“Over spaghetti and garlic bread?” I mock.
“Talk to me.” He reaches for me, leaving only a few inches between us. His palm cradles my head, allowing me a second to refuse. He waits for an answer, his eyes holding mine. “You are so beautiful,” he whispers. I shake my head, but his lips are already on mine. They are gentle and kind and everything I can’t have. I lift my hand, ready to push him away, but he grasps my fingers in his, holding them between us like a precious child. When he deepens the kiss, I can’t help the moan. I return the kiss, tired of fighting him and my feelings. My other hand sneaks around his back, bunching his white coat into my fingers.
He trails kisses down my cheek and over my throat. Pulling me in tighter than I have ever been before, his hands caress my back, lingering over my hip. My head falls to the side, his touch holding me close. I fist one hand into his hair when he gently pulls the tail of my shirt out of my pants and touches my bare skin. His hand slowly crawls up my back, beneath my bra strap, his thumb caressing the side of my breast.
“David,” I murmur, the sound so low I wonder if I said the word aloud.
“Give us a chance,” he says, whispering in my ear. His lips find mine again, more gently, both of us holding on as tightly as we can.
His words are the reminder I need. Pushing him away, I straighten my clothes, avoiding his eyes. “I can’t,” I try, pleading with him to understand.
“Why?” He reaches for me again but I sidestep him, moving to the other side of his office.
“You don’t know me.” I will myself to end this now. Because in the last few weeks I have come to look forward to the time we spend together and I can’t afford that vulnerability. “We could never work.” That’s a lie and we both know it. Whenever we grabbed dinner together at the hospital, time flew by. Any silence between us was comfortable.
“I know you are an incredibly talented photographer,” he says, dismissing my argument easily. “I know that you can make sick kids laugh even as they are lost in their illnesses.” He takes a step toward me, reaching out to brush my hair. I step back, out of reach. We play a chess game without a king. “I know your mom told me you would never come home, but I’m damn glad you did.”
Some instances in life create a bread trail to a moment that alters everything. It is impossible to imagine the crumbs or pay much notice to them. Only in retrospect do you stop and wonder how you missed the obvious signs. When I met David, our eyes mirrored the mutual attraction. Spending time with him, that has only deepened. Yet it can’t be more than a passing entanglement. Another loss from never having learned how to win.
“When you have a patient come in with symptoms of cancer, what do you do?” I ask, desperate to get through. “Run tests?”
His confusion is clear at the change of topic, but nonetheless he answers the question. “Of course. Conduct a full physical history, take blood, order further tests if necessary.”
“And once the diagnosis comes in?” I need him to understand. It is the first time it has mattered to me. “You determine the stage of cancer?”
“Yes.” His gaze holds mine, unwavering. “We hope it’s the first stage so they have a fighting chance, but obviously patients can be in the later stages.”
“Can you heal them?” I have attempted to recover. Taken whatever steps necessary—read the books, visited a therapist. But like a landslide, the memories bury me, diminishing any hopes of survival. “Those in advanced stages?”
“We try and hope, but no, not always.” He is patient, waiting for an explanation.
“What do you tell them then?” I had a therapist once describe me as broken. Said the solution was to put myself back together. I asked her how that was possible when there were pieces of me my father had taken and never returned.