33. Indy
THIRTY-THREE
INDY
Maybe it’s because competence is generally sexy, or maybe it’s the lingering memory of all those late-night snacks he’s made me in the kitchen over the course of this summer, but I can never seem to get enough of the sight of Nick cooking.
There’s just something so unbelievably sexy about the way he moves when he’s in his element like this.
With both of us busy with our jobs, I haven’t been able to see him in the kitchen that much anymore, so when I can, I take full advantage.
The house is still a mess after the moving away party my parents threw for me, Nick, Dia, and Bridget.
Out of nowhere it’s already the end of August. Mom and Dad will drop Dia off in Boston in a few days.
Bridge is heading to Vassar. Nick and I will talk to my parents tonight and clue them in on everything that’s been going on.
He moves around the kitchen with his usual ease, with the added bonus of him showing off. He throws an egg into the air, and it lands perfectly on the edge of his knife, cracking in half.
I grin at the look he sends me. It’s one part arrogance and two parts heat. Impossibly sexy.
I lean my chin on my palm. “Did you know they use the word eggs as a euphemism for testicles in some countries?”
His lips twitch as he breaks another one. “Do they?”
“Mm-hmm. Handle with care.”
He laughs out loud and cracks two more eggs into the bowl.
“What do you want to do today?” he asks. He leans over the island and presses a quick kiss to the corner of my mouth before he goes back to his eggs.
We both have the day off, which is something that doesn’t happen too often, so we should make the most of it.
“Go to bed and do dirty things to you the rest of the day?” I suggest.
He sends me a knowing look. I’m pretty sure I can talk him into it.
“Or maybe—”
That’s as far as I get.
“Go!”
I snap my head toward the hallway, already up out of my seat at the urgency in Dia’s voice.
I run down the hallway and into the bathroom, where the door is open. I find Dia sitting on the lid of the toilet, holding a wad of paper to her nose.
“What’s wrong?” I ask.
She lets out a small, pathetic sob and pulls the tissue away for a moment to show it to me.
“It won’t stop. It’s just getting worse.”
I stare and try to figure out what she’s saying.
“The nosebleed?” I ask, like an idiot.
She nods. “It’s been…” She glances at her smartwatch. “A while. I don’t know. I can’t—”
I watch with horror as tears start to gather in her eyes. Dia doesn’t cry. She just doesn’t.
It takes me a second, but then I snap into action.
“I’ll get the car.”
I run to the kitchen and quickly tell Nick what’s going on.
“Right,” he says. “You get her to the hospital. I’ll get your parents up and follow you.”
I nod as I press my lips together.
“Breathe,” he says softly as he pulls me into a quick, tight hug.
I nod again and do as he says. Breathe.
And then I run.
There’s a lot of regret in pivotal moments. A lot of should-haves and could-haves that all pile on top of you at once.
Because it’s not as if I didn’t notice something was off. I saw it. I felt it. And I ignored it.
I was busy. There was a lot going on. Come on, she said she was fine. What was I supposed to do?
I lean forward and press my palm against my mouth.
Mom is pacing back and forth. Dad sits still like a statue.
Nick is sitting next to me, as close as he can possibly get.
None of us says anything because none of us know what to say.
I take wild swings in my head between it’s going to be all right and what if it’s something really bad?
With each passing minute, the former is starting to feel like less of a possibility.
What kind of nosebleed just doesn’t stop and requires hours of tests?
I rub my fingertips over my eyes.
Nick’s hand slides over my back, and he keeps it there.
Every time a nurse walks by, we all look up at once, as if it’s a choreographed dance.
And we wait.
It’s early evening when a doctor walks in.
She looks around the room, and her eyes land on the corner where we’ve set up camp. She walks toward us at a clipped pace.
Mom stops pacing. Dad gets up. Nick and I follow suit.
What follows is a wall of words that makes my head spin.
Complete blood count.
Scattered petechiae on limbs.
Ecchymoses on skin.
Pancytopenia.
Hypocellular bone marrow.
She speaks rapidly, like she’s firing the words at us.
I swallow and my ears start to ring when she says words like bone marrow cellularity and absolute neutrophil count.
By the time she reaches the words that are supposed to be a diagnosis, my head is spinning.
Rapid onset severe aplastic anemia.
The standout word is anemia, because I’ve heard that one, and for a moment I’m relieved because… anemia is something treatable, isn’t it? Anemia isn’t cancer.
I exhale.
It’s going to be okay.
Right?