He must realize this. How could he not?
I worry my bottom lip between my teeth.
“Hey,” I say.
“Hey, what?”
“I think the women behind the desk recognize you.”
He looks over my head for a moment before switching his attention back to me. A warm, knowing grin spread across his face.
“At least they seem to think I’m hot,” he teases.
“Not what I was getting at.”
“What were you getting at then?” He twists his lips. “Do you want me to kiss you right here?”
“I’d rather you not.”
He shrugs. “That would let them know who’s boss.”
“Okay. And then one of them pulls out a phone, and it gets shared on social media? I’m good. Thanks.”
He sits back, the amusement sliding off his face. “You do realize that’s going to happen at some point, right?”
My body stills.
Somehow, I hadn’t thought of that.
To me, he’s just Coy, the boy next door. To everyone else, he’s a big freaking deal.
My brain spins, posing various scenarios for me to consider.
Unflattering pictures from the beach.
Speculation of my sexual history.
Gossip about why I was at the grocery store.
All of those things—will they come? Are they now inevitable?
“I, um …” I clear my throat. “Wow. Okay. I hadn’t really thought about that,” I admit.
“We’ll add that to the list of things to figure out then,” he mutters, clearly not looking forward to that discussion.
I open my mouth to respond when a nurse in turquoise scrubs announces my dad’s name at the door. I wake Dad and then get him to his feet. Coy appears with a wheelchair that gets no objections from the patient.
Dad grabs my hand. His palm is cold, his fingers wrinkly. He looks up at me with fear-stricken eyes. “It’s going to be okay.”
I nod. My words of positivity are stuck in my throat.
“How fast do you think we can get back there?” Coy asks, standing behind Dad. “Want to time us, Bells?”
The distraction is just what we need.
Dad laughs. “Oh, I think we better not. My blood pressure can’t take that much fun anymore.”
Coy winks at me and stands to the side. “I’ll be right here when you guys get out.”
“Oh, no,” Dad says, shaking his head. “You’re coming too.”
Coy looks at me. Uncertainty etches across his features. He silently asks for direction, for my approval.
I want to tell him I need him. But I don’t.
“Yeah, come back with us,” I tell him instead. It serves the same purpose without making me feel weak. “Maybe they’ll push us to the top of the schedule if they think it’ll impress you.”
He laughs. “Don’t count on it.”
We make it to the doorway, then walk down a long hall. Nurses and doctors buzz about, each welcoming us with a smile.
I always wonder how they’re so kind and uplifting when dealing with this crap day in and day out.
We get settled into the exam room. The nurse asks my dad a few basic questions and then leaves us to wait.
Again.
My heart beats on a quickened tempo. It’s not even like it hits harder or faster. It just moves on a different scale that doesn’t exist without this type of stress.
Coy sits beside me. His leg bounces, but that’s his only tell. Otherwise, he’s as calm and sturdy and present as he can be.
I look into his eyes and try to tell him how thankful I am to have him here. How much it means to me that he showed up today—not just for me but also for my dad.
I’m stronger because he’s here. I feel more capable of handling whatever the doctor might say. I didn’t expect to be. I expected the opposite.
There’s no pity in Coy’s eyes or resentment at being kept away from his life. He doesn’t look at me differently. If anything, I feel closer to him in this exam room with my father and a stack of magazines between us than I ever have.
I reach for his hand. He gives it to me readily.
“You guys want a butterscotch?” Dad asks. “My mouth gets so dry.”
“I’m good,” I tell him.
“Have you ever had a butterscotch-dipped ice cream cone?” Coy asks Dad.
Dad shakes his head. “No. Sounds good, though.”
“It’s the best thing I’ve ever eaten. They have them at this ice cream place in Nashville. I get the butterscotch shell and then the crunch coating on top of that. You’ll have to try it one day,” he says.
Dad nods. “Can you get it in a waffle cone?”
“Yeah, but I like a good sugar cone, myself. It lets the focus shine on the butterscotch.”
“Spoken like a true connoisseur,” I tease.
Before he can respond, the door opens, and Dr. Helm walks in.
I squirm in my seat and say a silent prayer for good news.
“Hi, Joe,” he says in his usual cheery way. “Hello, Bellamy.”
“Hi, Doctor,” I say as Dad just waves from his wheelchair across the room.