“What makes you think I have?” His eyes met mine, and I saw it there, the pain he kept meticulously concealed. How deep was it? How much damage had been done to him through the years?
Beckett Gentry knew almost everything there was to know about me, and yet I knew nothing about him. Was it because I hadn’t asked? Because I was so consumed with Maisie? With Colt? Because I secretly didn’t want to know?
“Sometimes I think I don’t really know you,” I said softly.
A corner of his mouth lifted in a wry half smile. “You might not know much about my past, but trust me, you know me, and that’s more important.”
Before I could question him any further, the door opened, and Dr. Hughes stepped in. She had on jeans and a blouse with her standard white coat.
“Hey, Ella.”
“Dr. Hughes.” Her name came out as the rush of relief it was.
“How’s it going?” She picked up the chart at the end of the bed.
“We’re waiting for the meds to work, or not work.” For Maisie’s organs to shut down or not. For her to live or die.
“Ah, and you wait so well,” she said with raised eyebrows.
“Guilty,” I answered.
She looked at Beckett and then our connected hands.
“Ah, this is Beckett Gentry,” I said, slipping my hand free and patting his shoulder. Lame. “He’s…” Holy shit, what was he? How did I introduce him? He wasn’t my boyfriend. The guy wouldn’t even kiss me, even though he was pretty much around twenty-four seven.
“I’m her late brother’s best friend,” he explained as he stood, offering his hand. “I understand you’re Maisie’s neuroblastoma specialist. She loves you.”
Dr. Hughes shook his hand and smiled. “Well, I’m certainly glad to hear that. Maisie is a favorite of mine. And I’m pleased to meet you, Mr. Gentry. Ella has definitely needed some support. I’m glad to see she’s getting it.”
“I’ll be here as long as she needs me.” He answered the question she didn’t ask, and her eyes went soft.
Another one bites the dust.
Then we got down to business. She asked a few questions and checked Maisie’s chart for the latest labs, her brows knitting together at times as she read everything over. She listened to her breathing, checked out her IVs, and watched her pressure.
“How worried do I need to be?” I asked, knowing she wouldn’t bullshit me.
Her sigh was deep, and she flipped through the chart again. “I don’t know, and I can’t say until we see how she reacts to the meds. I can tell you that she’s way better off than she would have been in a few hours. You saved her life.”
“Colt did,” I said softly.
“Those two.” She lightly chuckled. “One soul split between two bodies.”
“He said he’d heard her crying in his dream,” Beckett said. “He woke up and went into her room and found her burning up.”
My head snapped toward his, wondering when Colt had— While you were in the truck. When he’d talked to Colt on the porch. The gratitude I felt toward Beckett for his connection with Colt was tempered a little with jealousy that he knew my son in a way I didn’t.
Because Beckett was around more than I was.
“What’s next?” I asked, needing to look past this.
“It will take a few hours, but once we’re certain the meds work—”
“Not with this. With the treatments. Looking forward and all that.” I didn’t want to think about what I couldn’t control. I wanted to focus on what I could. What to research next, to prepare her for. That, I could handle.
Dr. Hughes nodded, like she understood, and then sat in the last empty chair in the room, leaning forward on the small table. “We were supposed to meet next week,” she said.
“Right.”
“You sure you want to do this now?”
I glanced at my little girl fighting a battle I couldn’t pick up a sword for, and instead chose another front. “I am.”
“That last round of chemo didn’t move her levels like we were hoping.”
Having the tumor gone was all well and good, but if her bone marrow was still overwhelmingly cancerous, another one would grow. We’d cut off the top of the tree, but the roots were still alive and fighting.
“Is she developing a resistance to the chemo?”
Beckett’s hand found mine again, and I gripped. Hard.
“It’s a possibility. We’d discussed the MIBG treatment, and I think it’s our best bet.” She leaned down and pulled a pamphlet out of her purse, putting it on the table. “I got you some information on a trial.” She looked over at Beckett, and I knew exactly why.
“You can talk about it in front of him. It’s fine.” Up until now, the only people who knew what my finances looked like were Ada and Dr. Hughes. And probably the cell phone company that had gotten used to me perpetually paying a month late.
“The trial will cover certain aspects, but not everything, and the only hospital in Colorado with the facilities to do this is Colorado Children’s.” She gave me a knowing look.
The cost was astronomical, and I had no way of covering it in cash. But I’d think about that later. “Submit the paperwork, and let’s get her in.”
“Okay. It needs to be soon.”
“Doesn’t everything?”
…
“Tell me about the MIBG,” Beckett asked seven hours later as we ate dinner in the small cafeteria. Maisie slept upstairs, her pressure hovering, her temp fevered.
She’d woken up once and asked to use the bathroom, which just about made me cry in relief. Her kidneys were still functioning.
I pushed the bland excuse for fried chicken to the side of my plate. Why was all hospital food bland? Because they needed it to be gentle on stomachs? Or maybe I was wrong, and it wasn’t, but I was too numb to really taste it.
Maybe all hospital food was really good, and we were just too preoccupied to ever notice.
“Ella,” Beckett said gently, pulling me from my thoughts. “The MIBG?”
“Right. It’s a relatively new treatment for neuroblastoma that attaches the chemo to the radiation that targets the tumor itself. It’s pretty amazing stuff, and they can do it in only eighteen hospitals across the country, one of which happens to be in Denver.”
“That’s incredible. The same hospital where Maisie had her surgery?”
“The same.” I poked at my mashed potatoes, dropping my jaw when Beckett shoved in forkful after forkful. “How do you eat that?”
“Spend a decade in the army. You’d be amazed at what sounds great for dinner.”
And there was some perspective that had me reaching for my fork.
“Any drawbacks to the MIBG?”
“The trial isn’t covered by my insurance.” And there it was, the entrance to the nightmare that was my finances.
“You’re kidding me.” He blinked a couple times, like he expected me to change my answer. “Tell me you’re kidding, Ella.”
“I’m not.” I took a bite of my chicken, knowing I needed the calories, no matter where they came from.
“So what do we do?” Two lines appeared right above his nose as he leaned forward.
“The same thing I’ve been doing. Figure it out. Pay for it.” I shrugged, pausing as I took another bite when I realized what he’d said. What do we do? We. Not you. We. I managed to swallow before I looked like an idiot with a chicken leg stuck in my face.
“What do you mean, the same thing you’ve been doing? How much haven’t they covered?” His tone was calm and even but a little frightening for the intensity.
I shrugged and reached for a roll.
“I’m trying really hard not to lose it, so if you’d answer, that would really help me out.”
I dragged my eyes from the roll, up his chest, to the vein bulging in his neck—yep, he was ticked—to his eyes. “A lot. They haven’t covered a lot.”
“Why haven’t you said anything?”
“Because it’s none of your business!”
He jerked back like I’d slapped him.
“Sorry, but it’s not.” I softened my tone as much as possible. “And what would I say? Hey, Beckett, did you know that I gambled my kids’ health last year? That my insurance plan doesn’t cover half of what Maisie needs? That I’ve blown through Ryan’s life insurance keeping my kid alive?”
“Yeah, you could start by saying that.” He raked his hand over his hair, clasping his hands at the top of his head. “Start by saying something. How much trouble are you in?”