His face softens. “Come on, Collins. Don’t you think I know you better than that?” His voice is so tender I want to scream.
“I’m sorry this is so awkward. I told you not to read it, I—”
“I love you,” Fitz says.
Time stops, and for a perfect heartbeat, I know Kate is wrong about the multiverse containing every possible scenario, because there is no other scenario but this one. In every universe, in the whole space-time continuum, there is only Fitz and me. He was made to say those words and I was made to hear them.
And then reality kicks down the door and I remember my aha moment on the High Line, and all the reasons I can’t trust Fitz’s reckless heart. As desperately as I want it to be different for us than it was for the others … what if it’s not?
“You don’t mean that,” I say, creating the first layer of armor around my tissue-paper heart. He frowns in confusion. I make my armor tighter. “This is all very romantic, isn’t it? You reading the letter, me almost dying, you flying across the country. How could you resist?” I mumble miserably. The words feel all wrong in my mouth, and I hate myself for saying them.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“You’re a sucker for a romantic gesture, but you can’t build a relationship on gestures. You don’t love me any more than you loved Ivy or Priya or any of the others.”
Fitz blinks, looking shocked. This is not the reaction he was expecting. But if I tell him that I love him and let him kiss me senseless in this hospital bed, I’ll never know if he’s doing it because he wants me, or because he wants the story.
And despite the fact that I’ve imagined enough versions of the story to fill all the books in all the universes in the multiverse, being a short-term player in Fitz’s fantasy isn’t enough.
“Paige, I need to explain—”
“You need to leave, and I need time to think. Please.”
His face crumples, and then he leaves.
* * *
It doesn’t take long for the panic to set in. Fitz leaves, I cry, and SIM starts a new list, full of all the reasons I’ll be alone for the rest of my life.
It’s one line:
Fitz is my guy. Always. And if I won’t let myself be happy with him, what chance do I have with anyone else?
I’m also in pain, and the small room feels claustrophobic, and it’s not long before I’m playing the five-four-three-two-one game.
A nurse comes in and bustles about, tidying dishes from room service and making notes about the numbers on my screen.
“Two things I can smell. Alcohol from the hand sanitizer. Onions from my soup. One thing I can taste. Also onions.” I take several deep breaths.
“I do that too, when my anxiety spikes,” she muses as she checks my chart. “Are you due for a dose? I don’t see any medications listed on your chart.”
“Oh, no, I’m not taking anything.”
“Good. I was worried the intake nurse missed something.”
“Like what?”
“Prozac, Zoloft, Lexapro,” she says as she changes my IV drip. “How’s the pain? Do you need more medicine?”
I shake my head. “Those other medications, what do they do?”
“They’re SSRIs, which increase levels of serotonin in the brain.”
“Why did you think I need them?”
“The grounding technique you were doing is common for patients with severe anxiety.”
Anxiety. It’s not an unfamiliar term; Mom mentioned it when she tried to get me into therapy. But it’s not often I hear the word on its own; it’s usually one half of “depression and anxiety.” Depressionandanxiety. And since I’ve never suffered from depression, I assumed I was more okay than not. Not “bad enough” to warrant help. Whatever that means.
“Is that why my brain feels broken?” I ask. She frowns in response. I press forward, because I need her to understand. “I make lists in my brain, all day, every day, of all the things that could possibly go wrong. I can’t make decisions. I’m scared all the time. Is that—” I take a deep breath. “Does that sound like anxiety?”
“Have you ever spoken to anyone about this? A doctor or a therapist?”
“No.”
She appraises me for a long moment. “Would you like to?”
It’s the easiest question I’ve ever been asked. “Yes. Please.”
SIM turns over a new piece of paper. But what if—
Shut up, SIM. I smile as I settle back into my pillows, feeling instantly lighter. I might not have to spend my life paralyzed. It’s a gift I never dared to want because I didn’t even know it was possible.
* * *
“Hot chocolate?”
I startle at the sound of Harrison’s voice in the hospital lobby when I’m discharged two days later. With his hair pulled back and his artfully torn skinny jeans, he looks cuter than I remembered. But my stomach is blissfully free of butterflies. Mom excuses herself to meet the Uber outside while I accept the warm drink from Harrison.
“What’s the occasion?” I wiggle the cup in my hand.
“I’m sorry. It’s my fault you’re here. If I hadn’t—”
I hold up my hands. “I’m done with that game. No more blaming myself, or other people, for things beyond our control. I’ve been doing that for a long time, but I’m hoping to do it less now that I know my anxiety is at least partially to blame.”
“You have anxiety?”
“Officially diagnosed this week.” It’s a relief to admit it out loud.
He fidgets with his own coffee cup. “I should have reacted better when you were upset.”
“Thanks, but you didn’t know.” My mind flashes to Fitz. He didn’t know either, but he understood me enough to react the right way. Harrison isn’t my guy, but I meant what I said to Fitz. He’s not a bad guy.
“So we’re okay?”
“Like brother and sister.” I smile, and Harrison looks torn between laughing and cringing.
“I can’t believe you’re walking out of here with no wheelchair or crutches,” he says as we exit the hospital. “You’re making me reexamine my stance on miracles.”
“Who knew miracles could be so painful?” I joke. My ribs hurt like crazy every time I bend, or lie on my back, or laugh, or cough, or, heaven forbid, breathe. But I’ll heal. Not even this is unfixable. As for my messed-up brain, I talked with a doctor from the psychiatry department. She gave me a preliminary diagnosis of generalized anxiety disorder and panic disorder and referred me to someone local. When I get home, I’ll meet with the new doctor and set up a plan for treatment.
All the times I wrestled with SIM and had panic attacks and felt like one more decision would send me over the edge, I assumed that’s the life I was destined to live. For the first time in years, I don’t feel the heavy weight of my future anchoring me to the ground. I had no idea a label could be so empowering.
I say goodbye to Harrison and meet up with Mom. She opens the Uber door (she’s boycotting taxis, naturally) and helps me into the back seat. Our return tickets are booked for this afternoon, and we’re headed straight to the airport. She packed up our luggage from the Blairs’ and brought it to the hospital.