Page 92 of Future Like This

“Yeah?”

She swallows, then tugs her bottom lip between her teeth. “Will you be my date for Miles’s and Amelia’s wedding?”

Oh my god.

Also, yes.

“Well, I guess you’ll probably be in the wedding, so maybe I’m asking to be your date, but—”

“Yes.” The word flies out of my mouth. “I’d love to be your date or for you to be my date.” I laugh and shake my head. “We’ll go together.”

A look of relief crosses her face. “We’ll go together. Perfect.” She stares at me for a moment, and I wish I could bottle the happiness strewn across her face and keep it forever. “Well, I guess I’ll let you go.” She steps forward quickly, brushing a kiss over my cheek. “Have a good night, Angel.”

My heart stutters when she says it. My mouth drops, but I quickly catch myself and snap my jaw shut. “You too, Hy. Talk soon?”

“Definitely.” Then she steps back. Her hand is off my arm, and I’m aching to have her touch back. The heat of her fingers pressing into my arm. The jolt of electricity between us.

She waves as she climbs into her car, and I’m still standing here like an idiot.

Forcing myself to turn back around, I climb into my car, heart beating a million miles a second.

Holy shit.

I have no idea what’s happening. No idea what this means. But I can’t wait to find out.

Miles

Emmie coughs then snuffles, then attempts to cry, but it comes out hoarse and raw.

“I know, sweetheart. I know.”

I didn’t know how my heart could hurt until my little girl got sick. I’d hoped we’d be out of the woods by mid-May, but here we are. Emmie has her first cold. Actually, it’s worse than a cold. It’s croup, which makes her throat swell, and she has a raspy, barking cough because of it.

I’m usually pretty stoic, but seeing her like this makes me want to cry. I hate it. Every time she coughs, I bristle, worried she won’t be able to catch her breath. We’ve been to the doctor twice this week, once today. They gave us a prescription for a steroid solution which we gave her in a bottle around dinner. Thankfully, she still wants milk.

She coughs again, and my heart nearly stops.

I hate this.

“How’s she doing?” Amelia asks, walking back into the room. Her wet hair is tucked back in a bun and she’s wearing sweatpants and a tank top with her bathrobe over them. My superhero wears a bathrobe, not a cape.

She sits down on the couch next to me and rubs Emmie’s back.

“Same as she’s been.” I take a deep breath and silently pray that the steroid kicks in soon. My anxiety is on high alert.

I was lucky when I started taking meds. I struggled with occasional sleeplessness but no other major side effects. The meds help. They really do. But they don’t stop the big spikes that come from triggers like this. Like my little girl coughing so hard she can barely breathe. The helplessness I feel now is overwhelming, and I’m holding myself together by thin threads.

“Want me to take her?”

I swallow hard, anxiety paralyzing me. Do I want her to take Emmie? Part of me wants to keep her right here on my chest so I can easily look at her and check on her every time she coughs. Part of me wants to hand her to Amelia so I can disassociate for a few minutes and calm myself down. Then I feel guilty for that.

“Miles?”

Emmie coughs loudly before I can answer. Then she tries to suck in a breath, but she struggles, a high-pitched whistling noise happening as she tries again. Then she tries to cry and breathe and my heart is in my throat.

“Let me try something,” Amelia says, whipping her robe open and grabbing Emmie. She lifts her tank top and nestles Emmie against her breast. Emmie is still upset and trying to breathe deeply, but after smelling the milk, she latches on to Amelia and slowly, her breathing evens out.

I let out a sigh of relief, but my heart is still pounding.

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