“We’ll need to account for any other ‘exertions’ you might feel inclined to partake in tonight.”
Miller shook his head. “I’m beat. And besides, Violet knows I’m saving myself until marriage.”
I snorted a laugh, and Brighton smirked. “I’ll be back first thing in the morning.”
Miller and I showered—separately, to avoid tempting exertions—and then dressed in sleep clothes, he in flannel pants and a V-neck undershirt while I wore one of his T-shirts and my shorts. We climbed into bed and became entangled. Miller sank heavily into his pillow.
“You okay?” I asked.
“The concert took it out of me. Actually, the concert wasn’t the only thing that took it out of me.”
“Ugh, terrible,” I laughed, curling into him. I reached over and took his arm to read his watch.
“How am I looking, Doc?”
“You look perfect,” I said. “You were amazing tonight. It was as if everything I love about you that you keep inside came out. That’s why they come to see you, Miller. You shine.”
He toyed with a lock of my hair and then let his hand fall heavily down. “I’m done with the tour. I’m going to cancel the rest of the dates.”
I lifted my head off his chest. “You are? And do what?”
“Be with you.”
Swift tears sprang to my eyes at the simple declaration.
He touched my cheek, smiling tiredly. “You were right, Vi. We’re done saying goodbye. But you can’t give up your school and everything you’ve worked for. We’ll get a place in Waco, and when you’re finished with the year, you can transfer to UCSC. If that’s what you want.”
“I do, but my scholarship is with Baylor.”
“Your home is in Santa Cruz. If you don’t let me handle your tuition, I’ll go fucking crazy. We’ll get a place by the ocean. Maybe I’ll write a new album, a smaller album, while you study and be brilliant.” He smiled, his eyes heavy. “We’ll take care of each other. Okay?”
I nodded and kissed him softly. “Okay. I love you. So much.”
“Love you, Vi…” he said, and that was the last thing he said to me before he slept.
I drifted off more slowly, floating on the currents of a new life that was just on the horizon.
An alarm jolted me out of the warm, sleepy comfort, and I sat up, blinking, Miller’s name falling from my lips automatically. He was still sleeping, though his alarm was beeping frantically.
“Miller? Wake up.” I flipped on the nightstand light. A cry caught in my throat. He trembled as if an electric current were running through him, breathing in short, hiccupping gasps. His face was as pale as the pillow.
“Oh my God…” My gaze darted to the numbers on his watch. Forty-five. Then forty-four… “Oh my God.”
Instantly, my mouth went dry, and my blood thrashed in my ears. The words catastrophic hypoglycemic event streaked across my mind, called up from my years of researching diabetes as a kid. Research I’d done for him. So this wouldn’t happen.
A sense of preternatural calm came over me. The terror balled itself into a stone, and I pushed it down deep where it sat in my stomach so I could do what I had to do. I threw off the covers, rushed for the minifridge where his medicine was stored. Insulin to bring his blood sugar down if the numbers were high, and emergency syringes of glucagon if the numbers were low.
“Miller! Miller, I’m here,” I said, my voice jagged with fear. I tore the plastic packaging off a glucagon injection pen. “Stay with me, Miller. Stay right here.”
I climbed back onto the bed and pushed up the short sleeve of his undershirt. I pinched the skin with trembling fingers and injected the needle, depressing it until the vial was empty.
“Wake up, Miller.” I tossed the syringe and reached for my phone on the nightstand. “Come on, baby, wake up.”
I dialed 911 and put my fingers to Miller’s neck while I waited for an answer. His pulse thumped so fast, I could hardly distinguish one beat from another.
“911, what is your emergency?”
Calmly but quickly, I explained the situation, watching Miller’s numbers rise but not fast enough.