He Bet My Life and Lost Me Instead novel · Chapter 2 of 32

Chapter 2: The Bag

Sam takes the bag to the lab, the doctor says Nina's lungs are worse and not psychological, and she signs herself out to her grandmother's house, where Dylan's email puts her on psychiatric leave.

"It's a refill," Lydia said, and kept her smile. "Pharmacy paper, Nina's name, all of it."

Sam Novak did not let go of the bag.

"Then it won't hurt anyone if the lab looks at it," he said.

Dylan stepped between us with one hand lifted, palm out.

"She's overwrought," he told Sam. "She has episodes. Five years of them. She'll say anything when she's frightened."

I was sitting up in the bed with an oxygen line in my nose and a cuff on my arm.

"I'm sitting right here," I said.

"Of course you are." He didn't look at me. "I'm only explaining."

A doctor came in with a tablet, saw the four of us standing there, and asked who was family.

"I am," Dylan said.

"No," I said.

The doctor looked at me, then at him, and then at the tablet.

"Ms. Doyle's oxygen was seventy-one percent when she arrived," she said. "She was cyanotic. This was an acute airway event with smoke exposure."

"Psychological," Dylan said. "Lydia is a trauma specialist."

"Mr. Mercer, I have her scans," the doctor said. "There's nothing psychological about her lungs."

Lydia's smile stayed exactly where it was.

"How often have your attacks come this year?" the doctor asked me.

"A few a month," I said. "More since spring."

"More." She wrote it down. "Your lung function is down eight percent from your last visit. That's a lot in six months."

Dylan went still.

I did not look at him. I looked at the white bag in Sam's hand.

"Is there a pharmacy label on that?" I asked Sam.

He turned the bag over. "There's a sticker. It's not a pharmacy label."

"It's a wellness company," Lydia said easily. "I use them for all my clients. They're very discreet."

"Then you won't mind," Sam said, and slipped the bag into his jacket.

For the first time, Lydia stopped smiling.

It lasted a second.

"Nina is exhausted," she told the room, gentle again. "Dylan, let's let her rest. She'll feel differently in the morning."

"I won't," I said.

Dylan took out his phone.

"Then I'll tell you what you'll feel in the morning," he said quietly. "Locked out of the executive floor."

His thumbs moved.

My phone buzzed on the tray beside me.

Your access to all Mercer Freight systems has been suspended pending review.

"Dylan," I said. "It's Saturday night."

"Come home and I'll reverse it," he said. "I mean that."

He meant it. That was the worst part.

He stood there waiting, holding the shakshuka, completely sure I would say yes.

I pressed the call button.

"I'd like to sign myself out," I told the nurse.

It took two hours.

Dylan left after the first hour, with Lydia on his arm, still telling the nurses I needed rest.

Marco was in the hallway when I came out, in the same stained apron, holding my bag and a paper cup of water.

"I didn't go home," he said. "I didn't know who else you had."

"Nobody," I said. "That's the problem."

"I've got a car." He looked at the floor. "It's my cousin's. It smells like fryer oil."

Sam stood at the end of the hall with his hands in his jacket pockets.

"I'll send the lab results to you," he said. "Not to anyone else. Give me an address."

I gave him my grandmother's.

I hadn't said it aloud in five years.

It was in Bridgeport, a two-flat with a green door. I had kept the key on my ring all this time, because Dylan said we didn't need a second place.

Marco drove. The seat did smell like fryer oil.

Sunday morning we stood on the porch while I turned the key in the lock.

It stuck, then gave.

Inside, the air was cold and smelled of old wood and lemon polish. My grandmother's armchair was still under its sheet.

I breathed in.

It was easy. No smoke. No induction cooktop. No man standing behind me with his hand on my back.

"I can cook in here," Marco said, looking at the old gas range. "If that's okay. Gas. If it's okay with your lungs."

"It's okay with me," I said.

I sat down in my grandmother's chair for the first time in five years.

My phone buzzed.

It was an email from Dylan to the entire board, copied to me.

Effective Monday, Nina Doyle is placed on medical leave pending psychiatric evaluation. Her duties are reassigned. Please direct all questions to the finance director.

Under it, someone on the board had already replied.

Understood. Our thoughts are with her.

I looked up at Marco.

"Monday," I said. "I'm going in."

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