Page 122 of Balancing Act

But before Shannon could make another comment, Jamie’s phone buzzed on the table. She glanced at the screen.

Dr. Albright’s Office.

Her stomach dropped, and a wave of anxiety crashed over her.

The warmth in her chest vanished, replaced by a cold, creeping dread.

She hesitated—just for a second—before picking up. “Hello?”

“Jamie, this is Dr. Albright’s office,” a calm voice said on the other end. “We got the results from your recent scans, and we need you to come in for some follow-up tests. There’s a few abnormalities we want to follow up on.”

Jamie’s fingers curled around the phone, gripping it too tightly. Her heartbeat slammed against her ribs.

No. No, no, no.

This was it—the moment she’d been dreading for the last seven years.

Shannon must have noticed the shift in her demeanor because she had turned cautious. “Jamie?”

Jamie swallowed, her throat dry. “Uh... yeah. Okay. Um—” She cleared her throat, trying to force the words out. “I’ll call you back to schedule something.”

“Jamie, we’d really like to get this on the books as soon as possible?—”

“I’ll call you back,” she said quickly, her pulse hammering in her ears.

She hung up before they could argue.

Shannon was watching her closely now, concern etched into her face. “What’s wrong?”

Jamie pushed back from the table so fast that her chair scraped against the floor. “I—I just remembered I need to take care of this thing,” she blurted out.

Shannon frowned. “Wait, what? Jamie?—”

“I’ll see you Sunday,” Jamie muttered, grabbing her keys.

She had no plan, no destination. Only one overwhelming thought:I can’t be here right now.

She was out the door before Shannon could stop her.

Jamie blinked sleep from her eyes as she adjusted to the dimly lit room. Her head throbbed, and she pressed the palm of her hand to her forehead, willing the pain to go away. She blinked again as the room came more into focus. She didn’t remember how she got where she was or how long she’d been there.

At some point in the early hours of Saturday morning, she must have parked her car, let herself into Amanda’s apartment, and collapsed onto the couch. She vaguely recalled taking a shower—lukewarm water trickling down her back, forehead pressed against the tile—but everything else was a haze. A blurof hours blended into one another, stretching endlessly between the moment she left the coworking space and now.

Her phone was off. Had been for two days. She couldn’t bring herself to turn it back on or stomach the idea of seeing Beth’s name flashing across the screen.

At some point, she’d tried to eat—maybe half of a protein bar, maybe a handful of crackers—but the thought of food had made her stomach churn. Everything felt wrong.

She should have called Beth.

She should have called someone.

But she hadn’t.

She couldn’t.

The sound of a key in the lock barely registered. The door swung open, followed by the distinct shuffle of a duffel bag hitting the floor. Jamie flinched as the lights were thrust on, plunging the room into light.

Amanda jumped back with a screech. “Jesus Christ!” Obviously, she was not expecting to see Jamie there, in the dark, in her apartment. “Fuck, Jamie. What the hell?” Amanda held her hand to her chest as her breathing settled and she collected herself.