Chapter 32
Chapter Thirty-Two
Colton
Iknow before I open the chart.
It’s not the numbers yet. It’s the way Frank is watching me. It’s not casually, not with his usual humor, sharpened just enough to make a point. He’s quiet today, eyes alert in a way that feels intentional, like he’s already braced himself for what I’m about to say.
He’s sitting upright in bed, pillows stacked behind him, shoulders more pronounced than they should be.
His wife, Diane, is perched on the edge beside him, one hand wrapped around his forearm.
She looks tired. Not the kind of tired sleep fixes either.
It’s the kind that settles in when you’ve been paying attention too long.
“Morning, Doc,” Frank says. “You look like you didn’t sleep.”
“I slept,” I say, setting the tablet down on the counter.
He snorts. “That bad, huh?”
I don’t answer right away. I glance at Melissa instead, who’s standing near the IV pole, her expression neutral but her posture attentive. She’s already clocked the shift in energy—the way I’m moving more deliberately than usual.
“How’re you feeling today?” I ask Frank.
He shrugs. “Like shit, but creatively.”
Diane rolls her eyes. “He’s been workshopping jokes since six a.m.”
“Can’t waste good material,” Frank says. “You never know when it’s your last audience.”
Melissa stiffens almost imperceptibly.
“Frank,” Diane murmurs.
“What?” he says mildly. “We’ve established I don’t do denial.”
I pull up his labs, scrolling carefully, slower than I need to. I already know what they say. I’ve known since they posted overnight.
“This isn’t my favorite set of numbers,” I say finally.
Frank hums. “That’s a no.”
“That’s a we need to talk about what comes next,” I correct.
He nods, unbothered. “There it is.”
Diane squeezes his arm, her smile still there but thinner now. “What does that mean exactly?”
“It means the treatment isn’t having the response we hoped for,” I say. “We can adjust, but …”
“But my body’s tired,” Frank finishes for me. “Yeah, I know.”
The room goes quiet.
Melissa steps closer, glancing at the chart, then back at Frank. “Are you more uncomfortable today?”
“More tired,” he says. “Different thing.”
“That matters,” she replies gently.
He smiles at her. “See? That’s why I like you.”
She gives a small smile back, but I catch the flicker of worry in her eyes. She’s seen this before. She’s seen the slow shift from fighting to acknowledging.
Frank looks at me again, more serious now. “You going to keep swinging, or are we nearing the quality-of-life speech?”
I don’t flinch. “We’re not there yet.”
“But we’re closer.”
“Yes.”
He nods. “Good. I appreciate honesty.”
Diane exhales slowly. “You always do.”
Frank glances at her, then back at me. “So, what’s the plan, Doc?”
“The plan is to keep monitoring closely,” I say. “We’ll reassess dosing. Possibly imaging sooner than scheduled.”
“And if that doesn’t change anything?”
I meet his gaze. “Then we talk.”
He studies my face for a long moment, then grins. “You’re doing that thing again.”
I frown. “What thing?”
“The caring-too-much thing,” he says. “It’s obvious.”
Diane laughs softly. “He noticed weeks ago.”
Melissa shifts uncomfortably. “Frank …”
“Oh, relax.” He waves her off. “I’m not accusing him of anything inappropriate. I’m saying he gives a damn.”
I cross my arms. “You don’t get to psychoanalyze your oncologist.”
“I absolutely do,” he replies. “I’m paying you.”
That earns a faint smile from Melissa despite herself.
Frank looks between the two of us, eyes sharp. “You two are exhausting, by the way.”
Melissa blinks. “Excuse me?”
“You think I don’t see it?” he says. “The hovering. The synchronized concern. The way you both tense when the other does.”
I clear my throat.
“Relax,” he interrupts. “I’m dying, not blind.”
Diane shakes her head, amused. “He told me the same thing. Said he knew we were getting engaged before I did.”
“Never wrong,” Frank says proudly.
I sigh. “This isn’t about us.”
“No,” he agrees. “But you are both here, and that’s not nothing.” He looks back at me, expression softening. “You’re doing everything you can.”
“I need to do more,” I say.
“That’s the problem,” he replies gently. “You don’t know how to stop.”
Diane stands, smoothing the blanket over Frank’s legs. “We trust you,” she says to me quietly. “Both of us.”
I nod once. “I’ll be back later.”
Frank grins. “I’ll be right here. Try not to brood too much.”
“No promises.”
Later in my office, I sit at my desk and open my laptop. I tell myself I’ll simply take another look. That’s the lie I start with.
One more pass through Frank’s labs. One more review of his scans. One more hour, tops. Just enough to make sure there isn’t something small I overlooked this morning because I was distracted or tired or too emotionally close to the case.
I’ve learned to distrust myself when it comes to patients like Frank.
The hospital empties out around me without my noticing. Shift change comes and goes. The overhead lights dim slightly, the halls settling into that hollow quiet that only exists late at night. I shut my office door and spread Frank’s file across the desk like I’m laying out a body for examination.
Labs first.
I scroll slowly, deliberately, forcing myself not to skim. White count. Hemoglobin. Platelets. Inflammatory markers. I compare today’s numbers to last week’s, then the week before that.
Down.
Still down.
Worse than yesterday.
I pull up imaging next, enlarging the scans, studying them like if I stare long enough, the answers might rearrange themselves into good news.
They don’t.
I jot notes anyway. Not because they’re useful, but because stopping feels worse. I cross-reference treatment protocols, reopen studies I already know by heart, scan through clinical trials that Frank doesn’t qualify for and never will.
