Page 9 of Healed Hearts (Mended Hearts #2)

Chapter Eight

Julian

I glance at my phone once again. Frozen’s playing in the background, but I can’t be bothered to shut it off. Not even now that Wren is asleep, covered in stickers. Her Holden stickers, as she called them.

I have no idea what possessed me to text him. Sure, he told me to. If I had questions. A picture of my sleeping kid doesn’t count as questions. But she kept saying, “Daddy, look at my Holden stickers.”

It’s already hard enough to get the man out of my head without Wren saying his name seven hundred times a day. So I folded. I stared at her photo for ten minutes before finally deciding to send it.

Good lord, the panic I felt afterward? But then he texted back. I wasn’t expecting a response. I wasn’t. I was hoping, but I wasn’t expecting. Then he responded. And responded again.

But now, I’m staring at my black screen, seriously debating if sending him a text was the right thing to do. I guess this is a sign, right? I texted him. I tried to open lines of communication. Not that I had any right to do that. Not for personal stuff, anyway. That wasn’t what he gave me his number for.

Fuck. I may have messed u—

My phone lights up and I grab it so quickly, I’d be embarrassed if anyone else saw.

Holden

It’s part of the job. The calming effect, that is. But really. It’s all good. You don’t need to apologize.

Don’t text him back. Thank him for his time and put your phone down. Do it now.

Thank you for your time. I’ll let you go. Thanks again.

I stare at the message, my finger hovering over the send button. I drop my head back on the couch and stare up at the ceiling for a second. When I look back to my phone, I backspace everything I just typed.

Me

At any rate, I appreciate it. I’m sure that Wren does too.

There. That’s better, right? It’s still open-ended, so he can respond if he wants to, but he won’t feel obligated if he doesn’t. I’m about to get up to carry Wren to bed—mostly to distract myself—when my phone goes off again.

My heart skips a beat.

Holden

Thank you. :) Did your Disney movies end up being fun?

Holy shit. He’s engaging. He’s asking questions. No pressure, Julian.

Me

Yeah, they were. :) She fell asleep pretty quickly, though.

The bubbles that indicate he’s typing pop up immediately.

Holden

Aww, that sucks. Hopefully the medicine will make her feel better soon.

I glance over at Wren, looking at her sweet, sticker-covered face. I sure hope so, too. I type another message.

Me

How long should it take?

Holden

Not long? If it’s working the way it’s supposed to, and her levels rise (which we’ll hopefully know tomorrow) then she should feel better soon. Within a couple of days.

Well, that’s a fucking relief.

Me

Thank you.

With a sigh, I stand up and toss my phone to the side and pick Wren up. After I carry her to her room, I peel the stickers off her face. Silly girl.

I head back to the living room and shut everything down before grabbing my phone. There are no new messages, but that’s okay. I wasn’t really expecting one. At least that’s what I tell myself.

After glancing around to make sure everything is good for nighttime, I head into my bedroom.

I strip down to my boxers and settle into bed. The second I do, the scent of citrus fills my nose. I’ve washed my sheets, so I know it’s all in my head, but that doesn’t help. It’s so fucking strange. I don’t understand why I can’t get the smell of him out of my bed, or the thoughts of him from my mind, or the look on his face as he fell apart on top of me from playing on repeat.

I’ve never been so fucked up over a hookup.

I place Wren’s plate of mac and cheese in front of her. She hasn’t really wanted to eat, but I’m trying not to let that bother me too much. I’m sure it’s fine. And I’m hoping that, like Holden said, her levels normalize, and she’ll start doing better. Maybe the fact that she was actually hungry today will be a good sign. “Thank you, Daddy.”

I press a kiss to her curls. “You’re welcome, baby girl.”

She lifts a spoonful of mac and cheese to her mouth and shovels it in. This kid is a fucking menace with food. Or, at least, she usually is, so it makes me happy to see her eating like this again.

My phone starts ringing and when I see it’s the hospital, I answer immediately. I didn’t know we’d get results so soon, although maybe I should have guessed. “Hello?”

