"Don't I know it."
His laugh bounces around the room. "Don't you know it?"
I nod.
"You're hitting Vegas on the regular?"
"Is that really so implausible?" I take a long sip of my tea. Let out a soft moan. God, that's good. Bergamot really is a wonderful thing.
"I can't think of much that's less plausible than you at the Vegas clubs, getting wasted, bringing home some boy toy."
"That's because I'm all about roulette."
"Put it all on black?"
I wave my hand over my tank top and black jeans. "Of course."
He leans back in his chair with a knowing smile. "No fucking way."
"I have been to Vegas."
"And?"
"Well…"
"You hated it?"
"Only almost everything about it." I laugh. "Just that."
"It's not your kind of place."
"Yours?"
He shrugs. "It's was a thrill when I turned twenty-one. But the whole bar, club, hookup thing got old fast."
"You should have been putting it all on red."
"Maybe that was my problem."
I scoop another bite of my eggs. Chew. Swallow. In the light, the sparseness of Dean's apartment is more obvious. The bare walls and empty shelves are lonely. "How long have you been getting tired of your routine?"
"Awhile. But I didn't realize it until I saw you again."
"I mean that much to you?"
"I didn't think so, but yeah. You're the only woman I've ever trusted."
"You trust me?"
"Yeah."
"Even with everything with your mom?"
"I'm not gonna pretend that isn't in the back of my mind somewhere, but, yeah, I do."
"Oh." My cheeks flush. Somehow, this is more intimate than anything he's told me. It shouldn't be news—last night, he promised he'd stick around no matter what—but it is. I reach for the proper response. Find nothing. "These eggs are really good."
"Thanks."
"I didn't realize you cooked."
"I don't. I know a few things."
"So, I can cook?"
"Can?" He aches a brow. "Please. Take it off my hands. Unless you want to eat grilled cheese every night you're over here."
I stifle a laugh. "Is that really it?"
"Mac and cheese, too."
My lips spread into a smile.
"Spaghetti with broccoli and frozen meatballs. I can do that. Get veggie meatballs for you or leave them off."
"It sounds like your specialty."
He laughs. "It's… edible."
"High praise."
"I mostly do takeout."
"But you…" My eyes go to his bare torso. "You're super cut."
"And?"
"You don't get that cut eating mac and cheese."
He laughs. "I can cook chicken breast and broccoli too."
"Do you think… can I cook tonight if we come back here?"
"Sunshine, if we come back here I'm not gonna give you time to breathe much less cook."
The second I slide into my car, the wall between now and later falls.
The test is the only thing on my mind.
I turn the key, press the brake pedal, bring the car into reverse. Try to focus all my attention on pulling out of this space.
Parallel parking is the worst.
No. I can't sell that to myself. Life changing tests are a hell of a lot worse than parallel parking. Especially when they're supposed to be normal and routine.
We need to do a scan every year for five years. Just in case your cancer is back. No biggie.
I guess it's no biggie for an oncologist. They eat, breathe, sleep cancer. As awful as that is.
"What did you do about your appointments?" I pull onto tenth. Head toward the freeway.
"Rescheduled them."
"You didn't have to."
"Yeah, I did."
"What did you tell your clients?"
"That I was fucking my apprentice and we needed to work some shit out or we'd be too distracted."
My cheeks flush. He's kidding, but, God, the thought of our eleven o'clock staring at us dumbstruck, whispering so is she as kinky as she looks or what?
He is kidding.
Right?
He looks to me with a laugh. "You're so fucking cute when you blush."
"I am not."
"Yeah, you are." He takes my free hand. Intertwines my fingers with his. "I'm gonna have to keep saying stupid shit."
"Do you ever stop?"
"I think it happened once."
My laugh breaks up the tension in my shoulders, but it's short lived. By the time I turn onto the freeway, it's back.
Dean is good at distracting me, but there's nothing distracting enough to block this from my mind.
It's a routine test.
It's going to be okay.
It's not a big deal.
I repeat the words over and over, but they do nothing to make it to my brain.
Still. I need to focus enough to drive to the damn hospital. It would be the worst kind of irony if I died in a car crash on the way to a test that's going to tell me I'm perfectly healthy.
I don't believe in much, not anymore, but I do believe in the universe's love of irony.
"You are kidding, right?" I ask.
"What do you think?"
"I'm never sure with you."
"Yeah. I told them I have a cold. That I don't want to spread it."
"Oh."
"I can call back and confess the truth."
"No. I don't want anyone to know—"
"That we're fucking?"
"That I was ever sick. People look at me differently. With pity in their eyes."
"I can see that."
"I hate it." Traffic is light. Blue sky and two-story houses whiz by the windows. Picture perfect Southern California. "I hate when people tell me I must be so strong or brave to make it through that. Like it's a character fault to have a terminal illness. My mom was strong. I wasn't. I was lucky."
"Not sure I agree with that, sunshine."
"Huh?" My eyes go to him. There's pride in his expression. It's weird, but not bad. Not even a little bad.
"It takes strength to get through that."
"Maybe."
"And it was fucking brave, telling me."
My eyes go back to the road. "I told you because I was scared. Not in spite of it."
"You have a higher opinion of me than I do."
"Maybe." The tall buildings of Century City whiz by the windows. Glass and steel against the blue sky. "You haven't looked at me with pity once."
"I don't pity you."
"I know." My fingers curl into the steering wheel. "That may not mean a lot to you, but it means a hell of a lot to me."
Chapter Twenty-Six
Dean
Chloe is usually good at hiding her feelings.
Not right now.
Her fingers dig into the steering wheel. Her left foot taps the mat. Her shoulders climb to her ears.
I do my best to distract her with stupid shit—changing the radio to the Top 40 station to get her complaining about the inanity of pop music, teasing her about how much more comfortable she'd feel in sandals than combat boots, asking how she can have any color tattoos where the rest of her wardrobe is black.
For a while, it works.
The closer we get to Burbank, the farther away her thoughts are. By the time she pulls off the freeway, she's in some other place. Her eyes stay on the road, but her head stays far away.
A few turns and she pulls into the hospital's parking garage. The concrete structure drowns out the sun and the blue skies. Turns the world to a cold, grey place.
Or maybe that's my head going off someplace.
I'm not a daydreamer. Never have been. I got into art because I wanted to do ink, not the other way around. But right now…
Fuck, my thoughts are a million places.
I thought I was scared for Ryan and Leighton and their inability to figure their shit out.
That was nothing.
How the hell am I going to handle it if something does happen to her?
I looked up the statistics this morning. There's almost no chance of a relapse after a double mastectomy. But if there is a relapse…
Odds aren't good.
Chloe parks on the third level. She leans back into her seat and plays with her keys. "I guess we should go do this."
"We have a minute."
"Barely." She turns to me, her eyes heavy with concern. "I'm sure they'll make us wait forever. They always do. I just… I want to be done with this."
"I know." I undo my seatbelt and move over the center console. Until I can wrap my arms around her.
She softens under my touch. "Sorry. I… I'm freaking out."
"Don't apologize."
"You're… it's weird, you being serious."
"Isn't it?"