Page 46

Chapter 46

Hannah

“Hannah, come in.” Henry Brooks, the dean of the law school, greets me with a stern expression as he opens his office door. I’ve been perched on the uncomfortable bench outside for what feels like forever, my nerves frayed despite my attempts to stay calm.

As expected, word about what happened between Declan and Aaron at the event spread like wildfire, and before the weekend was over, I had an email from Mr. Brooks requesting an “urgent” meeting to discuss what happened.

“Please, sit down,” Mr. Brooks directs, gesturing at the chair on the opposite side of his meticulously organized desk as he sinks down into his. Mr. Brooks looks exactly like the dean of a law school should—thin, balding, perpetually stressed out, and supremely unhappy—though at the moment, I can’t tell if that’s because of his job, me, or both.

I suppose if I had his job, dealing with half of the law school shenanigans that he does with his students, I’d probably look just as miserable.

He scrutinizes me over the gold rims of his bifocals with his hands resting under his chin as I sit, clearly sizing me up. “I’m sure I don’t need to tell you how absolutely unprofessional the behavior that occurred at the alumni mixer was, so I’m not going to focus on that. Do you have any idea how poorly this reflects on you, and by extension, the university?”

I stare back at him with my hands folded neatly in my lap, biting my tongue to keep my composure.

“Well, since you don’t seem to have an answer, let me tell you, this could affect your standing.”

I nod, but I already knew that—and honestly, it’s been a struggle for me to care about it as much as I probably should.

This entire situation feels so unfair, and the condescending way he’s talking to me stirs up all the frustration I’ve been containing all weekend. What I really want to say is that if their prized alumnus, Aaron, hadn’t been acting like such a complete jerk, then none of this would’ve happened. Where’s his emergency meeting? Why am I the one sitting here getting lectured? It’s yet another example of the double standards in this industry, of the ways the people who’ve clawed their way to the top will always close ranks to protect each other, and yet another sign that I don’t belong here.

“Fortunately,” Mr. Brooks continues, straightening a stack of papers on his desk, “Mr. Barnett has decided not to press charges.”

I maintain my neutral expression, although I can’t help feeling a flicker of amusement. Of course Aaron isn’t pressing charges—it would require him admitting in court that one punch from a hockey player laid him flat, which I know his ego wouldn’t be able to handle.

Sensing my apparent lack of attention, Mr. Brooks taps his fingers against his desk sharply. “We’ve let students go for less than this. We won’t be taking that measure with you, but this is going to make your life hell for the next few months. Do you understand me?” I hold his gaze steadily, and he huffs out a breath. “I’ll take that as a yes. The good news, if there is any in this absolute shit show, is that if you work your ass off, you can still do well and graduate with recommendations that should land you a job at a decent firm.”

I nod, offering up a stiff smile. My parents are probably going to be disappointed when they hear about this, if they haven’t already. Although it wasn’t what I wanted, I also can’t say I’m mad that it happened. Aaron said terrible things that night, but no one knows about any of that. The only story that the dean seems to have heard is that Declan punched Aaron, but anyone who knows Aaron should be able to guess that he did something to deserve it. And they’d be right.

“Are you listening?” Mr. Brooks snaps, yanking me back to the present.

“Yes, I’m sorry,” I say, wincing.

“Good.” He blows out a breath. “Then I guess we’re done here. But if you’ve heard even one word of what I’ve had to say, I sincerely hope you’ll take it to heart. You’re a fantastic student, Hannah, and I would hate to see you throw away your future over something like this.”

I stand up, gathering my bag. “Thank you for your time, Mr. Brooks. I appreciate your concern.”

Mr. Brooks sighs and waves a hand. “You’re dismissed.”

A wave of relief washes over me as I leave his office. Once I’m safely out in the hall, I pull my phone from my purse so that I can text Declan and let him know what happened, like I promised I would when I found out about the meeting. My heart skips when I see he’s already sent a few texts while I was in with Mr. Brooks.

DECLAN: Let me know how it goes. If the dean gives you a hard time, I’ll happily have a word with him. He should know it wasn’t your fault.

DECLAN: Sawyer already gave me the lecture, just like I predicted.

DECLAN: Still worth it. I’d do it again in a heartbeat.

A smile spreads across my face, warmth blooming in my chest at his words. I tap to write a reply, but as my fingers start to move across the keyboard, my vision suddenly flickers. This has been happening off and on ever since that really bad migraine I had, and I’ve been getting headaches more often too.

I blink rapidly, trying to brush it off as my eyes adjusting, but as little halos start to form in the corners of my vision, an uneasy feeling prickles against the back of my neck.

