Page 119 of The Kiss of Deception

I have no presence of mind to worry if I’ll smother him to death. The sounds that leave his throat say he would happily go out like this, and his tongue proceeds to kiss me better with thorough devotion.

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Zoe

I always knew the last grain of sand in our hourglass would eventually, inevitably succumb to gravity.

But for a while, I forgot.

I always considered myself a lucky person, though never as much as lately.

Lucky ones experience periods in which life feels like the comfort of a fluffy cloud—barefoot toes dancing to the whispers of the wind in the soft blue sky in the company of the sun, the stars and the constellations.

Most only get brief glimpses of happiness; free samples only meant to show what will be missing in its absence.

My glimpses stretched and stretched into weeks of bliss. The simple stretch of an arm and my hand is sunlight and stardust.

I’m on top of the entire fucking world.

Gravity, however, is a one-way road, its direction down, down, down.

Unfortunately, it doesn’t involve cozy rides and soft landings or even a wooden ladder of ten thousand excruciating steps. It’s all free fall, nothing but hard ground at the end—harsh reality.

All it takes is one phone call.

Chapter Thirty

Zoe

The final days of summer came and went fast—too fast. Outside, green fades into the warmest colors of a sunset, the trees giving signs of undressing under the autumn wind. Fuzzy socks and fluffy blankets are welcome; a faithful cup of coffee followed by the pastries that replace the summer frozen yogurt.

But it feels like winter as I hurry inside the white walls and under the sharp, cold lights of the hospital.

Claustrophobia isn’t on my list of fears, but inside this specific steel box, the mirrors close in on me with full speed. My internal temperature rises with the elevator, and by the time the ding startles the reflection that stares at me, there’s a fine sheen of sweat clinging to me like a second skin.

My rushed footsteps grow heavier as the reception of the surgery department comes into view.

“Hello. My name is Zoe Westwood. I received a call about my grandfather, Tobias Westwood. I was told he’s undergoing surgery.”

“Ms. Westwood.” She looks up at me with practiced empathetic softness and the same voice that introduced herself with the hospital name followed by my grandfather’s name on a phone call. “Please take a seat. Someone will be in to talk to you soon.”

Thanking her for nothing, I let her go back to her work as the messenger of death. I refuse to sit, pacing in front of the windows—and her—instead.

The double swing door swishes for the eighth time, but I don’t pay them regard until my name is called.

“Ms. Westwood?” Head to toe in medical gear, a stern woman awaits confirmation expectantly. “My name is Dr. Holt, and I am assisting with Mr. Westwood’s procedure. He was admitted to the ER this afternoon, unconscious and unresponsive. We ran some tests and were able to diagnose a severe case of coronary artery disease that caused a severe myocardial infarction—a heart attack. His condition was critical, and he’s been in surgery since.”

The fine layer of perspiration frosts all around me as the blood leaves my face.

Coronary artery disease.

Severe myocardial infarction.

As far as I know, the terms aren’t direct synonyms for certain death, but that’s exactly what they sound like in her carefully neutral voice. As though this is a good time to start mourning.

“His prognosis is reserved, but we’re doing everything in our power for him. As far as I understand, you’re his proxy, so please stick around in case you might be needed to make any decisions.”

Decisions. What decisions? I want to scream at the doctor, tell her to stop speaking in riddles and medical jargon and just give me answers, but a knot tangles in my throat, clinging with determination no matter how many times I swallow.

---