Page 81 of Saving His Heart

My head falls back in laughter. “Oh my God. Okay, I take it all back. That is the worst pick-up line of all time.”

We fall in step with the slow melody the band is playing. I remember this song. It always made me cry as a kid. But listening to it with Preston singing the words into my ear is my undoing. Trying to hide my tears, I bury my face in his chest.

“I’ll never forget how you looked tonight,” he sings.

We dance in slow circles, the rest of the wedding party fading into the background. Our movements get slower and slower, but I don’t notice until Preston’s grip loosens on my hips. I glance up just in time to see the moment his eyes glass over. “I love you,” he whispers, then goes down, taking me with him.

“No. No. No. No. No,” I’m yelling before we even hit the ground. “You promised you wouldn’t do this in my arms, Preston. You promised me, goddamn it.”

His family is surrounding us, everyone yelling at once.

Dr. Camden

“Lexi, get my bag and the small black bag under the chair.” I undress Preston, where he lay. “Dexter, call 911. Easton, get my cell phone and call Dr. Terry. Ashton, c-call Ben Simmons. Tell him to bring everything Preston requested, as well as all the journals and folders under the window seat in the master bedroom, to the hospital immediately.” By the time I am done barking orders, Lexi is throwing my bags at me.

“What the hell is going on?”

“Is he going to be okay?”

“What’s wrong with him?”

All valid questions I block out and focus on one thing—Preston’s broken heart.

“What is she doing?” Sylvie screams as I open the black bag and place the portable CPAP around Preston’s nose and mouth.

I listen to his heart; it’s weak but beating. With his latest ECG, I know what I’m dealing with. Ripping off my heels, I climb over Preston, dragging the small bag with me.

Sylvie grabs me by the shoulders. “Please, tell me what’s going on?” she cries.

I don’t have time to stop.

“Ash, get your mother off me, now.” My voice is harsh even to my own ears.

After unrolling the sterilized equipment, I roll up his sleeve and pray the months of treatment haven’t left me without any options. With practiced movements, I insert the IV and attach the drip just as the paramedics arrive.

“Patient, Preston Westbrook, thirty-year-old male, cardiomyopathy positive. CPAP applied, Nitroglycerin administered intravenously at 10 mcg/min titrated.”

We’re all moving with the paramedics who have lifted Preston onto the gurney.

“Are you his doctor?” a paramedic asks.

“One immediate family member allowed in the ambulance,” another tells Sylvie.

“I’m his mother,” she says, but Ash holds her back.

“Emory’s a cardiac surgeon—and his wife. She’ll go.”

At my back, the collective gasp causes my spine to tingle, but one look at Preston’s ashen face, and I put my mask firmly back in place.

“Let’s go. East, Dr. Terry’s ETA?”

“Two hours. The helicopter is landing at MMH now.”

Running barefoot beside Preston, I follow the EMT’s to the ambulance. It’s not a long ride to the hospital, but I do what I can. Once we arrive, I’m held back. No longer Dr. Camden since I have no credentials. The doctors here only see me as Emory Westbrook, the patient’s wife.

“Mrs. Westbrook? The rest of your family has arrived. Would you like me to take you to them? Or would you like someone to wait here with you?” the nurse asks kindly.

God, the questions they must have. I know I’m the one who has to give them answers, but I’m the coward that can’t face them yet. Instead, for three hours, I sit in a room alone, chanting, “Not now, Preston. Please, not now.”