Chapter 34
chapter
thirty-four
The radiologist squeezes my shoulder once the hollow needle has been removed. “You’ll get a call tomorrow or Friday.” The corners of her lips draw into an attempt at a smile before she takes off her gloves, throws them in the trash, and leaves the room.
The nurse puts half her weight into compressing the incision site while I lay there, squeezing my lips together, putting some serious thought into what I will request Eitan to make for dinner.
He gave me carte blanche, which was his mistake.
I’m leaning toward truffle gnocchi (from scratch, of course).
I hate lymph node biopsies. So much worse than a breast biopsy. There’s all these nerves and blood vessels, and your arm feels weird for a good seven days after. Kind of like someone unscrewed it, fiddled around with it, and then screwed it back on, not expecting you to notice anything different.
“Doing anything fun this weekend?” the nurse asks.
I shrug as best I can while spread out topless on a medical bench. “My boyfriend and I talked about seeing a movie.” The label gives me a thrill every time I drop it in conversation. “Or maybe just contemplate my place in the Universe. Who’s to say?”
The nurse nods, not really sure what to do with the direction of the conversation. “I heard Blinklebob 3 is pretty good?”
I snort. “It’s a cinematic masterpiece.”
As I leave the clinic, the nurses and technicians I pass give me encouraging smiles. I grin back at them. When I get to the waiting room, a cute boy with fluffy hair and a lopsided smile is reading a Cosmopolitan, waiting for me.
I insist on stopping at Mike’s on the way home.
Daniel is working this morning. I’ve already set up a double date for us, probably freaking Lucy out with how enthusiastically I’ve been texting her.
She’s not the only one who’s been subject to my newfound mania.
Calliope, Alma, and I have a group chat, and we’re going dancing next week. The chat’s name is Louise’s Biddies.
Before I even get to the counter, I spot someone near the door, watching a video on their phone that I’ve become all too familiar with.
It’s a techno remix of Penelope’s meltdown, courtesy of the internet.
I knew Calliope had taken a video that day in the bridal suite, but I assumed it was just for proof of what happened.
The next day, the video was posted on an Influencers Exposed account, and Pen got what she wanted: over 500K likes.
Close to one million, last time I checked.
#Influenzilla has been trending on almost every social platform.
By Monday, there was an edit of Pen screeching ‘You psycho!’ against a beat of the sound of the club sandwich hitting the bridal suite’s wall.
If public shaming wasn’t enough, her new book’s release has been postponed. Indefinitely.
We will see each other in a few days for Louise’s funeral, and I’ve decided that the internet has dogpiled enough.
Calliope also hinted that Louise had made some, shall we say, last minute changes to her will.
Something about tough love. Either way, I plan to be infuriatingly civil.
And also, Eitan has reminded me numerous times that we will have to learn to co-exist because Josh and Penelope are still, somehow, together.
I think she is starting therapy. Who knows. It’s—above all—not my problem.
“Hi!” I drum my fingers on the counter. Daniel is turned around, their brown bandana bobbing to “Sweet Disposition” by The Temper Trap.
They turn around, and their eyes light up. “Hey, Ruby! Joya with cardamom, coming right up.” I smile at them. I can’t stop smiling. I’m one of those idiots who’s in requited love and it’s frankly embarrassing. Almost as embarrassing as sobbing in The Sunny Island.
Eitan’s fingers pull my chin toward him, depositing a kiss that’s far too passionate for nine in the morning inside a semi-chain coffeehouse.
But hey. All or nothing, right?
The truffle gnocchi is delicious. Even more delicious is watching Eitan cook it, his biceps flexing every time he kneads the dough.
We sit beneath three blankets, eating as much pasta as we can, watching my actual favorite Jennifer Garner movie, Catch & Release.
Tears come and go, the dark thoughts still poking their head above water to see what’s left, and Eitan just wipes them away and holds me tight.
Tight enough that I believe he won’t let go.
That night, while Eitan sleeps soundly next to me, I have the urge to write.
Since I turned down Alice’s offer—or rather, since Pen attempted to blacklist me—I haven’t been able to stop writing.
I have no idea what will happen to the book I already wrote or the new one that’s taking shape.
But I’ve decided that that’s the fun part.
My document is titled All the Days Before Tomorrow, and right now, it’s a collection of moments and memories. Feelings that can only be refracted by the prism of fiction.
Would you believe me if I said I was lucky?
That I have been the recipient of miracles?
That during a routine exam, the doctor found a lump, and sent me for an ultrasound.
Even though it was small. Even though I was too young for breast cancer.
Sure, there are reasons that I’m unlucky.
It is cancer, after all. But I think the good luck outweighs the bad luck.
Or maybe it’s subjective, and I choose to behold miracles.
The next day, I call in sick. It’s a marvelously rainy October day, and the entire world smells like wet bark and fallen leaves.
We walk through the winding paths of Harms Woods for a couple hours, talking about every inane thing we can: the cinematic merits of a potential Blinklebob 4, a conspiracy theory that Cal Decker is the Chicago Maneater, and the best stage-to-screen adaptation of a Broadway musical. Eitan doesn’t let go of my hand once.
The day with Eitan has been such a dream that I almost forget I’m expecting a certain call. We’ve just settled into the couch, steaming mugs of tea in hand, and are about to press play on Wicked when my phone rings.
I startle and narrowly avoid spilling my tea. We both fumble to get my phone, and with one look at the area code, I know that this is it.
The biopsy result.
Every muscle turns to jelly and my body shakes with adrenaline.
“You’re stuck with me no matter what,” I whisper to Eitan, over the ringtone. “No return policy. You break it, you buy it.”
Eitan kisses me, loudly, and leans his forehead against mine. “I’m not stuck with you at all,” he corrects, through a smile. The warmth of it radiates down to my cells. “You’re my gift.”
I nod, braver.
“Hello?” I answer the call, bathed in sunlight.