Page 39 of The No Touch Roommate Rule (That Steamy Hockey Romance #2)

Chapter

Twenty-Three

PARKER

T he ambulance ride is hell.

Pure fucking hell.

Time slows until I swear, I can feel the sharp end of the secondhand stabbing into my eyelid with every tick, making it twitch. The hospital that’s always been a quick jaunt across town seems hours away.

I catalog mundane details to keep my mind from spiraling to worst-case scenarios. The hard plastic seat under my ass. Oxygen tanks rattling in their brackets. The smell of bleach and a hint of exhaust. The paramedic’s wedding ring catching in the light.

Nana’s hand…small and still on the gurney.

I hate every second of not knowing whether she’ll be okay, but I don’t really feel it. The world has gone flat, two-dimensional. My pulse is steady, but everything feels muffled, like someone’s wrapped a scarf around my head. My hands aren’t shaking anymore.

Neither is my voice as I tell the paramedic about Nana’s medications.

“Metoprolol for blood pressure. I think it’s twenty-five milligrams twice a day, but I can call her doctor as soon as we get to the hospital.

He’s a family friend. Um, and a multivitamin and Omega-3 tablets for memory.

I think that’s about it. Aside from the heart issues, she’s in great health for her age. ”

The paramedic asks a follow-up question about her history.

I tell her calmly, evenly, about the heart attack two years ago.

I sound like I’m talking about a stranger, someone I couldn’t care less about, even though I love this woman more than anyone on earth. Even though she was more of a parent to me than my mother or father ever were.

But…this is what I do.

What I’ve always done, for as long as I can remember.

When shit gets ugly—really ugly—suddenly I’m five years old again, tucked into the linen closet downstairs, the one farthest from my parents’ bedroom.

I play Sonic the Hedgehog on my Nintendo DS, numbing with endless races to collect rings, shutting out the chaos as my parents do their best to destroy each other upstairs.

I’d already learned that chaos was my cue to turn invisible.

Go underground. Disappear.

I’m here, but I’m not here. All the function, none of the distracting feelings. It’s my superpower.

I probably would have been a great marine, right up until the moment the numbness went away, and I had to deal with the fucked up shit I’d been forced to do to survive in a war zone.

The numbness will go away. Eventually.

But right now, it’s here, and I’m grateful.

At the hospital, they unload my still unconscious grandmother, tell me to check in at the ER desk, and rush her inside.

Through it all, my blood pressure remains completely stable.

When Makena jogs into the waiting room a few minutes later—she had to drive Nana’s station wagon; there wasn’t room in the ambulance for two—tears streak her cheeks.

Her panic and worry for me are written all over her face, but that doesn’t affect me, either.

“Is she okay?” she asks, sliding into the chair beside me. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” I say, letting her take my hand. “I don’t know anything more about her condition yet. She was still unconscious when they took her back. Stable, but unconscious.”

“Well, stable is good. That’s good,” Makena says, squeezing my palm.

I barely feel that, either.

The minutes continue to drag, the seconds to stab, but I’m more annoyed than devastated.

I can’t believe they’re playing the news on the television in the waiting room.

Clearly, someone lacks the critical thinking skills to realize that no one going through an emergency in the fucking emergency room needs to hear more bad news.

And the news is always bad, a fact the talking head proves by giving us details on a tsunami headed for Hawaii, a heat wave killing old people in New York City, and a shooting at a bar not far from Oxford. Three people dead because some guy was mad at his boss.

Dead for no reason.

Like we don’t have enough death. Human beings die of old age and disease and disasters every day. Why are we so damned determined to take each other out with random acts of hate and violence?

And why wouldn’t a person want to hold onto the option to go numb when they need it? That therapist I saw for a while in college was great at helping me work through most of my family shit, but she was dead wrong about disassociating.

Dead wrong.

Dead…

Nana could be dying…

The thought still doesn’t pierce the fog.

“Here. Coffee with cream and sugar.” Makena returns from her trip to the cafeteria, pressing a paper cup into my hands.

“I know you don’t usually take sugar, but you looked like you could use some.

And I have apples, protein bars, and a gluten-free turkey sandwich in my purse.

All they had was turkey or tuna, and I didn’t know how you felt about tuna. ”

“Not a fan,” I say flatly. “Turkey’s great. I’ll have some later. Thanks.”

“You’re welcome,” she says, settling into her chair beside me and turning her attention to the news. They’re back to the tsunami update, an endless, twenty-four-hour cycle of bad shit on repeat.

The coffee tastes like dirt and stomach acid, but the heat is something to focus on. Makena sits beside me, not talking. Just there.

Part of me—the part that’s watching all of this from the ceiling—appreciates that she’s not trying to fix things. To fix me. Not asking how I feel or telling me it’ll be all right or any of that bullshit people say when they need you to perform “okay” for their comfort.

She just sits. Drinks her terrible coffee. Waits.

Time eventually loses all meaning. I have no idea how long we’ve been sitting there—could have been an hour, could have been four—when a voice finally calls from the double doors on our right.

“Family of Chastity Parker?”

