Page 136 of Stupid Matchmaking Love

I swallow and feel the burn. “I’d be better if my throat wasn’t raw.”

“It’ll go away soon.” She pats my arms. “You had us all scared for a minute.”

I try to think back to why I’m in here, but it’s fuzzy. “What happened? And where’s Rhett?”

Dad and Mom exchange a look. “You had an attack,” my dad says softly.

“Your inhaler was out.”

My chest sinks. “Yeah, I remember.”

It all comes back—Glen, Faith trying to get all chummy, the Bitty Being shattering, and Rhett’s face.

Oh, God, his face. He looked so scared. So angry. But mostly scared, and not the kind of scared that actors do when a big dinosaur is about to eat them. This was different, like it hit deep, memories he’d rather forget.

Me.

I did that to him, and now he’s not here. He’s not sitting in a chair, his clothes rumpled, holding my hand, waiting for hours—days, maybe—for me to wake up. He’s not refusing food because he can’t bear to part with me for even a second. All right, that last one might be a bit melodramatic, but still . . . he isn’t here.

My stomach sinks.

“Honey,” Mom starts, “you’re usually so good about refil—”

I lift my hand, silently requesting her to stop. “I know. I’ve been keeping it refilled, I promise. I triple-promise. But lately, I just haven’t needed it as much.”

My dad’s cheeks turn red then, like he’s angry. He wipes a hand down his face. “Why didn’t you tell me Glen’s still contacting you?”

The words get knotted in my throat, and tears streak down the sides of my face, settling in my hair. “I thought . . . I thought I could handle it.”

“I told him if he ever bothers you again, he’d be hearing from my attorney.”

I blink. “What?”

“Kid, you’re our daughter,” Dad says. “I’m not going to let those people harass you . . . no matter who they are. When they walked away from you, they gave up their claim to be in your life.”

That settles in my bones. “You’re right.”

But that doesn’t mean my dad swooping in and solving everything is the best way to handle my bio-dad. I need to confront Glen on my own and let him know how I really feel.

“Are you thirsty, honey? Hungry?” Mom asks.

If my dad’s the fixer, my mom’s the feeder.

“Thirsty.”

“They dropped off some water.”

I take the plastic cup and suck on the straw. The water feels amazing going down my throat. My lungs still hurt, but not as much as they used to when I was younger.

“The doctor wants to keep you overnight,” Dad says.

“I figured. Oh, and where’s Rhett?”

“He’s in the waiting room with his sister.”

There’s a pregnant pause after that, like my parents are both thinking the same thing, but for some reason, they don’t want to say it.

So I exhale a deep breath and ask a question I have to scrape out. “Why isn’t he in here?”