behind the camera - fake dating sports romance (wlw)

Chapter Thirty-Four

HARPER

The storm was always going to catch up to me.

I just didn't think it would sound so quiet when it did.

"I'm sorry, Miss Lane—"

It's the third time she's said my name. I should respond, I know that. But my mouth won't open. My throat is locked. My chest—god, it hurts. The phone feels slippery in my hand.

"We have to move quickly," the doctor says gently. "Your mother's numbers have dropped. We need to schedule surgery. Her lungs can't take much more."

Surgery.

I press my hand to my stomach like I can hold myself together from the inside. "How much?" My voice barely makes it out. It sounds like it belongs to someone else.
There's a pause. A number. I don't even catch the first half of it before I laugh—sharp and ugly. Where the fuck do you want me to pull that kind of money from? You want me to slice it out of my own body? Sell my bones?

"Miss Lane—Harper—are you still—"

I end the call. Just hang up. I don't mean to. But it's that or scream and I can't scream, not here, not in Millie's apartment. Not in the only place that's felt safe in months.
I sit down on the floor before my legs give out and fold forward, forehead to knees. My hands are shaking so hard I can't hold my phone anymore. It clatters to the hardwood and I don't move. I can't.

There's a buzz at the edges of my hearing. High and sharp, like feedback. It's inside me. I think I'm going to pass out. Or throw up. Or both. I don't hear her footsteps. I only know she's there when Millie drops to her knees in front of me and says my name.

"Harper. Hey. Hey, look at me."

I can't. I squeeze my eyes shut tighter. I feel her hands hover like she's scared I'll break. Maybe I will.

"I can't—I can't—I don't know what to do," I choke, and the tears come hard, from somewhere deep and cracked open. "She's dying and they need this surgery and it costs—god, it costs so much. I don't—" My voice breaks again. "I don't have it. I'm trying, Millie, I swear to god I'm trying, but it's not enough."

"Oh, baby." She says it like it hurts her to say. Like the word comes from her chest. Her arms come around me without hesitation, and I fall into her like a wave crashing into the shore.

She holds me while I fall apart. While the sob rips up through my ribs and makes me double over. While I cling to her like I might disappear if I let go. Her hand cradles the back of my head, her other arm locked around my waist, grounding me with her body and her breath and her terrifying steadiness.

I gasp, but there's no air in my lungs. Just panic and shame and the numbers I can't unhear. She doesn't flinch. She rocks me gently, chest rising and falling in rhythm against mine, like I can borrow her breath until I remember how to take my own.

"It's okay," she whispers into my hair, voice shaking. "I've got you, love. Just breathe. One breath at a time."

It's not okay. But I nod against her anyway.

It takes a long time for my breathing to settle. Maybe minutes. Maybe hours. The panic never leaves—it's sitting under my skin like static—but it's quieter now. Caged. Contained. Not winning.

Not while she's touching me like this. Her fingers trace small, slow circles into my back. Her cheek is warm against my temple. She hasn't let me go, not even a little.

"I'm sorry," I whisper. My voice is wrecked, thick and cracked and small.

She leans back just enough to look at me. Her face is soft and stern at once. "Don't you dare."