Chapter 20 Jeremy
JEREMY
Sloane’s oncologist is on the third floor of the CU Cancer Center on the Anschutz medical campus in Aurora.
Every time I walk through the doors, I have to consciously unclench my jaw against the fluorescent-lit purgatory of waiting while someone in a white coat decides whether the numbers that dictate your sister’s future will let you sleep tonight.
I’ve gotten good at hiding it. Sloane doesn’t need to look over and see her brother white-knuckling a three-year-old copy of National Geographic, so I sit in the waiting room with my ankle crossed over my knee, pretending to scroll through emails I’m not reading.
I keep my face arranged in what I hope passes for calm detachment rather than full-blown existential dread.
Today, though, Sloane practically floats out from the exam rooms after her appointment.
“White blood cell count is stable.” She waves the printout at me like a kid showing off a straight-A report card. “Platelet levels are up. Dr. Jackson said the drug trial numbers are tracking better than expected.”
I take the paper from her and scan the columns myself.
I trust Sloane, but I also trust data. And the data is good.
Her absolute lymphocyte count has been trending down for three consecutive months, and the new monoclonal antibody protocol is doing what the previous rounds of chemo couldn’t quite finish.
“She wants to keep me on the trial through the end of the year.” Sloane waves to the woman at the reception desk, then pushes the down elevator button for the parking garage. “But she’s optimistic about long-term remission.”
Words that would have sounded like a miracle six months ago when Sloane’s numbers were a rollercoaster, and her body’s response to treatment had flatlined. Now she says them like facts, and the relief that moves through me makes my legs feel like jelly.
I clear my throat. “That’s good.”
“You could try to sound less like a voice from the speaker on my kitchen counter. Excitement isn’t a four-letter word, bro.”
“I’m thrilled that your health metrics are exceeding projected benchmarks.”
“That’s ten times worse.” But she’s grinning, and her dark hair swings as she steps into the parking garage. She’s no longer moving with the careful shuffle she’d adopted when the fatigue was brutal. She’s my sunshiney sister again, and I’m so fucking happy.
I hold open the passenger door of the Range Rover, and she gives me a look. “You know I can drive myself to these appointments now.”
“I also know your car shakes above sixty and the AC barely works.”
“My 4Runner has character.”
“Your 4Runner is almost twenty years old and should be put out of its misery.” I round to the driver’s side. “We could stop at a dealership on the way—”
“I like my car, Jeremy.” She buckles her seatbelt. “And I can handle my own life.”
I know that. I’ve watched her handle a cancer diagnosis, a stem-cell transplant with side effects that would have flattened most people, and now a drug trial.
Not to mention the indignity of her overbearing brother attempting to manage her through all of it.
My sister is the least fragile person I’ve ever met.
“I’m aware you’re capable.”
“Then stop hovering.”
“I’m not hovering. I’m driving.”
“You hover while driving. It’s a skill.” She adjusts the air vent. “The whole town treats me like I’m one strong breeze away from the ICU. You should see Taylor’s face if I sneeze. She’s ready to dial 911 before the tissue hits the trash.”
“That’s not funny.”
“It’s a little funny.”
“You have acute lymphocytic leukemia. People are going to worry.”
“My A-L-L is responding to treatment, and people can worry from a respectful distance.” She points a finger at me. “Including you.”
“I’m your brother. Respectful distance isn’t in my job description.”
“God complex shouldn’t be either.”
I grip the steering wheel and merge onto I-70 heading west. “If it means making sure my sister gets to her appointments safely, then sign me up.”
“You’ve got more money than God.” Her voice softens. “But you can’t play God, Jeremy. That’s not how life works.”
“It should.” I don’t bother to hide my growl. “And to keep you safe and healthy, I’m going to try.”
She’s quiet for a beat, rare for Sloane. Then she reaches over and squeezes my arm. “And I love you for it, even when you’re insufferable.” She lets go, leans her head against the window, and within five minutes her breathing evens out into the slow, steady rhythm of sleep.
I turn the music down and check the mirrors, like the road might somehow betray us if I’m not vigilant.
Sloane sleeps with her mouth slightly open, one hand curled against her chest, and she looks so much like the little girl version of herself that something fiercely protective unfurls in my chest. I’d never admit the feeling out loud.
