Total pages in book: 32
Estimated words: 29566 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 148(@200wpm)___ 118(@250wpm)___ 99(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 29566 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 148(@200wpm)___ 118(@250wpm)___ 99(@300wpm)
The bell above the door rings as I go into the candle shop. My mouth is dry, and my hands are clammy.
Mrs. Maple wheels around the counter.
For a moment, neither of us say anything. We stare at each other, and I feel every beat of my heart, every pump of my blood through my veins.
Finally, she smiles. “You must be Evie. Thank you so much, dear. Would you like to stay for a glass of sweet tea?"
I let out a breath, feeling oddly like I’ve passed a test I didn’t even realize I was taking. My relief is short lived though as I struggle to get my next breath in. I didn’t even consider the fragrances in the shop or what they might do to my asthma.
I shake my head at her offer for sweet tea. My words come out wheezy, “I have to get back to work.”
“Greer is outside, unloading inventory,” she says. Is that hope shining in her eyes? I can’t quite tell.
“I’ll just be on my way,” I say, panting for the next breath. It sounds like I’ve run a marathon. Without waiting for her response, I turn on my heel and leave the shop. I take a few steps before realizing that it’s bad this time.
I’m leaning against the wall, feeling the scratchy bricks through my thin T-shirt. My fingers are squeezing the handle of my bag. I just have to hang on for a few more seconds.
Black spots are floating in front of my vision and my head is hurting. I grope inside my bag where I keep my emergency inhaler. It’s nearly empty but if I can just squeeze a little something from the canister then it’ll be fine. I have to be fine. Chase and Parker depend on me.
“Evie! Evie, what’s going on?” Greer is jogging around the side of the shop.
“Inhaler,” I manage the word.
“Shit, fuck. You have asthma. Where?” Without waiting for a response, he snatches my bag from my hands and turns it upside down. He dumps the contents on the ground and drops to his knees. He rummages through everything before putting my inhaler in my hand. He wraps his hand around my fingers.
I bring it to my lips, taking a puff. The taste—cold and metallic—hits my tongue. There was no time to grab my spacer. My lungs are burning, and I’m doubled over, trying desperately to get that next breath in. There’s no sudden relief from the symptoms like they’d have you believe on TV. There’s only the desperate struggle for the next breath.
My visualizations aren’t helping right now. Nothing is. Every breath is getting harder, and I call on every ounce of my strength not to freak out. It feels like I’m being smothered. An invisible hand is around my lungs, crushing them.
“Take the inhaler again,” Greer says.
I shake it, but it’s useless. It’s empty.
Greer swears again and before I know what’s happening, he’s lifted me into his arms. He’s carrying me bridal style down the street. My cheek is against his t-shirt that’s damp with sweat, and I can hear his pounding heartbeat. The sound soothes me a little. I’m not alone and in the dark, struggling to breathe like when I was a kid.
Greer is here. He’s going to protect me.
A loud crash sounds, and I realize he must have kicked something. Then he’s shouting, “Doc! Doc! Get your ass out here right fuckin’ now!” His voice is tinged with a note of panic. It strikes me as weird that he never sounded panicked when he had paint in his eyes. But he’s panicking now.
Cash is running into the waiting room where several patients are staring at us as I try to drag in wheezing breaths. He rapidly fires questions at Greer who shoves the empty inhaler at Martha.
“Take her in the back room now,” she issues.
In less than a minute, I’m in the back room breathing in through a nebulizer. It’s a fine mist, like breathing in a shower, only the shower is cold and metallic.
It takes twenty minutes before my breathing returns to semi-normal. The entire time I’m sitting on Greer’s lap. He didn’t let me go. He just held me through the attack.
“How long have you had asthma?” Cash asks when I’m no longer wheezing. My chest hurts, and I’m exhausted. I want to lie down and sleep for a month.
“Since I was a kid,” I tell him. “I was a preemie.”
He nods. His medical knowledge means that he understands premature babies are more likely to develop asthma. “And it was under control?”
“Sort of. I had a script for a preventative inhaler twice a day and I kind of ran out of it. Then I ran out of my emergency inhaler just now,” I explain. My throat hurts from the inhaler doses and the wheezing. “