Page 115 of Crossing the Line

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My heart started thumping wildly in my chest. I could feel my pulse in my temples.

“Grace, are you okay?” the doctor asked. “Try to take a deep breath.”

I tried to follow her instructions, but instead, I blurted out, “If I don’t ever get full strength back in my hand…” I couldn’t even finish the sentence.

My head fell into my hand, and I started to cry.

Last night, after I’d gotten home from my epic passing-out episode, Dad had pretty much confirmed what Heidi was trying to tell me yesterday. While I might improve some more, I would never get 100 percent of my strength back.

I was young, and I had that going for me, to maybe get 50 percent of my strength back. But, with the amount of damage and the rate of my progress, it wasn’t looking good. The MEPS doctor had reviewed my medical records and determined I’d most likely never recover enough to qualify for basic. Dr. Vasquez placed her hand on my back and handed me a tissue.

“Thank you,” I managed to choke out.

“My recommendation, Grace,” Dr. Vasquez’s voice pulled me out of my mental tirade, “is to talk to someone about everything you have going on.”

“Like a counselor?” Great—one more thing I needed to worry about.

“Talking with a professional could be extremely helpful. Don’t fight this alone. It’s important to remember that even the strong need help sometimes.”

“Won’t a psychiatrist or a counselor just try and throw medicine at me?”

“No. At least, not in most cases. Medication can be prescribed by a psychiatrist, but that will be a decision you make with them and your parents. I believe you are experiencing situational anxiety, which is leading to or triggering anxiety and panic attacks. There are several ways to work on treating your anxiety. Everything from breathing exercises to cognitive behavior therapy. Just know, the best course of action, no matter how daunting, is to address it head on, or it can manifest and get worse, okay?”

“Yes, ma’am.” I nodded, easing toward the edge of the exam table.

“You’re an excellent runner, Grace, but you can’t run from your pain. That’s a race you’ll never win.”

Wow. That was profound. It stung like a bitch, but it was profound. Running from pain. From…grief.

Emmett.

Dr. Vasquez eyed me for several seconds before grabbing a pad of paper and scribbling something down. “Here are the names of a few psychiatrists and counselors in town or nearby that I recommend.” She tore off the slip of paper and handed it to me.

“Thanks.” I took it and shoved it in my back pocket.

I found my way out to the lobby, then pushed open the door to head out to my car.

“Whoa!” Preach jumped to the side. The door narrowly missed smacking him in the face. He stumbled down the curb, spun, and planted his foot. Somehow he stayed upright.

“Grace?” Preach’s eyes went wide and he hopped up the curb and stopped before me. “I saw your car here, but you weren’t in the PT clinic.”

“What are you doing here?”

“Looking for you. You won’t answer my texts, and you weren’t in school today.”

“Preach, I—I—I—can’t do this.”

“Gracie, please.”

I blinked back a fresh round of tears. “I can’t. I’m done. Done with everything.”

And I was…I really was.

No Preach.

No Air Force.

No more honoring Emmett.


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