Page 17 of The Last Love Story
Me: Feel free to keep messaging me random thoughts. It makes me smile.
I don’t know if I should say that or not, but we’re talking about more than books these days, and… it’s the truth.
Justin: If it makes you smile, I’ll message you my random thoughts all day.
Damn.I guess I should expect the swoony stuff from a guy who loves reading romance as much as I do, but still. It makes me feel all melty inside.
It’s not until after I’ve made some kind of happy little squeak that I remember I’m not alone in my kitchen.
I look up to find my dad’s eyes fixed on me.
“Who are you talking to?”
I clear my throat and set my phone down. “Just a friend.”
“A friend, huh? Is this friend a boy?”
“Dad. I’m not fifteen.”
“So, that’s a yes. Do I get to meet him?”
“I haven’t even met him yet.”
Dad’s brows lift, and I slap a hand over my mouth.Whoops.
Then Dad’s grinning at me, and I don’t have to ask where I get my troublemaking smile from.
“But you’re planning on meeting him?”
“We’re. Just. Friends. But yes. He’ll be at the convention this weekend. He’s a narrator. And cover model,” I mutter.
“Well, as long as he treats you right, I approve of yourfriendship.”
“Dad, I’m thirty years old.”
“And no matter how old you are, I’ll always want the best foryou.” He kisses the side of my head. “By the way, I brought your mail up. I think I saw something from your insurance company in there.”
I scramble for the pile of mail and find the letter with my insurance company’s logo on it. They’ve been giving me a ton of crap about my surgery for the past two weeks. They instantly denied paying for it, so I had to send in more information. Then that still wasn’t enough, and I had to send in a second appeal with more information.
The woman on the phone last time assured me they had everything they need, so it should be…
Denied?
My heart slams against my ribs. They’re denying it?
Oh, no. They’re not just denying my surgery, they’re denying any related follow-ups with my doctor, and any physical or occupational therapy related.
Then there’s the damning bolded two words.Final decision.
Tears rush to my eyes.
When my dad turns from the refrigerator and sees me, he crosses the room to me. “What is it?”
“They denied the surgery.”
“What?” he demands, taking the letter as I pull out my phone and, with shaking hands, dial the number for my insurance company’s help line.
Of course, I’m put on hold. Usually it’s anywhere between twenty and forty minutes before I get through to someone.
