Page 63 of Things We Hide from the Light
“Yeah. It was a big game. There were cameras and press there. I watched the footage…after. No matter how long I live, I’ll never forget the noise my mom made when Coach dropped to his knees and started CPR. It was…primal.”
I carried an echo of that scream with me wherever I went. Along with it was the image of my dad kneeling next to my lifeless body as paramedics tried to bring me back.
Nash brushed his mouth over my hair and murmured, “It’s official. You win our near-death contest.”
“I appreciate you conceding.”
“What caused it?” he asked.
I blew out a restless breath. “That’s a separate long story.”
“Honey, you picked my sweaty, pathetic ass up off the floor. We’re nowhere near even yet.”
There was nothing pathetic about his ass, but now was not the time to discuss that. His thumb was gliding along my arm again. The heat from his chest warmed the side of my face and the steady thump of his heartbeat soothed me. Piper, finished with her chew toy, hopped up on the couch next to me and curled up against my feet.
“Fine. But just like your escapades tonight, we’re never speaking of this again. Deal?”
“Deal.”
“Myxomatous mitral valve disease with prolapse and regurgitation.”
“You gonna dumb that down for me or am I gonna have to go find my dictionary?”
I smiled against his chest. “I had a defect in one of the valves of my heart. They’re not sure what caused it, but it might have been from strep throat infections I had when I was a kid. Basically, the valve didn’t close right, so blood was allowed to flow backward. Something in the electrical system shorted out, blood went the wrong way, and I essentially died in front of a few hundred people.”
“Is it still a problem? Is that why you monitor your heart rate?”
“It’s not still a problem. I had surgery—valve replacement—when I was sixteen. I still see a cardiologist, still monitor things. But it’s mostly to remind myself to be careful how I handle stress. I still get these flutters. Premature ventricular contractions. PVCs.”
I brought my hand to my chest and rubbed absently over the small scars.
“They feel like your heart is tripping or limping. Like it’s out of sync and can’t get back in the rhythm. They’re harmless. More just annoying, really. But…”
“But they remind you of what happened.”
“Yeah. I’d been stressing out over school and boys and normal hormonal things leading up to that game. Pushing myself too hard, not sleeping enough, living off Mountain Dew and pizza rolls. I hadn’t mentioned the flutters or the fatigue to my parents. Maybe if I had, I wouldn’t have keeled over in front of my entire school.”
“How long were you in the hospital?” Nash asked.
The man had an uncanny knack for digging up what I wanted to keep buried.
“Off and on for about eighteen months.” I suppressed a shudder.
That was when touch had stopped equaling comfort. My body wasn’t my own anymore. It had become a science experiment.
“A lot of tests. A lot of needles. A lot of machines.” I gave Nash’s thigh a cheerful pat. “Andthat’show I became an expert on panic attacks. I started having my own. The nice thing about having them around medical staff is they can give you some pretty decent advice.”
Nash didn’t respond to my attempt at playfulness. Instead he continued to stroke my arm.
“Your parents call you every day,” he noted.
“You don’t miss much, do you?” I complained.
“Not when it counts.”
My heart gave a flutter and not the PVC kind. No. It was the much more dangerous kind caused by handsome, wounded men with broody eyes.
“I should go. You should get some sleep,” I said.
