Chapter 25
Chapter Twenty-Five
Maya
Bzzzt. Bzzzt. Bzzzt. A persistent, buzzing sound drills its way into my sleep.
I groan, burrowing my face deeper into the pillow. The pillow is warm. It smells incredible—like sandalwood and Zachary and something indefinably comforting. My arm and leg are slung across a solid, breathing furnace, and there’s a muscular arm wrapped possessively around my back.
Bzzzt. Bzzzt. Bzzzt. The sound is coming from my bedside table.
My phone. I peel one eye open. The room is bright, sunlight streaming in past the edge of my curtains.
Morning. It’s really morning. Zachary stirs beside me, his breathing hitching, but he doesn't wake.
He just pulls me closer in his sleep, his arm tightening around me, his face nosing into my hair.
A giddy, fluttering warmth spreads through my chest, and I can't help the small, stupid smile that curves my lips as I think about last night.
Bzzzt. Bzzzt. BZZZT.
“Okay, okay,” I mumble, reluctantly untangling myself from the cocoon of blankets and Zachary’s arms. The air is cold on my bare skin, and I shiver, grabbing his shirt from the floor and pulling it on before snatching the phone.
On the screen is the number of my doctor’s office.
My heart doesn't just stop. It doesn't just lurch. It freefalls, plummeting into a cold, dark pit of absolute terror. The warmth of the morning, the contentment, the memory of last night—it all evaporates. I’m cold. I’m trembling.
My hand is shaking so badly I almost drop the phone.
I slide off the bed, stumbling away toward the window as I press the “accept” icon.
“H-hello?” My voice is a tiny, reedy thing.
“Maya? It’s Dr. Sharma. Did I catch you at a bad time?”
“No. No, it's fine,” I lie, my back pressed against the cold wall.
I stare at Zachary still asleep, his hair mussed, his face relaxed. He looks so peaceful. My world is tilting on its axis, and he’s just… sleeping.
“I’m calling with your biopsy results. They’re back earlier than expected.” My knuckles are white where I’m clutching the phone.
I squeeze my eyes shut. “Okay.”
Dr. Sharma continues. “The preliminary report came in late yesterday, but I wanted to wait until the full pathology was back to call you. Maya... the news is good.”
I stop breathing. “Good?”
I can hear a smile in her voice. “It's very good, actually.
There is some damage, I won't minimize that, but it's mild.
Very mild inflammation and minimal scarring.
Based on this, I'm optimistic. I truly believe we can manage this with the medication regimen you're already on. We’ll need to monitor you closely, of course, but for now… no aggressive treatments. No talk of dialysis.”
The words—mild damage, manageable, no dialysis—are just sounds. They hit my ears, but my brain can't process them. I'm waiting for the “but.” The “however.” The “unfortunately.”
It doesn't come. “Maya? Are you still there?”
“Yes,” I whisper, my throat raw. “I’m here. It's... it's just mild?”
“It's just mild,” she confirms, her voice warm and kind. “You’re doing everything right. The new medication is clearly helping. We're on the right track.”
The floor seems to be coming up to meet me.
I slide down the wall until I’m sitting on the carpet, my knees drawn to my chest. And then the tears come.
It’s not a gentle weeping. It’s a full-body, soul-racking sob that tears its way out of my chest. It’s the release of months of terror.
Months of imagining my life shrinking, tethered to a dialysis machine.
All that fear, all that coiled-up anxiety, just..
. breaks. It pours out of me in a hot, messy, hiccupping rush.
“Oh, thank you,” I cry into my knees, not even sure if Dr. Sharma can hear me. “Thank you, thank you, thank you.”
“You're welcome, Maya. This is the outcome we were all hoping for. Just… breathe. Enjoy your weekend. We'll talk more at your appointment next week, okay?”
“Okay,” I manage to choke out. “Thank you, Doctor. Really.”
I hang up, and the phone slips from my boneless fingers, clattering onto the floor. I drop my head to my knees and just let go. A second later, the mattress creaks. Warm, strong hands are on my shoulders.
“Maya? Hey, what is it? What's wrong?” I'm being lifted, pulled forward. Before I can even process it, I’m sitting on the floor, but I'm wrapped in Zachary’s arms. He’s kneeling in front of me, wearing nothing but his boxers, his hair a disaster, his eyes wide with sleep-fog and a terrible, sharp worry.
He pulls me against his bare chest, his arms locking around me, one hand tangling in my hair.
“Talk to me,” he murmurs, his lips pressing a soft kiss to my temple. “What happened?”
I cling to him, my face buried in the warm curve of his neck. He's so solid. So real. “It's good,” I gasp, my sobs making my words almost unintelligible. “It's... it's good news.”
I feel his body go rigid. “Good news?”
