted her to believe them with every bone of her body and not think it was just some crazy hormonal response to earth-shattering sex.
But I’d say them soon.
Because she deserved to know that I was hers—one thousand percent.
She owned me—mind, body, and soul.
FORTY-THREE
I had just walked into The Grindhouse—the coffee shop on campus—to grab an afternoon pick-me-up when my phone started vibrating in my hand. The familiar scent of coffee beans and pastries that normally brought me comfort did nothing to ease the sudden dread that washed over me when I saw the name of a local hospital on my caller ID.
“Hello?” My voice was steady despite the rapid beating of my heart.
“Hi, is this Abby Walker? This is Melody Tynes. I’m a nurse at Mountain View Medical Center.” The woman’s professional tone did little to mask the seriousness behind her words.
“Yes, this is Abby. Is everything okay?” That felt like the dumbest question to ask because of course if the hospital was calling me, everything wasn’t okay. I gripped my phone tighter, bracing myself for whatever news was coming.
“Your grandmother was brought to us by a neighbor after she collapsed in her garden.”
I didn’t need to hear any more—not over the phone at least. “I’ll be right there.” I was already rushing out of thecafé and toward my car, nearly colliding with a student entering as I pushed through the door, the coffee I’d been craving completely forgotten.
With trembling fingers, I texted Foster and Sam since I had plans with both of them today and didn’t think those plans would be happening now. I kept the message brief, unable to type more as I fumbled with my keys.
emergency with Gram, heading to Mountain View now, will update when I can
The hospital wasn’t far from campus, so it only took me about fifteen minutes to get there, though every red light felt like an eternity. I circled the parking lot twice before finding a spot, then practically ran to the entrance. When I walked in, I rushed straight to the receptionist counter, my breath coming in short bursts.
“I’m here to see my grandmother, Daniella Thomas.” My voice cracked slightly on her name.
The receptionist—a middle-aged woman with kind eyes behind tortoiseshell glasses—looked at her computer, fingers clicking efficiently on the keyboard. “Room 406,” she told me and then gave me directions for how to get to the nearest elevator, pointing down a corridor to my right.
I thanked her and hurried through the antiseptic-scented hallway, past rooms with partially closed doors where I caught glimpses of other patients and their worried families. The elevator seemed to move in slow motion, and I found myself counting each second that passed, acutely aware that time might be precious now.
A nurse with auburn hair pulled back into a neat ponytail was just walking out of my grandmother’s room, clipboard in hand, when I made it there.
“Are you Abby?” she asked, her voice gentle.
“I am.” I tried to peek around her into the room, desperate for a glimpse of Gram.
Her smile was kind, but it didn’t ease any of my worry. It was that practiced hospital smile that medical professionals perfect—sympathetic but carefully neutral. “I’m glad you could make it. Dr. Spencer is just checking in on another patient, but I’ll have him come talk to you once he’s done there. You can go on in and see her.”
“Is she going to be okay?” I asked, unable to keep the desperation from my voice.
Her expression remained frustratingly neutral. “I’m afraid I can’t answer any questions. You’ll have to wait for Dr. Spencer.”
“Thanks,” I said, even though gratitude was the last thing I was feeling at that moment.
I didn’t want to wait to hear what was going on, and I hated the stupid policy that only doctors could answer questions. I knew she knew just as much as the doctor—probably more since she’d likely been caring for Gram directly.
I walked into Gram’s hospital room and found her asleep on her bed, the steady beep of monitors creating an ominous soundtrack. They said that a neighbor brought her in, but no one was in the room now. She looked so fragile and frail against the stark white sheets. Her skin seemed sallower than it had been before—her cheeks sunken in, the wrinkles around her eyes deeper than I remembered.
She looked like a shell of the Gram I’d grown up with, and the way she’d declined in such a short amount of time had terror creeping up my spine.
I knew she was sick, but why hadn’t she told us what was going on before it got this bad?
I sunk down into the chair next to her bed, the vinyl squeaking under my weight, and reached for her hand. Herfingers were cold, and the bones felt fragile and breakable, like bird bones. I covered her hand with mine, wanting to give her my warmth. I’d give her all the strength I had if it would make her better.
The IV in her arm and the monitor on her finger made her look weaker than I could ever remember, and the hospital bed itself made her look smaller somehow. This was the woman who’d held us all together when Mom passed away. She’d always been a force of nature—strong, resilient, unbreakable. Seeing her like this, diminished and vulnerable, made my chest ache with a pain I couldn’t articulate.