It’s the absolute last thing I want to deal with after all of this drama with Aaron, but I know I need to get checked out. I’ve been hoping this would just fix itself if I ignored it, but whatever is going on has been bothering me for days now, and it’s clearly not resolving on its own. Which means I need to go to the doctor.

Dammit .

A shiver of dread races through me at the thought.

There’s nothing I hate more than going to the doctor’s office, even for something routine. My entire family has enough medical trauma to write a book about after everything we went through with Casey, and I’ve avoided hospitals at pretty much all costs ever since we lost him. But as the flickering in my vision continues, I have to admit that I don’t really have a better option right now. So I’m just going to have to push past the fear and see if I can get a last minute appointment with my doctor.

Better to be scared and getting treatment than the alternative , I remind myself, although my heart is already beating faster.

I take a deep breath, trying to calm the anxious energy churning inside me as I call my primary care physician’s office. I doubt this is anything anywhere near as serious as what Casey dealt with, but I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t worried it could be. Between the migraines increasing in both frequency and intensity and the way my vision has been acting up, it could be any number of things wrong with me.

“Alliance Medical Group, how can I help you today?” A woman’s voice answer’s the call cheerfully.

“Hi, my name is Hannah Dunaway. I wanted to see if Dr. Newton possibly has any openings for today,” I say weakly. “I’m having a bad headache and wanted to get it checked out.”

“Hmm, let me see.” She goes quiet for a moment, and I can hear the quiet tapping of fingernails on a keyboard. “He doesn’t have anything today, unfortunately. But Dr. Singh had a cancellation today, so I could get you in to see him if that’s alright. How soon could you get here?”

“Soon.” I swallow hard. “I can leave now.”

“Great! I’ll get that all set up for you.”

She takes down my info quickly to confirm the appointment, and once it’s all set up, I end the call.

The hallway tilts alarmingly around me, and I consider for a second whether it’s safe for me to drive myself there. With my phone still clutched in my hand, I consider texting Declan and asking if he can pick me up to take me, but I rule it out quickly. He literally just told me he’d do anything for me, and I know he’d drop everything in a heartbeat, but I don’t want him worrying about me, and I know he’s got practice right now. I don’t want him getting into any more trouble on my behalf.

I’ve handled tough situations before. I can handle this too.

Moving carefully, I make my way out of the building, focusing on every step I take until I get to my car and sink into the driver’s seat. The sun’s bright rays pierce my eyes, sending daggers of pain through my skull and making the little halos that are dancing chaotically in my vision even worse. With shaking hands, I slam down the sunshade and reach for my sunglasses tucked into the glovebox. Instantly, everything feels somewhat more tolerable as the world around me darkens.

You can do this, Hannah. Just go slow and everything will be fine.

Gripping the steering wheel like a lifeline, I dig my key out of my purse and push it into the ignition to turn the engine. The noise and vibration of the car starting makes me wince in pain, but it’s tolerable, especially once my body adjusts to it.

“Okay, okay. You’re okay,” I mutter as I put my phone in the mount hanging from the windshield and open the maps app to pull up the location of my doctor’s office.

It’s not far from the law school, and I’m sure that on a normal day I could drive there from memory, but this isn’t a normal day, so I don’t want to take any unnecessary risks. My thoughts feel foggy and disjointed, and with my vision out of whack, I could easily miss a turn.

With both hands gripping the steering wheel, I take a series of deep breaths to try to slow my racing heart. Once I feel somewhat steadier, I start gingerly rolling out of the parking lot. Thankfully, it’s the middle of the day so there isn’t as much traffic on the road as there normally is, and I make it to the doctor’s office in good time.

By the time I find a spot outside and shuffle through the sliding glass doors of large medical office, my head is throbbing mercilessly and I’m starting to get really worried. I check in with the receptionist I spoke to on the phone, each word sending fresh waves of pain through my skull.

She passes me a clipboard with a stack of intake forms, and I take it with a wince. Even in my condition, I know there’s no escaping medical paperwork.

“Take your time,” she says with an empathetic smile.

I squint at the forms, my vision swimming as I struggle to complete the basic information. My handwriting is barely legible, but I manage to get through the essential parts—name, birthdate, insurance, and symptoms—before handing it back.

She reviews what I’ve written, then gets up to walk me over to a seat. As I settle into it, she rests a hand on my shoulder. “Dr. Singh will be able to see you soon.”

“Thanks,” I mumble, cradling my head in both hands.

It feels like someone’s trying to split it in half like a melon from the inside out, and the little halos in my vision are so big now that I can barely see my feet on the ground in front of me. Time inches forward as I wait, until finally a nurse comes out to take me into the back. She gets me settled in an exam room, takes my vitals and asks me a few basic questions, and then leaves.