Makena and I both surge to our feet, turning to face a doctor who looks like he’s been on duty since the sausage festival started yesterday. My body goes rigid, colder, transforming into an internal pillar of ice as I say, “I’m her grandson.”

“She’s stable,” he says. “It wasn’t a heart attack, just heat exhaustion complicated by dehydration and cardiac strain. Her age makes the situation more serious, but she’s awake and responding well to fluids and medication.”

The rest of his words float past me as the ice debates whether or not it’s time to thaw.

I catch pieces of what he’s saying— overnight, observation, monitoring, could have been worse —but am mostly fixated on keeping my “listening expression” in place as he finishes. The worst is over now. She’s going to be okay. Probably. Hopefully.

At least things are looking a hell of a lot brighter than they were when the paramedics first wheeled her in.

“Can we see her?” Makena asks when he’s done.

The doctor nods. “Briefly. She needs rest, but she definitely wants to see you. Room 314. Just follow the signs to the cardiac ward.”

We navigate the hospital maze to the third floor. Turn left. Past the nurses’ station, where someone’s birthday cake sits half-eaten—normal life chugging away while ours has taken a detour into an alternate dimension.

Inside her room, Nana looks small in the hospital bed, hooked up to an IV with heart monitors attached to her sunken chest.

When did she get so thin? I should have noticed. Should have insisted she start trying to put some meat back on her bones.

Her lips twitch up at the edges when we enter. “Hey there, babies.”

“How are you?” I ask, still steady and in control, even as my mind continues to list all the ways I’ve failed her.

“Embarrassed,” she says as I take her hand gently in mine. “I should have paid closer attention to how much water I was drinking in this heat. Now I’ve gone and ruined your trip.”

“You didn’t ruin anything,” Makena says, her voice wobbly with emotion and relief. “We’re just so glad to see you awake and looking better. That was so scary.”

“But you’re going to be fine.” I’m not entirely sure I believe it, but it’s the right thing to say. Stay positive for the patient. “But no more bourbon in your tea. Just electrolyte mix. We need you here with us, okay? No bowing out until we’ve hit at least ten more sausage festivals.”

Her smile widens. “Yes, sir. But only if you swear to come back every year.”

“Done,” I promise, giving her palm a gentle squeeze. “I love you. Now, rest up, and we’ll be back first thing tomorrow. They don’t want us hanging around for too long while you’re still on the mend.”

“Love you, too,” she says. “And don’t worry about staying at the hospital on my account. I feel much better, just tired. Go on home and get some rest, too, okay? Promise me?”

We promise, Makena gives her one last gentle hug, and we leave. Take the elevator down. Walk through the parking garage. Get in the station wagon.

I drive.

I don’t remember driving, but suddenly I’m pulling up to Nana’s house in the sunset light.

“Must have been closer to four hours,” I mutter as I turn off the engine.

“What’s that?” Mack asks.

“Sorry,” I say with a shake of my head. “I lost track of time in the waiting room. When the doctor showed up, I was thinking I couldn’t tell if we’d been there an hour or four hours.”

“Closer to four,” Makena says, looking concerned. “That’s why I kept asking you to eat something.”

I don’t remember that, either, but I don’t share that with her. Instead, I force a smile. “I’ll eat something now. Why don’t you have the first shower, and I’ll make us sandwiches with the leftover pimento cheese and tomato?”

“Okay,” she says, but she’s still watching me a little too closely as we head up the porch steps.

Inside, the house smells different without Nana in it. Like the walls know something’s wrong. Missing.

After Makena goes to shower, I stand in the kitchen, trying to muster the energy for what comes next, but my body’s still running the shut-down protocol. I don’t want to make sandwiches or eat or talk to Makena over dinner or shower. I don’t even want to go to bed and sleep it off.

I just want to disappear, for my consciousness to be obliterated for a while and then magically come online tomorrow, rebooted and back to something closer to normal.

I drink a beer as I force myself to make food, but the alcohol doesn’t penetrate, either.

Thankfully, Makena seems as ready to be done with this day as I am.

We barely exchange ten words over dinner, just shove our food in and retreat to the living room, where we watch old episodes of some dumb sitcom until it’s a respectable time to go to bed.

In the dark, I stare at the ceiling, arms at my side instead of wrapped around Makena for the first time since we started the trip.

Which reminds me…

“I’ll need to stay for a while,” I murmur into the shadows. “I can’t head home tomorrow the way we planned. But if you need to get back, I can take you to the airport or the train station, or whatever. I always flew when I came to visit as a kid, but there might be a train to New Orleans.”

“No, it’s fine,” Makena replies. “I’m in no rush to get back. I’ll stay and help with whatever you need, okay? No worries.”

“Okay, thank you,” I say, a sliver of relief snaking across the surface of the ice inside. I reach out, threading my fingers through hers. “Thank you. I’m sorry I’ve been out of it.”

“Don’t apologize,” she says, tightening her grip. “I get it. And I’m here. Lean on me as much or as little as you need.”

The relief spreads, easing some of the tension in my chest. “Thanks. I appreciate you.”

“And I appreciate you,” she says.

We lie in the dark holding hands for a long time, until I eventually close my eyes and sleep.