I heard the rattle of wheels over the linoleum. I heard a triage nurse asking my name. But before I could even pry my eyes open, I heard her.
“She does this,” Chloe said, letting out an irritated, breathy laugh. She sounded as if I had just spilled red wine on her bridal gown. “I mean, maybe not this exact thing, but she gets intensely dramatic whenever she’s stressed.”
I tried to turn my head toward my sister and instantly regretted it. Agony flared through my left side like a jagged blade scraping against bone.
“I’m not—” I gasped, swallowing down bile. “I’m not faking.”
The triage nurse looked down at me. “Ma’am, on a scale of one to ten—”
“Ten,” I choked out. “No, eleven.”
Chloe, looking immaculate in a cashmere sweater set that probably cost more than my rent, crossed her arms. Her massive diamond engagement ring caught the harsh hospital light. Six days. That was how long until her wedding. Six days until the extravagant event my mother had treated like a royal coronation for the past year.
My mother, Eleanor, arrived at the gurney a second later. She wasn’t out of breath from fear; she was breathless from sheer annoyance.
“What happened now, Harper?” she demanded.
I almost laughed through the blinding pain. That was the most Eleanor sentence ever spoken. Not, Are you okay? Not, What’s wrong? Just, What happened now?—as if my collapsing body was just another scheduling conflict designed to inconvenience her.