“Hello, Julian. This is Holden Nash.”

He didn’t even need to say his name. I knew from the first word. His voice fucking haunts my dreams. I’m not sure if I’ll ever be able to forget it. “Hey, Holden.”

“I have some good news for you.” My entire body sags in relief. “Wren’s folate levels are back within normal range. She should be feeling better soon, if she’s not already.”

I’m quiet for a second while I watch her shove bite after bite of mac and cheese in her mouth, getting her entire face and half her hand covered in sticky, yellow cheese. It seems that maybe she is getting better. “That’s good news. She’s eating really well today. It’s the first time in over a week she’s eaten like this.”

He chuckles. “That’s definitely what we like to hear. Well, I better get back to work, but I wanted to call you personally and update you. If you have questions, you can text me.” The way he says it sounds like he wanted to say more, but stopped himself, so I wait for a second and sure enough, he follows up with, “Or you know. If you just wanted to text me, that would, uh… that would be okay too.” His voice has changed. He sounds softer, more vulnerable.

I find myself nodding as a smile spreads across my face. “Yeah, I’ll definitely do that.”

It sounds like he breathes a sigh of relief, but it’s hard to tell. A siren type sound goes off somewhere in the background. “Shit,” he mutters under his breath. “I’ve gotta go.”

I don’t even have time to respond before he hangs up.

It really doesn’t matter, though. He just gave me blanket permission to text him, and Wren’s levels are back to normal. Everything is looking up.

Five days later, I’m standing in front of my bathroom mirror, trying to talk myself out of having a panic attack because I was wrong. So wrong. Things are not looking up at all. Sure, I’ve texted Holden off and on, but nothing of consequence, and to make matters worse, Wren’s not getting better. Not at all.

I thought she was. She was eating, she was playing, she was getting better, and then it just stopped. Like hitting a brick wall. She’s been sleeping fourteen to sixteen hours a day. She’s barely eating. She nods off on the couch. I just got her tucked into bed an hour earlier than normal because she was falling asleep on her dinner plate.

My breath is coming in choppy pants, and tears are burning the backs of my eyes. Why is this happening to me again? I struggled when Maya was sick. Hard. But I haven’t had a single panic attack since then.

Not when my friends stopped being my friends. Not when I was sleep-deprived and grieving. Not when Wren got her first stomach bug. Not when I realized I was truly alone. No friends, no parents. Just Wren and I. I was fine. Fine.

So why suddenly am I no longer fine? It feels like a sign. A bad sign. A bad omen.

Panic attacks when Maya died. Panic attacks now. Is there a correlation?

I look up at my reflection. I’m crying. Big tears pouring down my cheeks. I feel awful. My throat is constricted. From the tears or the impending panic, I don’t know. I open the medicine cabinet and stare at the bottle of Xanax. I’ve done so well at not taking them. I don’t want to. I hate the way they make me feel. Always a little groggy and tired. I can’t drive. I can’t do the things I need to do.

But I’m spiraling. I know it. I can feel it. It’s going to spiral out of control. Soon. Any minute. I’m not going to be able to stop it. I suck in a gasping breath.

Oh, fuck it.

I grab the pill bottle and drop a single pill into the palm of my hand. Shaky legs carry me from the bathroom and into my bedroom, where I have a glass of water sitting on my nightstand.

I sit down on the edge of my bed, staring down at the pill in my hand as my chest heaves and my stomach sours.

If I take it now, I’ll be able to sleep. Otherwise? Who knows?

If I take it now, I’ll be able to breathe again.

If I take it now, I’ll be able to stop this panic attack before it starts.

I toss the pill into my mouth and swallow it with a big gulp from my drink.

I crawl into bed, willing my body to relax for the next fifteen to twenty minutes. That’s all I need. Just a few minutes.

I force a deep breath into my lungs.

My phone buzzes, so I reach over and grab it. With any luck, it will be Holden, and he’ll be able to distract me.

Holden

Yum.

