She takes a long sip of her coffee. "We're discussing it."
"Really?" They've been dating for ten years now. Since high school. I like Mark. He's a good guy. But he's also… well, they've been dating for ten years and he still hasn't proposed.
"You're too young," Dad says. "You should be like Chloe. Move back in to your room upstairs. Just for a few years. A decade or so."
She laughs hell no. "He wants to ask your permission."
Dad shakes his head.
"He's old-fashioned. It's sweet," she says.
"Take it into your own hands. Propose to him," I say.
"Would you really propose to a guy?" she asks.
"Sure. Why not?" I ask.
"With a ring for him or you?" She looks at me like I'm a science experiment.
"I haven't been on a date in two years—"
"What about today?" she asks.
"What about it?" I ask.
"You went out with someone." She continues staring. "You did. You're blushing."
Dammit. I am blushing.
"You did! Oh my God. You like someone." She claps her hands together. "Who?"
"I do not." I bite my tongue. Gia always believed I had a crush on Dean. I never admitted it. Even to myself. I certainly didn't tell her about our night together.
"Someone at the tattoo shop," she says.
"No."
"Yes."
Dad jumps in. "Does this guy treat you well?"
"Uh…"
"Bad answer." He shakes his head.
"It doesn't matter. He's basically my boss." If I accept his offer, he'll actually be my boss.
"Your mother was my boss," Dad says.
"That's different. No one will think a woman is sexually harassing her subordinate."
Dad's smile gets wicked.
Gross.
He looks to me. "Would I like him?"
"Maybe…"
Gia laughs. "Chloe is finally hitting her rebellious phase." She looks at my black tank top. The tattoo on my shoulder. The short haircut. "Well. With guys." She smiles knowingly. "Is he all inked up?"
For a tattoo artist, Dean is pretty light on the ink. But for a normal guy? "Of course."
"Oooh. Hot." She makes a show of fanning herself. "Is he hot?"
"He's attractive, yes."
"Let's see. I can't believe I haven't done this." She pulls out her phone. Taps the screen a few times.
I move around the table.
Shit.
She's looking at the shop's Instagram.
The first few pictures are finished tattoos. But then—
"Oh my God." Her hand goes to her mouth. Her eyes go wide. "That's Dean."
"Is it?" I play dumb.
"Why didn't you tell me?"
"It didn't come up," I lie.
"You still like him?"
"It's not a still. I didn't spend the last seven years thinking about him."
"I can't believe… Oh my God. You do."
"Who's Dean?" Dad jumps in.
"This guy from our high school," she says. "He was… "
I find a euphemism. "Casual with his body."
"Huh?" Dad's brow furrows with confusion.
"He was a slut," Gia says.
"So?" Dad asks.
"Oh my God, Dad. You're supposed to warn us about guys like that!" Gia says.
Dad shakes his head kids these days. He looks to me. "Go ahead and make dinner, Chloe. If Gia doesn't want to eat it, she can order pizza for herself." He looks to her. "I thought you said you were on a diet?"
"It's my cheat day. I don't want to waste it on veggie stir fry."
Dad shakes his head. Ridiculous. He stands. Moves to the mail slot by the door—it's close. Our living room/den is a small space. The TV and couch on one end, the dining table in the middle, opposite the door, the kitchen on the other end.
He grabs something from the slot and brings it to me.
A letter from the hospital.
I don't have to open it. I know what it is. An appointment reminder.
Every year, for the next five years, I need a scan. To make sure I'm still cancer free. The odds are good. But not good enough for me to skip the scan.
I shove the letter into my back pocket.
Fighting my frown is useless. I know the reality of the situation. I know there's almost no chance I'm still sick.
But the thought still steals my oxygen.
It still makes the room dark and ugly.
I can't go through that again. And neither can Dad and Gia. It was like they disappeared with me. And watching them hurt… that was the worst part.
"I can take off work. Come with you," he offers.
I shake my head. "I'll be fine. Really." The words feel hollow. Empty. I'm already a nervous wreck and it's three weeks away. That day…
I'm not sure how I'm going to make it.
But if I am sick, if I am disappearing again…
I don't want them to know.
Not for a while at least.
I plant a kiss on my dad's forehead, I move into the kitchen, and I start chopping vegetables. By the time I have them sizzling in the pan, I feel better. Calm. Centered. In control.
Like I can survive this.
Even if I can't.
Chapter Fourteen
Chloe
I let my sister pick the movie. Focus all my attention on stirring sriracha into my bowl. Usually, I avoid the omnipresent condiment. It steals the flavor of the food. Makes everything taste like vaguely spicy ketchup.
But, right now, that's what I need.
I can't taste anything.
I can't concentrate on the weepy tearjerker.
I can't keep up with Dad and Gia's conversation—something about the director's latest movie.
For two hours, I sit with my family, with every ounce of my attention elsewhere. After the credits roll, Dad and Gia move to the kitchen for coffee. I decline. Head upstairs. Lock myself in my room.
Except for the moonlight streaming through the window, it's dark.
I leave the light off.
Pull the letter from my pocket. Tear it open.
I can just barely make out the words. It's a simple appointment reminder. Doctor's name. Time. Date.
The paper behind it goes into the test. An MRI. No jewelry. Expect an hour. Arrive early for paperwork.
Nothing about the possibility of life changing forever.
I fold the paper on my desk. Slide into my cheap Ikea rolling chair. My salary is good for an apprentice—most shops pay nothing or a tiny per diem—but it's still going to take me forever to upgrade my furniture. Moving into my own place is a pipe dream.
My eyes go to my alarm clock. The same one I used all through high school.
The time is there in red numbers.
Ten thirty.
An hour and a half until my deadline.
Dean wants to teach me. Exclusively.
I want to learn.
He may not be the best artist at the shop, but he's the only one really trying to mentor me.
He's my best chance to master ink.
And well…
I might not have a lot of time for that.
For anything.
Even if I'm okay…
I'm probably okay.
The odds are good. I repeat the words over and over, but they don't stick in my brain.
I say it again anyway.
I'm probably okay.
I probably have a long, healthy life ahead of me.
But I'm tired of wasting time.
This is what I want.
I'm taking it.
I pull out my cell and text Dean.
Chloe: I'm in.
My heart thuds against my chest. My face flushes. My toes tingle. He can still change his mind. Back out. Find a way to get me fired.
I can still lose this.
And I can't lose this.
My phone buzzes with a new message.
Dean: Damn. Right down to the wire.
Chloe: Almost ninety minutes.
Dean: Even so.
Chloe: I had to weigh my options.
Dean: Smart.
Chloe: I try.
My palms get slick with sweat. My phone slips. Lands on my desk with a soft thunk. It drowns out the sounds of conversation downstairs. The drip, drip, drip of the coffee maker. The low murmur of the TV.
My stomach twists. Because of Dean or the test or the thought of losing everything again, I don't know.
I'm so tired of missing out on life.
On losing what I want.
It needs to change.
I need to change.
Chloe: What are we doing next Saturday?
Dean: Haven't worked that out yet.
Chloe: Will I need a swimsuit?
Dean: You might.
Chloe: Noted.
Dean: You own something besides that lap suit?
Chloe: Yeah.
Dean: Go on.
Chloe: I own bikinis. I just thought the lap suit would be more comfortable.
Dean: Was it?
Chloe: In some ways. Where are you?
Dean: Home.
Chloe: Alone?
Dean: Is this a booty call?
My fingers move of their own accord.