Page 74 of Halo

I pace the small room as Dr. Jennifer Lin, the pediatrician on-call—and quite possibly a cheerleader on bath salts—reviews Grady's lab values.

“It's a good thing you were there, Nick—or I should say—Dad,” she says. “Another thirty seconds and … well, like I said, it's a good thing you were there.”

I nod like I'm listening, like the words aren't tearing through my chest. Like I didn't just nearly lose my world.

“He's gonna have quite the story for show-and-tell someday.” She winces. “Okay, maybe not. Sorry. That sounded a lot better in my head.” She brightens again. “My point, Nick, is I expect Grady to have just the run-of-the-mill, boring recovery—which is what we love in pediatrics.” She giggles.

I can't tell if I want to strangle her or hug her.

Luckily, she decides for us. She throws her arms around me. “Oh, Nick, I'm so honored I got to meet Grady!” She holds her hands to her chest. “A little mini Crawford.”

I nod, guiding her to the door. “Thanks, Jen, I've got some things to take care of.”

“Oh, of course! Text me if you need anything, Dad.” She wiggles her fingers as a wave.

I close the door before leaning my back against it. Letting out a heavy exhale, the gravity of the evening slowly detonates, crashing over me.

Grady is asleep for now, his chest rising evenly.

He's breathing.

He's alive.

He's okay.

But I need air. The room suddenly feels too small, the walls pressing in as my chest tightens with every shallow breath. My hands tremble as I reach for the door handle, desperate to get out, to get away, to run.

What in the actual fuck am I doing? My kid almost died because of me. I'm a goddamn doctor; one of the first questions I ask patients is if they have any allergies. I don't know if Grady knows what that means, but he knew something. He told me he didn't eat peanuts, and I should've known. As his father, I forgot to ask the one follow-up question that actually mattered. I'm furious Tiffany never told me, but Grady gave me the chance to know—and I missed it.

I stumble into the empty hallway, the sharp scent of antiseptic assaulting my senses. Dragging both hands through my hair, I let out a ragged groan before collapsing into one of the visitor chairs across from Grady's room. I rest my forearms on my knees and hang my head, finally letting the adrenaline crash over me.

“Nick!”

My head pops up to find Tatum in her scrub cap jogging toward me. I stand up, and instantly, her arms are around my shoulders.

“Jon called and told me.” She steps back, looking through the narrow window of his door. “Is he okay?”

“He's doing okay. He's still on oxygen and fluids, but his vital signs are stable.”

“Good, that's … that's good.” She slowly nods. “How are you doing? Do you need some food? Anything from the house?”

I shake my head. “I'm … I'm okay. I guess.”

She slows down, lowering her voice. “It's okay not to be okay, Nick.”

I scoff, trying to pace away, but she catches my arm, stopping me with a knowing look. I let the silence stretch between us because I don't trust myself to open my mouth without falling apart.

“His lips were blue …” I blink away, cursing under my breath. “I know he's fine now, but—”

“Don't do that,” she interrupts. “Just because he's okay doesn't mean you weren't traumatized. For several minutes, you believed you were losing your son. Your heart doesn't simply forget something like that.”

I look down at my hands, and my chest aches all over again. “It's weird; I can still feel the weight of his lifeless body in my arms.”

She slowly nods. “Yeah … that's a feeling you unfortunately never forget.”

My eyes meet hers, and I suddenly realize that I don't have to explain a thing. She knows exactly what it feels like to believe you're holding your child for the last time.

Her pager goes off. “I better get back.” She throws a thumb over her shoulder. “Are you going back in?”