A doctor with a neatly trimmed beard comes in a few moments later, taking a seat on a rolling stool.

“Good afternoon, Ms. Dunaway. I’m Dr. Singh,” he introduces himself as he rolls over to gently shake my hand. “How are you doing?”

“I’ve been better,” I answer, and he offers a sympathetic grimace.

“I can see that. Can you tell me about your symptoms?”

I describe the pain in my head and the weird things I’m seeing in my vision, and he listens attentively, his brow furrowing slightly as I speak.

“Those symptoms are concerning. The visual disturbances particularly. I’m just going to do a few basic tests and screenings first, okay?”

“Yeah, okay.”

“Good. I need to look into your eyes for a second, so this might be uncomfortable,” Dr. Singh says as he pulls his little light instrument from his jacket pocket and flips it on. “Keep your focus on me, but look past my shoulder.”

“Okay.”

He moves the light in front of my left eye, and I wince both from the brightness and the way it makes my head hurt.

“You’re doing well. Just a few more seconds,” he mutters as he looks deep into my eye. I don’t have any idea what he’s looking for, but I trust that he knows what he’s doing. I just want answers, preferably ones that aren’t terrifying. “Good. One eye down. Now let’s take a look at the other.”

He moves the light to my right eye and repeats the process. It’s just as uncomfortable as it was in my left eye, but at least this time I know what to expect and how long it’ll last.

“Hmm,” he murmurs, and something in his tone makes my stomach clench. “Let’s check your pupillary response. Do me a favor and focus on my finger, okay?” he says as he holds up one finger in front of my eyes. I focus on it and nod. “Good. Now follow my finger as closely as you can.” He starts moving his finger back and forth in front of my eyes with a focused intensity that wasn’t there before.

“I’m noticing some subtle tracking issues,” he says, his tone professional but with an edge that makes my pulse quicken. “Has this vision problem been getting progressively worse?”

“Yes,” I admit. “It started with just occasional blurriness, but now I’m getting these halos and sometimes complete blind spots.”

He nods, making a note on his clipboard. “And the headaches—how would you describe the pain, on a scale of one to ten?”

“They’re definitely up there,” I say. “Like someone’s driving an ice pick through my skull.”

Dr. Singh writes something else down, his expression carefully neutral. “Does anyone in your family have a history of headaches or other problems similar to this?”

I think about it for a second but come up empty. “Not that I know of.”

My chest tightens as the words leave my mouth. Casey’s cancer diagnosis was preceded by a bunch of strange symptoms that slowly turned more concerning, and he and I shared DNA, shared a womb . The thought that whatever took him might somehow be lurking in me too has always been one of my deepest fears, even if doctors have repeatedly assured me that lightning rarely strikes twice like that.

Dr. Singh asks me several more detailed questions about my medical history and runs even more tests and screenings before the exam ends. He leans back on his stool, crossing his arms over his chest as his stethoscope dangles around his neck.

“Based on your symptoms and my initial assessment, I believe we should send you for an MRI just to be safe. Is that okay?”

He’s clearly trying his best to be neutral and not to scare me, but there’s a tension in his shoulders that wasn’t there when we started.

“Sure.” I swallow. “But what are you looking for with that?”

Dr. Singh stares at me for a few awkward seconds, and I can practically see on his face how he’s trying to come up with a way to smooth out the news he’s about to deliver. My mouth goes dry because somehow, I just know bad news is coming.

He shifts on his stool, and it squeaks a little beneath him, making me wince. He takes a deep breath, his expression turning serious.

“Listen, Ms. Dunaway, there’s no guarantee this is what’s going on, but I want to be upfront with you about the possibility…”

He pauses for a second to watch my face for a reaction. All I can do is stare at him and hang on his every word, my heart pounding. Whatever he says next feels like it’s going to change the rest of my life. When I don’t respond, he leans forward, clasping his hands together.

“There’s an outside possibility you could have a brain tumor, so we need the MRI to rule that out.”

The words hit me like a physical blow. It’s a good thing I’m seated because I might have fallen over if I wasn’t. A rush of cold floods my limbs, and I shake my head, ignoring the pain for the moment. I must have heard incorrectly, must be having a hard time making out what he’s saying because of what’s going on with these migraines.

“A brain tumor?” I repeat, my voice barely above a whisper. “You really think that’s what this could be?”

“I don’t want to alarm you unnecessarily,” he says, his tone gentle. “The MRI will give us clarity. It could be something much more benign—migraines with aura, or even just severe stress. But with the progression of your symptoms, we need to be thorough.”

I nod, but the gesture feels automatic. Distant. Like I’m no longer inhabiting my own body.

Please. No .