Chapter Eight #2
Once the IV was in, the nurse came in and announced my parents and brother could come back to see me.
I had to bite my lip to keep from getting emotional.
As much as I’d convinced myself I was strong enough to go through this by myself, it also felt good to feel loved and know they’d come to be here for me today.
Russ was the first to come around the curtain. His hands were tucked in his pockets, and he had a sheepish expression on his face. Strange. But I didn’t have time to think about it as my mother was literally on me.
I winced when she took hold of my arm with the IV in it. “Mom, other side. Please.”
“Oh, yes. Sorry. But I couldn’t believe you wouldn’t let us drive you. I’ve been fretting all morning and couldn’t sleep all night. It’s been awful.”
She smoothed down her perfectly straightened hair, looking as if she’d just left a salon instead of having gotten up early to drive down here from Bellingham.
That was the thing about my mother. Never a hair out of place, lipstick on her teeth, or a worry she didn’t try to pageant-smile her way through.
In her mind, she’d always be Miss Washington.
My gaze hit my brother’s. His sigh was an indication he’d already heard all about her sleepless night out in the waiting room. At least he’d been smart enough to drive separately for fear of hearing all about it the entire drive.
Long ago, I’d accepted that it wasn’t my mother’s intention to make it all about her, and yet she did. Every. Single. Time.
But I’d gotten to a point I no longer let her guilt me into things. Living twelve hundred miles away had helped with that endeavor. “Imagine being the one about to have surgery.” Although if I’d lost sleep, it hadn’t been due to nerves but to a wonderful night in Kellan’s bed.
“I was telling Marjorie Jenkins all about it.”
I had no clue who Marjorie Jenkins was, but I was certain I was about to find out. My mom never met a stranger, that was for sure. It was both an impressive and annoying trait.
“She does my hair, and if you’d let me make you an appointment, she could’ve done yours before your surgery—”
Right. Because highlighting my hair would make me feel better about the probability of losing it once chemo started.
“Anyhow, she has a fantastic plastic surgeon who did her breasts. Of course, she didn’t have breast cancer; she simply needed a little extra up top, but I have his name for you.”
Although I wasn’t due to go to the operating room for another thirty minutes, I wished the doctor would come get me now to save me from this conversation. “I consulted with a plastic surgeon already, but thanks.”
“Okay. But hopefully you don’t end up like Dorothy Saul who had the botched boob job and had to have them redone. You need to find someone who does good work.”
As much as I hoped the same, I had bigger problems, such as killing the cancer currently growing inside of me. “Yes. That would be a tragedy.”
Luckily my dad, who either didn’t mind my mother’s narcissistic tendencies or simply had learned to tune her out, changed the subject.
“How are you feeling, honey? You get some rest last night?” Whereas my mom was always dressed to impress, my father looked as though he’d rolled out of bed and didn’t give a crap that he was wearing rumpled jeans and a T-shirt.
I loved him that much more for his carefree attitude, especially today.
Nope, I hadn’t gotten enough rest. The why of it made me think of Kellan.
His face this morning when I’d left had looked devastated.
It was crazy to think I could be falling for him after less than a week together.
How was that even possible? Maybe it was my emotions running high that had amplified things between us.
“I’m okay. Thanks, Dad.”
My mom prattled on about another couple of things before my brother surprised me by cutting her off. “Um, Mom, Dad. I need a few minutes alone with Layla.”
“For what?” My mom was forever nosey, especially when it came to her children. Not that I was one to talk. I was perpetually asking the same types of questions.
“For him to speak to his sister,” my father answered. “Come on, Marie, let’s give them a moment.”
“But I want to talk to the surgeon when he comes in.”
“We have a while. Let’s go.”
I tried not to laugh at the sight of my father practically pulling my mom out of the curtained-off room.
“I owe you big-time, Russell,” I whispered. Though I appreciated how much she loved me, I’d needed a break.
He sighed. “Let’s hope you still feel that way in a few minutes. I have a question for you.”
“Sure. What is it?”
He appeared nervous. “Did you spend the week with Kellan?”
Ah. I was right about him being uncomfortable with the thought of me being with his best friend. “Yes. Sorry if it makes things weird, but it was the best week of my life.”
“That’s what he said, too.”
My heart started pounding faster. “When?”
“This morning. He called to ask if you were in trouble. He respects your privacy about whatever you’re ‘leaving for’ today, but he was worried.”
Of course he was. Because that was the type of guy Kellan was. “What did you say?”
“That you’d kill me if I told him, but you weren’t heading to rehab, nor were you off to prison. His guesses, by the way.”
“I wish things could be different. The timing sucks.”
“It does. And I had every intention of not telling him anything, but he pulled out the trump card.”
“What?” My anxiety started to rise. “You aren’t serious?”
“I didn’t tell him you were going to the hospital or why you would be, but I did say I’d talk to you about it. He’s one block away at a Starbucks, waiting to hear from me.”
“What in the world was the trump card?” Did my brother owe him a favor or what?
“I can’t tell you exactly what was said—bro code and all that—but please believe he’s completely sick over the idea you might be in trouble.
He’s ready to pay your ransom, travel half the world to be with you, or volunteer as tribute in case you’re in a real-life Hunger Games.
He’s got it bad, sis. And if you had the best week of your life with him, don’t you think it’s worth a shot to tell him the truth? ”
“So he can feel obligated to be with me?” Or worse, let me down when I needed him most? Been there. Had the souvenir memory of Felicia performing fellatio forever etched in my brain. No, thank you.
Very rarely seen, my brother’s temper flickered. “Then you’re not giving him enough credit. He’s not your jackass of an ex-boyfriend. I’ll go meet with Kellan and tell him to go home. He can email you.”
His dig about Chad was warranted. It served as a reminder of the poor choices I’d made down in LA.
I watched my brother turn and take two steps toward the exit.
“Wait.” A curse left my lips. “Send him up.” Might as well get this over with.
Telling him the truth felt like the right thing to do, and perhaps it was best to get it out of the way.
His reaction would certainly keep me from hanging on to any fantasy that we’d stay in touch and somehow make it through a long-distance thing.
Russ smiled. “Good. And don’t be too angry with him.”
“Ha. It’s you I should be angry with.”
He took my hand and squeezed. “But you’re not. Because you know how much I love you and that I’d do anything for you. Including taking a chance at upsetting you on surgery day. I wouldn’t do that if I didn’t think this was important.”
“I know. Good thing I love you, too.”
As soon as he left, I smoothed down my hospital gown. I felt vulnerable but also resolute about telling Kellan the truth and bidding him to have a good life.