There’s an attached image of what looks like stuffed peppers. They do look pretty yum. Or, I guess they probably would if I wasn’t so fucking nauseous.

I text him back, though. Even with my shaky fingers. Even with my fucked up head.

Me

Those do look yum.

I close my eyes, willing my body to calm the fuck down, when my phone goes off again.

Holden

They’re my favorite. How is Wren feeling?

Panic spikes. Hot and sharp and uncomfortable in my chest. I toss the phone to the side and focus once again on breathing. In and out, Julian. You can do this. You’ve been breathing for twenty-seven fucking years. It’s not that hard. Just breathe.

I close my eyes and breathe. Breathe and breathe until my lungs finally stop burning, until the fake calm washes over me.

Thank God.

I don’t respond to Holden. I stay right where I am. Breathing. Maybe tomorrow I can text him back.

When I wake up the next morning, I’m groggy. And slightly frustrated with myself. I left Holden on read. I caved and took a fucking Xanax, and now I just feel like shit.

I roll to my side and grab my phone. There’s another message from Holden.

Holden

I hope everything’s okay. Please let me know if you need anything.

This time, I don’t leave him hanging.

Me

I’m not sure if she’s feeling better, actually. She seems to be getting worse. How long is this supposed to take for her to get better?

Holden

Sometimes it can take a while for things to catch up. If she doesn’t improve in the next two weeks or if she seems to decline rapidly, you should take her in.

Well, that’s actually not reassuring at all.

Me

I will. Thank you.

I set my phone down and climb out of bed. My limbs feel weighed down and heavy. I feel weighed down and heavy, but that’s probably to be expected, considering all the fucking stress I’m under.

I force myself to throw on some sweats and make my way to the kitchen. If I can get Wren to eat at all, it’ll be a miracle, but even if I can’t, it’s still my job to make breakfast. I stare into the fridge, at the eggs, the bacon, the sausage, and a can of biscuits. None of it sounds like anything I want to cook at all. I close the door and head to the cabinets. I think we have cereal, and if we do, that’ll work. It’ll have to. I don’t know why, but I really just don’t have the energy for anything else.

I close the cabinet after confirming we do have cereal, and go to Wren’s room to wake her up. She’s deep in sleep, but after some prodding, she finally opens her eyes. She smiles at me, but doesn’t talk. It’s like she’s too tired to talk lately. She’s always been shy. Kind of quiet. She’s even quieter now. It’s scaring me. But fuck, what doesn’t scare me?

“Come on, baby girl. Do you wanna come eat cereal with Daddy and watch some cartoons?”

She nods slowly, her eyes heavy-lidded. “SpongeBob?”

Oh, fuck yeah. Anything but Frozen is a win for me. “Yeah, baby girl. SpongeBob is perfect. Come on. Go potty, and we’ll go to the living room.”

She gets up, moving more slowly than normal, but still, she makes her way to the bathroom and within a few minutes, the toilet flushes.

“Help me wash, Daddy!”

The words bring a smile to my face. We’ve been working hard on hand-washing, and she does great, but she usually still wants me to help her, and I love it. I love everything about being her dad.

I open the door to the bathroom, and she’s standing on her stool, her hands out in front of her, eyeing me expectantly. I step up behind her and help her wash her hands. She giggles through the whole thing and it brightens my spirits. Maybe things are starting to look up. I can hope, anyway.

I dry her hands after they’re washed well and lift her up. She giggles again as I carry her into the living room and sit her down on the couch. “Daddy’s gonna get SpongeBob ready for you, then I’m gonna go get you cereal, okay?”

“Okay, Daddy.”

Ten minutes later, we’re sitting side by side on the couch, listening to the drama of Bikini Bottom while Wren picks at her cereal. She picks at it so long, in fact, that it gets soggy, and she hands it to me with a softly spoken, “Gross, Daddy.”

I bite my bottom lip, wondering if I’m about to spiral into panic again. God, I fucking hope not. And I really fucking hope she gets better soon.