“How was the game?” Mom put down her magazine and pulled off her reading glasses.
“Good.” I preempted her questions. “And I feel fine, I don’t have a temp, I didn’t get too cold, and I took my meds.”
“Good girl.” Mom’s smile was sugary.
My father cleared his throat. “Is Ryan here? I didn’t hear a car leave.”
“We’re going to watch some TV.” I prayed they wouldn’t decide to go downstairs and greet him in their pajamas. Dad’s had “For Sale” signs all over them.
“Don’t stay up too late. You’ve got a tough week ahead of you,” Dad cautioned.
“Not long. I promise.” I upped the wattage on my obedient-daughter smile.
“Tell Ryan we say hi. Sweet dreams.”
When I came downstairs, I expected Ryan to be putting his hands all over me, like he’d always been at parties last spring, but he wasn’t. He placed an arm around my shoulders and turned on SNL reruns. It would’ve been vindicating to know Hil was wrong if I wasn’t panicked about why.
Was it Ryan who’d changed, or me? This seemed like the most important question in the world. Like I couldn’t breathe until I’d heard his answer. “Do you, you know, want me? Even though I’m sick?”
“What?” He muted the TV and turned to me.
I stumbled over the words. “Now that you know. Do you still want me that way?”
“Mia, I’m eighteen. You’re seriously hot. If your parents weren’t upstairs …” He rested his hand on the back of the couch and leaned in. “I’d still go for it if I thought you wanted to. Do you?”
“It’s not that simple. Leukemia’s not a pretty disease. I’m probably going to lose my hair.” I tucked my knees under my chin and played with the fringe on a throw pillow.
“If I shaved my head would you like me less?” He ran his fingers across his hair then placed his hand on my arm.
“No, but it’s different.” I leaned my cheek against his hand and wanted to believe him.
“Maybe. Or maybe you’ll be faster getting ready and I won’t have to make small talk with your dad. Do we have to worry about it now?” He shrugged and moved closer on the couch.
“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.