It would ruin my reputation as an emotionally unavailable robot. But it’s there.
Avah did the same thing on the way home from the Johnsons, like my Range Rover is a four-thousand-pound sedative. I’m starting to wonder if it’s the car or me, and I don’t know which answer I’d prefer.
My sister stirs as I slow for the Skylark exit, blinking awake with a disoriented squint.
“How long was I out?”
“Thirty minutes.”
She straightens, pushing a strand of dark hair behind her ears. “I was just resting my eyes.”
“You were snoring.”
“I don’t snore.”
“Keep telling yourself that.”
She’s smiling as she grabs my phone from the console. “I need to stop at Sadie’s. I’ll put her address in the GPS.”
“Now?” I sound like a grumpy troll, which doesn’t bother me in the least. “Why?”
“She’s holding something for me at the house. It’ll take two minutes.”
“What’s she holding?”
“Something personal.” She says personal the way women do when they want men to stop asking questions. It works, because I shut my trap.
I file her too-innocent expression under suspicious, but keep driving.
The Skylark exit feeds onto a two-lane road that winds past hay fields before the town comes into view.
Sadie and Ian’s place is north of town, seventy-five acres of meadow and clumps of aspen backed up against the foothills.
The main house sits at the end of a gravel drive—a renovated craftsman with a wide front porch.
There’s a wide barn and fenced pasture to the east. Sadie’s dog training setup is visible around the side of the house: agility ramps, weave poles, and a covered arena arranged in tidy rows.
A hand-painted sign near the turn-off reads Sadie Hart’s House of Dog with a paw print dotting the i.
Two cars that don’t look like they belong to Sadie or her husband, Ian, are parked in the driveway next to a truck with Molly’s flower farm logo stenciled on the side. I notice that Avah’s white BMW SUV isn’t here, then mentally kick myself in the nuts for noticing.
“Whose cars are those?”
“How should I know? Sadie’s popular. Loads of clients.” Sloane unbuckles. “Come in with me.”
“I’ll wait here.”
“I might need help carrying something.”
“Are you picking up a cinder block?”
“It’s rude to sit in the car.”
“I’m frequently rude. Ask anyone.”
“Jeremy.” She fixes me with those blue eyes that have been winning arguments since she was four years old. “Don’t make me play the cancer card.”
I bark out a laugh despite myself. “I thought you didn’t want to be treated like a sick person.”
“I use it when the occasion calls.” She flashes a cheeky grin and climbs out of the SUV. “Let’s go.”
I pocket my keys and follow her up the porch steps.
Sloane knocks, and the door swings open to reveal Ian Barlowe.
With his impressive height, glacial-blue eyes, and tousled hair, he has the kind of effortless good looks that landed him on GQ covers during his NFL years, and still means he has the starring role in dozens of commercials each football season.
He’s in jeans and a flannel with the sleeves pushed up, looking more like a ranch hand than a retired quarterback worth eight figures.
“Hey, Sloane.” He engulfs her in a hug, then extends his hand to me. “Jeremy. I don’t think we’ve officially met, but I already feel for you.”
My brain whirs as I shake his hand. “Feel for me?”
A small dog trots over, ugly as sin and barely bigger than a football, with a disproportionate amount of attitude in its stride. Ian scoops it up, tucking the animal against his chest. The dog—Beast, if I remember Sloane’s stories—gives me a look of supreme disinterest.
“You didn’t tell him he’s facing the Cool Girls Book Club tribunal today?” Ian asks Sloane.
“I thought the surprise would be more fun.”
“You have a sick sense of fun.” Ian laughs and steps aside to let us in.
“What is this?” I employ the controlled tone I typically save for meetings when someone presents a number that doesn’t add up. My sister doesn’t appear the least bit fazed.
“Follow me,” she says, already walking past Ian.
“I’ll see you on the other side,” he tells me, tone ominous.
What the actual fuck is happening right now?
The house’s interior is warm and lived-in, with dog beds in every room, overflowing bookshelves, and a myriad of framed photos that make me yearn for memories I’d want to display. You could have them with Avah, an internal voice whispers before I command it to pipe down.
Sloane leads me into a spacious living room where five members of her beloved book club are arranged across a couch, a recliner, an oversized armchair, and the floor. Okay, then. I’ve just walked into a well-organized ambush.