“I guess not.”
“Do you want me to show you how sexy you are?” Ryan put a cool hand on either side of my face, leaned in, and kissed me until I relaxed out of my defensive ball. He erased my doubts with his lips and didn’t stop until every thought but him had faded from my mind.
“There’s no rush,” he breathed against my collarbone, “but believe me, I want you.”
But when he was gone—insisting this didn’t count as a date and he wanted a raincheck—Mia-the-teenager vanished with him. I was back to leukemia-Mia, complete with her chemotherapy accessories: an IV pole, portacath, and barf bucket.
Chapter 26
Ryan was more nervous about my tubes than Gyver had been. “Does that hurt?” He pointed to my port with a horrified expression.
I adjusted my pajama top self-consciously and tugged my necklace. “Not much. They have cream that numbs it before they stick needles in.”
He looked green. “What’s that?” he asked each time something was hung on my IV pole.
“Fluids.” “Platelets.” “Nutrients.”
“And in there?” He pointed to the separate pole with its gray box and dials.
“That’s the chemo.”
It didn’t take days for the nausea to catch me this time around. When they’d administered the first dose yesterday, I’d been sick within an hour.
“Can you explain it again—sorry—but they killed the cancer already, right?” It was a parody of “One of the These Things is Not Like the Other”—healthy, tan Ryan in my sterile hospital room with my stress-scruffy parents and chemo-weakened me.
I nodded; the motion made me queasy.
“Then why do you need more chemo?” He moved his chair closer and touched my cheek—a baby step that made me feel astronomically better.
Mary Poppins Nurse answered Ryan’s question. “This is called consolidation therapy. We’re giving Mia three days of chemo—this is day two—to make sure she stays in remission. We’ll do this about every six weeks for six months.”
“But she seems sicker.”
“It’s not the cancer, it’s the treatment,” the nurse explained.
“The treatment makes her sicker?”
“Chemo’s rough, but I bet Mia’s glad you’re here.” They looked to me for agreement.
“You should leave the room,” I whispered.
“Why?” He looked around, confused.
“I’m—” I fought a wave of bitter saliva. “I’m going to be sick.”
Ryan stiffened—fight or flight battling on his face.
Tears filled my eyes, the weak tears of knowing I was about to throw up, knowing I’d feel better afterward but I’d feel worse during. “Go,” I said through my teeth.
Mom sighed and reached for the curved basin on the bedside table. She was angry I’d told Lauren, and while I wasn’t officially getting the silent treatment, her I-need-some-quiet-to-think-about-what-you’ve-done was pretty darn close.
Ryan looked at me again; his face was as pale as mine felt. “Sorry,” he whispered as he fled.
Dad walked into the room at the end of my performance, carrying the ginger ale I’d sent him to fetch. “Oh, kiddo.”
I wanted to tell him to go find Ryan so I could say I was sorry and embarrassed; I just didn’t have the strength. Was it a sign? If he couldn’t handle vomit without running, he couldn’t handle this? I looked at my horseshoe above the door and traced the shape with my eyes.
Mom left instead, handing the basin to Mary Poppins Nurse on her way and pausing to ask, “Are you done or should I send Ryan on an errand?”
“Done,” I croaked.
Dad handed me a tissue. I wiped my face and eyes and blew my nose. Then forced down a sip of ginger ale as Ryan returned—looking more flustered and terrified than when he’d left.
“Sorry,” we said at the same time. My voice a gravelly whisper, his a guilty confession.
Ryan lifted my fingers to his lips. “I shouldn’t have freaked. I’ve seen Matherson do worse after too many beers. I’ll do better next time. Promise.”
Lauren visited too, bringing “movies and manicures, just like I promised,” but her fidgeting made me nervous. I kept waiting for her to snag an IV line or trip when she flitted around the tight confines of my hospital room.
Not that it wasn’t good to see her. I was glad to hear news about school and the squad; relieved to hear Lauren had covered for me. “I told them you were too sick and contagious for visitors and implied you were puking your guts out.” She learned the irony of this statement when she uncapped the nail polish and the scent had me groping for a basin.
Lauren left the room while I vomited, but managed a tight smile when she returned. “So, no nails. Got it.”
“Sorry.”
“Movie time? I brought Logan Lerman.”
I vaguely remember watching previews before I fell into another one of my break-from-nausea naps.
Gyver called that night. “Can I visit tomorrow?”