Between Breaths

I stare at the test results, reading them for the third time—like squinting might make the numbers less terrifying.

“Still not enough oxygen in my bloodstream,” I mutter.

Danika leans over my couch, reading over my shoulder. “Elevated RBCs again. That’s not good.”

She should know—ICU nurse by trade, professional meddler by nature.

“No kidding,” I say, rubbing my temples. “And the rest of it? Thyroid’s stable, blood pressure’s normal, chest X-ray is clear, but I still can’t breathe right half the time. I feel like an eighty-year-old woman climbing stairs.”

Danika sits beside me. “So, what’s the plan? Are you going back to see the doc?”

“Yeah. I have an appointment this morning to discuss the results. Not that it’ll change anything. He’ll probably say I need to lose weight again.”

Danika rolls her eyes. “You should tell him he could lose a few to fifty pounds himself.”

I chuckle. The last time Danika went with me to the doctor, he asked if I’d been exercising. She asked him where he went to the gym.

“Don’t tempt me. I might actually do it this time.”

“You need another opinion.”

Flaring my arms, I say, “You mean another one? ’Cause this is the fourth doctor I’ve been to. All my bloodwork is off, but they can’t seem to find out why. I give up.”

“Did you tell him you eat relatively healthy?”

“What’s the sense? They wouldn’t believe me. Besides, pasta is my vice. Not that healthy, Danika.”

“Well, we all have vices. Mine is chocolate cake.”

I shrug. “But you’re still thin. I’m curvy. Always have been, but this breathing thing is new. I’ve never had a problem walking or exercising. I feel like an old lady who needs an oxygen machine rolling behind her.”

“If your RBCs are high… Dehydrated?”

“Probably. I haven’t been able to take much lately, either food or liquid. Makes me nauseous sometimes. Plus, I don’t have much of an appetite anymore. Hell, if the doctors wait a while, I’ll starve to death. Can’t complain about being fat at least.”

She straightens and walks into my kitchen. “Want a drink?”

“Seriously?”

“You need more liquids if nothing else, Ara.”

I groan but take the bottle when she brings it over. “You may be a nurse, but you’re not my boss, Danika.”

“Drink up.”

“Damn you.”

“Look, Ara, instead of walking around the track every day, why not try my gym? They’ve got great personal trainers there. They work with your needs, not their agenda, and everything moves at your pace.

“They’ll sit down with you, make a plan, and go from there.

“Ohhh no. And have everybody stare at the curvy girl who’s trying to lose weight and can’t breathe? No, thanks. Plus, doesn’t that Jace Remington guy own the place?”

“Yep.”

“Yeah, no thanks.”

“What? The man is sinfully hot.”

“I wouldn’t know. But I do know the man came from a buttload of family money, and instead of using his college degree, he opens a gym. I’ll never understand it.”

“Come on. You’ll rarely see him around. He only comes in every so often. Plus, I’ve never heard of him hitting on or dating anyone who went to his gym. Bad for business, ya know?”

“If he’s that hot, I bet it still doesn’t stop all the girls from coming and eye-fucking him.”

She laughs. “True. However, he has mostly male employees; the women are his cousins. He’s very polite when he’s there. All those women can do is eye-fuck him, because it isn’t going to happen.”

I shake my head.

“Come on, Ara, please. Just give it a try. I’ll go with you.”

“Fine. If it gets you to shut up.”

“You know, I wonder who the woman is that he will settle down with one day. I mean, come on…he is getting a little older. I heard one of the guys the other day say he was forty-two.”

I look at my best friend like she’s grown another head.

“My mind still thinks I’m in my twenties, thank you.”

“Trust me, you’re forty.”

“Look, if this doctor starts the weight speech again, drag him,” she says, smirking. “Verbally. Not physically. Probably.”

I snort. “No promises.”

The elevator ride to the third floor of the clinic is mercifully short, but my patience is already thin by the time the nurse calls my name.

“Ms. Dawson. Room three.”

I follow her back, sit on the crinkly, paper-covered exam table, and try not to scream while I wait.

Useless.

Ten minutes later, Dr. Calloway walks in, tablet in hand, with an expression that already makes my blood boil.

Looks like he’s hit the drive-thru a few too many times. The way his belly hangs over his belt, the effort in each breath—he looks just as uncomfortable as I feel watching him.

I swear I’ve spent way too much money on doctors—probably paid for more than a few of their houses or extravagant vacations—just for them to tell me I’m overweight.

You don’t have to keep shoving it in my face that I could lose a few pounds—I already see it every time I look in the mirror.

For some people, it’s easier said than done.

“Good morning, Arabella. I hope you’ve been taking good care of yourself,” Dr. Callahan says.

“Good morning, Doctor.”

I sit, hands folded in my lap, already bracing myself.

“So, I’ve looked at your test results, and I believe we need to revisit the idea of lowering your weight.”

“What?”

Just like that, my stomach knots, and my ears start ringing. He flips through his chart like it’s a menu—like he didn’t just repeat the same line I’ve heard every damn time.

“Overall, these numbers would look good with a normal BMI. I can refer you to one of the best nutritionists we have.”

“Stop,” I say, my voice sharper now.

“In the meantime, moderation is key—”

“Stop!”

I can feel the heat rise under my skin.

“—as well as daily exercise.”

He keeps going, like I’m not even here. Like my voice doesn’t matter.

He finally pauses—but only to reload.

“It might be something you need to do yourself. You know, stay away from the beer and the drive-thrus.”

I shoot to my feet, the exam table screeching behind me, and storm to the door. My hand trembles as I grip the knob. I yank it open, but before I walk out, I spin back around, heart pounding in my throat.

“Not everything is about weight. All that tells me is you don’t know any more than you did the last time I was here!”

The waiting room blurs past me. I hit the door with my shoulder and step into the spring air, gulping like I’ve been underwater.

I’m almost to the parking lot when my foot catches the curb. My ankle rolls, and I pitch forward—right into a wall of solid muscle.

Strong arms catch me before I face-plant.