The Girl in the Love Song (Lost Boys #1)(12)

“Someone help!”

The night was dark and swallowed my scream. I rocked in helpless desperation, feeling around my pockets for a cell phone I was sure I’d left upstairs.

It was in my back pocket.

“Oh, thank God.” My hands trembled as I dialed 9-1-1. “Hold on, Miller. Please. Hold on…”





They say your entire life flashes before your eyes when you’re about to die, but they don’t tell you that it also flashes when someone you truly care about might die, too. Like a movie on fast forward, I saw Miller’s funeral, the first day of school and me crying all day, sitting in my room alone…

It’s now two in the morning and I just got back from the hospital.

Yesterday, Miller drank a huge Gatorade like a frat boy chugging beer on a dare.

Tonight, he passed out in my yard while sucking down water from our garden hose as if he were trying to drown himself in it.

I called 9-1-1, and then Mom was screeching down at me from my bedroom window, and Dad was running around from the backyard. The firetrucks showed up, EMTs, and everyone was asking me what was going on. All the while, Miller lay in my lap, hardly breathing, not moving, his face pale as death.

They wouldn’t let me go in the ambulance with him, and since I had no way to contact his mom, he rode alone. He was all alone. On the way to the hospital, my parents grilled me about why Miller was outside my bedroom window late at night, and did this happen frequently, and just what the hell was going on?

And because my parents were my parents, they started screaming at each other that no one had been paying attention so now the “lawn boy” was sneaking into my room every night.

Good. Let them fight like assholes, because at least then they weren’t asking me about Miller.

But at the hospital, the cops asked. The doctors, a social worker… They all wanted to know about him so they could contact his parents while he was rushed into the ICU for who-knew-what treatment. Did he have a stroke? An aneurism? No one would tell me anything.

Crying until I could hardly see straight, I told them what I knew. That Miller’s mom, Lois Stratton, worked at the 24-hour diner on 5th during the day. I said she worked nights too, but Miller hadn’t told me where. That was mostly true, at least.

Where did he live? Address?

I cried harder as I told them he didn’t have one. I didn’t want to break my promise, but a part of me was relieved. Like maybe now, someone would help them.

I held a little bit of hope we could keep the kids at school from hearing about it, but one of the police officers was Mitch Dowd, Frankie’s dad. He would tell Frankie, and Frankie would blab it everywhere, riding around on his skateboard like he was Paul Revere.

In the waiting room, I silently told Miller I was sorry, but he could be mad at me all he wanted if only he’d wake up and be okay.

After what felt like years of terrified waiting, they finally told us. Type 1 or juvenile diabetes. Miller’s blood sugar levels nearly topped six hundred milligrams, and the term ‘diabetic hyperosmolar syndrome’ was floated by one of the doctors. I’d heard of diabetes, of course, but had no idea what the rest meant, except that he’d nearly died.

The doctors said Miller was stable. The police said they’d find his mom. There was nothing left to do but go home.

In the car, my parents were too tired to do more than snipe at one another, and they sent me to bed with the promise that “We’ll talk about this in the morning.”

But no sooner had I shut the door than they started up again, blaming each other for not knowing what was going on under their own roof.

I hate them.

I love Miller.

I’m saying it now for the first time, writing it down in black and white, because it’s absolutely true. I’ve never felt like this before. Like my body and all my senses are lit up, but I’m scared too. I’m sure he doesn’t feel the same. Why would he? I’m the geeky, annoying girl who meddles in his business. He’s always saying so. But we’re friends. He’s my best friend. My soulmate, if a soulmate is the person you can’t live without. The person you’d do anything to keep safe and happy.

That’s what I know for sure. I can’t lose him again, and the more pressure you add to two people, the more crushed they became under the weight. Just look at my parents. They were best friends once too.

I’m not going to mess things up by adding more to us. But I can take care of him and make sure he’s safe.

That’s how I’ll keep him forever.





iv





That’s when I knew I’d love her forever.

The doctors left. They explained my diagnosis, and the weight of it sank into me, pressing me down. For the rest of my life, I’d have to watch what I ate and drink as if I were on Weight Watchers, constantly measuring and counting carbs and grams of sugar to keep my numbers stable. Exercise is good, they said, but I have to be careful about exerting myself or I could go blind, lose a foot, or fall into a coma and die like Julia Roberts did in Mom’s favorite movie. A ball and chain of rules and diets and restrictions, needles and pills that I’d have to carry across a tightrope without a net, for the rest of my life.

Then Violet stepped into my hospital room, dressed in a yellow T-shirt and jean shorts. Her shiny black hair is in a messy ponytail and her dark blue eyes behind her glasses are filled with worry and care. For me.