I pull back, swiping at my face with the heels of my hands. I’m a complete mess. My nose is running, my eyes are swollen, and I’m pretty sure I’m hyperventilating. Zachary just looks at me, his hands framing my face, his thumbs stroking the tears from my cheeks.
“That was my doctor,” I say, my voice trembling. “My kidney biopsy. The results came back early.”
His expression tightens. His hands are tense on my face. “And?”
“I’m okay,” I whisper, and a fresh set of tears break free and track down my cheeks. “She said the damage is mild. They can manage it. With the meds I'm on. I'm... I'm going to be okay.”
The relief that washes over Zachary's face is so profound it’s like a physical blow. His shoulders, which I hadn't even realized were tensed up to his ears, slump. He closes his eyes, his entire body going lax, and his forehead drops to rest against mine.
“Oh, thank God,” he breathes.
The words are shaky, raw. He pulls me back against him, holding me so tightly I can barely breathe, but I don't care. I bury my face in his chest, inhaling his scent, and just hold on. He rocks me slightly, one hand stroking up and down my back. It hits me then. I didn’t realize.
In my own bubble of panic, I didn't realize how much he was worrying.
How much my fear had become his. After a long minute, I pull back sniffling.
He looks at me, his gaze so intense it's almost too much.
“You were really worried,” I say. It's not a question.
A dull flush creeps up his neck. “Of course I was worried,” he says, his voice rough. “You've been walking around with this... this thing hanging over you, trying to pretend it’s no big deal. Maya, it is a big deal. I was... yeah. I was worried.”
A warmth spreads through my veins. It settles right in the center of my chest, a glowing, steady heat.
He cares. Last night... it wasn't just a physical release. He listened to me vent about everything wrong in my life, and he’s still here, at nine in the morning, holding me while I ugly cry over medical results.
I remember last night, after... well, after.
.. we'd realized with a jolt while we were cuddling and starting to doze off, that the oven was still on, preheated and waiting to cook the pizza we’d left out on the counter in our hurry to the bedroom.
We'd made the frozen pizza, and he’d insisted we eat it in bed.
We sat cross-legged on my duvet, surrounded by pillows, greasy pizza slices in hand, and my laptop balanced at the foot of the bed.
I'd put on my ultimate guilty pleasure: Sister Wendy's Story of Painting.
I'd been half-afraid he'd laugh but he just watched, completely earnest, as the tiny, buck-toothed nun in the old-school habit waxed poetic about the passion of Caravaggio. I find her voice impossibly soothing, and as I'd leaned my head on his shoulder, his arm around me, pizza crust in hand, I’d thought: This. This is the best night I’ve had in ages.
It wasn't just the sex, which had been slow and emotional and everything I didn't know I needed.
It was the after. The easy intimacy. The laughter.
The feeling of being completely, totally safe.
And now, seeing the genuine, unadulterated relief on his face, it solidifies everything.
My heart does a stupid little flip-flop. I like him. I really, really like him.
A slow, brilliant smile breaks across his face, chasing away the last shadows of worry. “Well,” he says, his voice suddenly lighter. “This is the best news in the history of news. This requires a celebration.”
I laugh, a watery, hiccupping sound. “A celebration? Zachary, it's barely nine a.m. I look like I've been crying for a week.”
“Celebrations are not bound by time,” he declares, leaning in to kiss my snotty nose. I wrinkle it, but I don't pull away. “And you look beautiful. We are doing whatever you want today. Anything. You name it, it's yours. Sky's the limit."
I sit on the floor with my back against the wall and he follows suit, sitting cross-legged next to me. “Anything?”
“Anything,” he confirms, lacing our fingers together. “You want to fly to Paris for breakfast? We'll be a little late, but I'm game if you are.”
I laugh again, the sound clearer this time, the relief making me feel light-headed, almost giddy. What do I want? I want to be normal. I want to be outside, in the sunshine. I want to feel alive and healthy and not like a patient.
“I want to go apple picking,” I say.
He blinks, his smile faltering for just a second. “Apple picking?”
“Yes,” I say, a real, genuine smile bubbling up from my chest. “I've always wanted to. You know, the whole cheesy autumn bucket list thing. The flannel shirts, the crisp air, the little red wagon... all of it. I've just... I've never actually gotten to go.”
His smile widens, slow and warm. It reaches his eyes, crinkling the corners. “Apple picking,” he repeats, as if tasting the words. “That I can definitely do. And I know the perfect place.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah,” he says, leaning in. His lips are warm, and the kiss is slow and sweet and tastes like a brand new, wide-open future. “It's owned by my best friend from college. They've got the best cider donuts in the state, guaranteed. And it's only about a forty-five-minute drive from here.”
“It's perfect,” I whisper against his mouth.
“Absolutely perfect,” he agrees.