I tell myself I’m being thorough, but what I’m really doing is bargaining. If I find something, anything, I don’t have to accept what this means yet.
Hours pass.
My coffee goes cold, untouched on the corner of the desk. My neck aches from hunching forward, and my eyes burn from staring at the screen too long. At some point, I realize I’ve reread the same paragraph three times without absorbing a word.
I lean back in my chair and scrub a hand over my face.
There isn’t anything else.
That’s the realization that finally sinks in. Not like a blow, but like gravity. Heavy. Inescapable.
We’ve done everything right.
We’ve been aggressive when it made sense. Conservative when it didn’t. We’ve adjusted, pivoted, hoped, waited. Frank’s body isn’t responding anymore.
It’s not a failure of medicine. It’s biology.
I hate that answer.
I glance at the clock—11:47 p.m.
Too late to pretend this is just staying on top of things. Too late to convince myself this is normal diligence instead of desperation.
I close my laptop slowly.
Frank’s decline isn’t dramatic. It’s worse than that. It’s quiet. Gradual. The kind that gives you enough room to hope if you’re not paying close attention.
I’ve been paying attention.
I stand and pace the office, hands clenched at my sides. This is the part no one talks about in med school, where knowledge doesn’t feel empowering, only isolating. The part where you’re the only one in the room who knows exactly how bad it is.
Frank knows too. Maybe not in numbers, but in instinct.
I think of the way he looked at me this morning. The calm. The certainty, like he was already making peace while I was still fighting the data.
The thought sits wrong in my chest.
I stop pacing and brace my hands against the desk, staring down at the file one last time. There’s nothing left to squeeze from it. No miracle hiding between the margins.
I gather the papers and slide them back into the folder with a finality that feels heavier than it should.
This is the moment. The one where effort ends and acceptance begins.
I shut off the lights and step into the hallway, the quiet pressing in immediately. The walk to the garage feels longer than usual, each step echoing faintly off the walls.
By the time I reach my car, my shoulders feel like they’re made of stone.
I sit there for a moment before starting the engine, hands resting on the steering wheel, staring straight ahead without seeing anything.
I don’t want to be alone tonight.
The thought surprises me with its clarity.
I pull my phone from my pocket before I can second-guess it, thumbs hovering briefly over the screen.
Then I type. I text her before I even pull out of the garage.
Me: Just left the hospital. Frank’s numbers aren’t good.
There’s no delay. No hesitation.
Melissa: Come over.
Two words. An open door. No questions I’m not ready to answer yet.
By the time I get to her place, it’s past midnight. The building is quiet, the hallway dimly lit. I knock on the door as softly as I can, though I know she’s awake.
Melissa: It’s open. Come on in and lock the door behind you.
I walk into the apartment, Kayla nowhere to be found, then head for Melissa’s room.
She’s sitting up in bed when I step into her room, hair loose, one of my T-shirts hanging off one shoulder. She doesn’t say anything, just lifts the covers and holds them open.
I don’t remember deciding to move.
I’m suddenly there, sliding into bed beside her, the tension in my body releasing all at once, like I’ve been holding my breath for hours.
She curls into me without a word, her head settling against my chest like it belongs there. Her arm wraps around my waist firmly.
It’s the first time all night that I stop bracing myself.
“It doesn’t look good,” I say quietly.
She nods against me. “I know.”
She’s not saying I’m sorry or telling me everything will be okay.
My throat constricts. Swallowing becomes impossible.
“I went through everything,” I continue, staring up at the ceiling. “Every scan. Every protocol. Every option I could think of. There’s nothing else to adjust.”
Her hand moves slowly up and down my arm. She’s not trying to fix. She’s just here.
“He’s tired,” I say. “His body is tired. It’s like it’s … done fighting.”
She presses closer, her forehead resting against my collarbone. “That happens.”
The way she says it tells me she isn’t speaking from textbooks.
“I hate knowing,” I admit. “I hate being the one who sees it first.”
“I know you do,” she murmurs.
The room is quiet, except for the faint hum of the city outside. No urgency. No pressure to say more than I can.
“I feel like if I stop thinking about it, I’m giving up on him,” I say.
She lifts her head slightly to look at me. “And if you don’t stop?”
“I drown.”
She nods. “Then let me hold some of it with you.”
A crack opens in my chest at her words. Her offering to take some of my load if it’s too much to bear.
We lie there like that for a long time. I don’t check the clock. I don’t replay the numbers in my head. For the first time all day, my mind slows enough to let my body catch up.
She shifts slightly, tucking herself closer, her leg draped over mine, her palm flat against my chest, like she’s reminding me to stay here.
“You don’t have to be the strong one right now,” she says softly.
With that, her permission, I close my eyes. No one has ever said that to me without expecting strength in return.
“I don’t know how to turn it off,” I admit.
“You don’t have to,” she replies. “But don’t carry it alone.”
The weight of the day doesn’t disappear, but it does become manageable.
Eventually, her breathing evens out, slow and steady. Sleep finds her first. I stay awake a little longer, staring into the dark, aware of every point where our bodies touch.
This is different from desire. This is quieter. Deeper.
I didn’t come here looking for comfort. I don’t know why I came. But lying here with her, wrapped in warmth and stillness, I realize how badly I needed it.
And how dangerous that realization is.
Because the truth settles in, undeniable and heavy as the night around us:
I don’t simply want her when things are easy. I want her when everything is falling apart. And I don’t know what that means yet, only that the thought both steadies me and terrifies me in equal measure.
I close my eyes and let sleep take me, her heartbeat steady beneath my hand.
For tonight, that’s enough.