41. ADRIAN
ADRIAN
The chair hasn't changed.
Same lean to the right. Same scuff on the left leg. There's a small tear in the armrest near the seam that I've been picking at since the second visit.
I know why I keep tracking things like this. The big thing in this room has always been too large to look at directly, so I look at everything else instead.
The water the assistant brought me is on the side table. I haven't touched it.
The diplomas on the wall are the same ones. Three frames, aligned. I read his credentials thoroughly, the same way I would with an opposing counsel in a case I care about.
When I got the diagnosis I didn't take the first referral. I researched, I evaluated, I chose the best available option and committed to it completely. Reeves has been with me since the beginning.
He remembers what he's told me each year, references prior results without checking notes. That mattered to me early on, when I needed to believe someone was paying attention.
He is at his desk with his back half-turned, going through my file on the screen. He clicks something. Scrolls.
I wait.
Sienna hasn't texted.
She said she needed time and that gave me something to hold on to.
I've been holding it carefully for a week now. I think her silence means she's letting me down gently.
I think the coffee shop was the end of it. Her hand in mine for a few seconds, and then she let go.
Reeves pushes his glasses down his nose and says, without turning: "Your scans look good. Bloodwork looks good." He clicks once more. "No evidence of recurrence."
I hear the words. I parse them one at a time.
I’m too nervous to fully understand what he is saying so I ask, "What does that mean going forward?"
The doctor takes his glasses off, massages the bridge of his neck, not seeming to understand my urgency here.
Then he looks at me. "Five years is an important marker," he says. "At this point the odds shift heavily in your favor. We'll still monitor you. But we can move to annual follow-ups now."
I’m not cured. Not safe forever. Nothing absolute.
But, then again it doesn’t make me that much different from everybody else. Nothing is guaranteed.
The doctor stands up and shakes my hand saying “I’ll see you next year.”
I see that he is trying to keep a professional distance, but he is emotional too.
"Till next year, Doc."
I close his office door behind me.
Then I stand there with my back against it and don't move.
The relief comes. It does. Something loosens in my chest and moves through my shoulders and I let it. Five years of walking into this building. Five years of sitting in that chair. Every scan. Every Tuesday that turned out to be a Tuesday I was still here for.
I wait for what comes after the relief.
There's nothing there.
I feel, very distinctly, like a man who's been in a fight that just ended and doesn't know what to do with his hands.
The door is solid behind my back. The assistant is at her desk ten feet away, typing. Two people in the waiting room waiting for their own versions of this.
I think I should feel different now..
What I actually feel is strange, hollow and slightly unreal, like someone took away the thing I'd been pushing against and I haven't caught my balance yet.
I push off the door and walk toward the exit.
The sun hits me when I step outside and I stop.
As soon as I step outside I see Carter and William leaning on Carter’s Range Rover. When they see me exit, they straighten up and look at me anxiously.
I bet it is the same look I had on my face when I was waiting for the doctor’s news.
I didn't tell them I'd be here.
William reaches me first. "Well," he says. "How did it go?"
I try the poker face. I genuinely try. But I'm too far from equilibrium right now I can't hold it, "I completely aced it. Did you doubt that I was beating this? Pfff—"
William grabs me.
Both arms, immediate, no hesitation, and the air leaves my body at once. I grip the back of his jacket and hold on. Neither of us says anything because neither of us can.
When he steps back Carter steps in and does the same thing. Harder. I let him too, longer than I mean to.
And here we are three men hugging each other and discreetly whipping tears in the middle of the sidewalk on a hot LA afternoon.
"Nothing to see folks," I say, when Carter steps back. "Keep moving."
William scrubs the back of his hand across his face. "We need to celebrate."
My mind goes directly to Sienna. She should be here. She should be standing next to me right now and the reason she isn't is because of something I did.
Usually after these doctor appointments, the release of kept tension was so great that I needed to lose myself in the night, in drink, in some hot sex with a woman.
What I want right now is a quiet room. Candlelight. Soft jazz playing in the background. Sienna there. That's it. That's the whole thing.
I try to shake it off.
"How did you guys know I would be here?" I ask.
Carter's smile fades. He reaches into his jacket pocket and takes out his phone, unlocks it, and holds it out to me.
I look at the screen and don't understand what I'm looking at for a second. Then I do.
I take it out of his hand to make sure.
A text. This morning. To Carter and William. Sender: Sienna.
Adrian needs you today.
Then the address of the doctor. Then the exact time of the appointment.
I stare at it. The words don't change form. They stay exactly as small as they are. She knew I wouldn't tell them. She knew they'd want to be here and she knew I would need them here.
I can’t believe she remembered the date that I mentioned so long ago. But then again, this is Sienna, always looking after the others. Even when she is disappointed with them.
I look up from the message to Carter and then to William and say “She cares. She still cares.”
Neither of them says anything. William's jaw is set. Carter has gone still. They're not jumping on it. Neither am I. We're all holding the same thing carefully, from the same distance, because we all understand what it is and what it isn't.
It isn't forgiveness.
But.
I hand Carter back his phone.
The hollowness I walked out of the doctors office with is still there, that strange suspension after the result. But something has shifted inside it. Something with a purpose.
"Let's leave the celebration for later," I say. "When Sienna can join us."
William looks at me. "Adrian. She asked for time—"
"We'll give her time." I pull my phone out of my pocket. “But we also need to show her how much we love her. How sorry we are. That we want her back in our lives."
Carter's quiet for a moment. "And how do we do that?"
"With research," I say.
We start walking toward the car. The three of us moving across the sidewalk, toward a future that isn't guaranteed, toward a woman who has every reason not to take us back and sent a text this morning anyway.
I open Siri.
"Siri," I say. "What is the best way to grovel to the woman you love?"
William makes a sound. Carter drops his head. The afternoon is hot and hopeful.