“Just don’t give her another opening to humiliate me,” I warned him. “That’s all I ask. And stop dealing with me the way you would deal with Emma.”
“I’m not—”
“I know it’s difficult and uncomfortable to hear me make that comparison, but tough shit. You try to protect me the same way you try to protect Emma, by trying to horn in and decide the course of my life. And by the way, that’s not going to work out with her for much longer, either.”
He sighed wearily. “I’ve been told that many times. Since she was six years old. I’ll step back, eventually.”
“When is eventually?” I teased.
“A full minute after they take me off life support.”
I didn’t dwell on that. “Just don’t stress yourself out, okay? Your counts have been amazing lately. You just keep going up. Let’s not reverse the trend because you’re worrying yourself into an early grave.”
“I just want this to be over. I want to have the transplant and move on with my life.” He sighed. “I realize I have to be well enough to have the transplant, but I feel as though I never will be. How am I supposed to get well when I’m being poisoned?”
“You’re not being poisoned. Remember what that blog said? Chemo damages your healthy cells, but it doesn’t kill them all off. You just need to get close to something that vaguely resembles remission. We’re almost there. Even if you have to do a fourth round of chemo.”
“I suppose we’ll see what Dr. Grant has to say next week,” he said with a sigh. “I don’t want to spend my birthday puking into a bucket.”
“If you do, I’ll attach some balloons to it. Make it festive.”
He smiled, but he didn’t laugh. Therapy was doing wonders for Neil, but he was never going to be one of those people who could make jokes about their cancer.
He grabbed the throw from the back of the sofa. “I’ll let you get back to work. Will it bother you if I sleep here?”
“Not at all.” Another lie. His snoring lately could wake the dead. I would put on headphones and deal. “Besides, I like having you close by.”
That one wasn’t a lie.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Neil’s last round of chemotherapy in the cycle had been like the last leg of a trail ride. He was barn sour, a horse who just wanted to get back to his stall and his straw.
He did not appreciate my folksy euphemism when I shared it with him. Possibly because he’d just had a bone marrow aspiration at the time.
During the last week of every cycle, Neil had a blood draw to make sure he was physically capable of handling the next round. This week, though, we’d gotten a call from Dr. Grant, saying he wanted to do further tests.
Of course, Neil had been furious.
“I feel fine. I don’t know why he thinks it’s so damned pleasant to have holes drilled in your bones,” he’d grumbled.
So, we’d gone and he’d had a hole drilled in his bones and Dr. Grant had said things that had sounded vaguely positive. Things like, “I don’t want to get your hopes up unnecessarily,” and “No, no, it’s nothing indicating you’ve taken a turn.” But he’d been unwilling to say, “I think the chemotherapy is working.”
We made an appointment to come back the day before Neil was due for his next dose.
That morning, I woke up in bed to find him beside me. I hadn’t noticed him get in, hadn’t woken when he’d taken me into his arms. I knew he had been feeling better, not just because it was his “good” week. I didn’t know if he’d begun to recover, or if his body was just getting used to the rhythm of chemo, but I was so relieved and happy to wake with his arms around me, his body spooned up behind me.
“Good morning,” He murmured against my ear. He pressed his morning erection against my backside, and I giggled, instantly giddy. Today was going to be a good day.
I remembered the date, and I gasped. “It’s your birthday!”
“That it is,” he said, nibbling along my shoulder. “Do you know what I want for my present?”
I let him roll me beneath him and spread my legs to cradle his hips. He kissed me, and I didn’t even care that I hadn’t brushed my teeth. I didn’t want to do anything that might break the moment.
“Is it this?” I asked, lifting my pelvis and rubbing shamelessly against him.
“No, it’s a stem cell transplant, actually,” he laughed. “We don’t have time for sex right now. We’re meeting Dr. Grant at ten-thirty.”
“Balls.” I pushed him off me and sat up. “Do you want the first shower, or do I get it?”
“We could make it a tandem shower,” he suggested, running a finger down my arm.
“Not if we’re going to make a ten-thirty appointment, we can’t.” I swung my legs over the side of the bed and stood, shimmying my nightgown down to cover my bottom. “Listen...”
“Don’t get excited, I know. I’m aware that this could all turn out to be just an indicator that we’re moving in the right direction.” He almost made it sound like he would be happy with that outcome. Almost.
I hated myself for saying more. “It’s just... he said it might take more than one cycle to get you into remission. And you’ve only been doing the chemotherapy for three months. You’re feeling better, but it’s not like you’re your old self, you know?”
“I do.” He sat up and reached for his glasses on the nightstand. “Look, I’ll be having chemotherapy tomorrow, or I won’t. Either way, would you like to go out to dinner tonight? It is my birthday, after all.”
“Of course.” I smiled brightly. Please, please let this be about remission. Please don’t let him be disappointed today.
* * * *
“It’s either very good news, or just good news,” Neil said quietly as we waited in the chairs in front of Dr. Grant’s desk. “He said it was nothing to worry about.”
I took Neil’s hand in mine and squeezed it.
The nurse had led us to Dr. Grant’s office and told us he would be in presently, just like every time we’d been in to see him. But today it felt like drawn out reality show bullshit.
“Mr. Elwood, Ms. Scaife,” the doctor said as he stepped into the room. We both rose to shake his hand over his desk. Then Dr. Grant sat down and turned to his computer.
“Dr. Grant, very good to see you again,” Neil said pleasantly, though his entire body was tensed as though he would leap up and push the doctor out of the way.
“And very good to see you again. You’re looking very well,” the doctor said approvingly. “Your platelet counts were very promising in your last test, which is why I wanted your... bone... marrow...”
His voice trailed off as he read the screen.
I thought I could hear a drumroll in the back of my head. I almost screamed to break the brief silence as Dr. Grant looked down his nose at the computer.
“They didn’t find any blast clusters...” Dr. Grant made a “huh” noise and turned back to us. He looked pleased. Yes. This was positive. Dr. Grant had no bedside manner, so he wasn’t putting on a show. “I think we’re in a good place to go forward with stem cell collection.”
The air went out of the room. I didn’t dare to hope. Neil didn’t, either, I could tell from his shocked expression. “Are you saying...”
“Happy birthday, Mr. Elwood,” Dr. Grant said with a satisfied smile. “You’re either in remission, or damned close.”
* * * *
A uniformed sommelier popped the cork on a bottle of champagne with a professional flourish. I clapped politely and beamed at Neil. He looked like himself again, and better than he had in months. Than since New York, I realized, startled.
Neil was going to have his transplant. From all the stories I’d read online, and everything Josh had told me, Neil was having this whole cancer thing incredibly easy. Some people took cycle after cycle of chemotherapy just to get to the point that they could even begin discussing a transplant. So we weren’t just celebrating Neil’s birthday; we were celebrating a near miracle.
&n
bsp; The sommelier poured champagne into my flute, then into Neil’s, and told us to enjoy.
Neil raised his glass. Tonight, he’d worn a dark blue jacket over a white shirt. He looked really great, even with a bald head; it was very Jason Statham on him. I’d almost forgotten what Neil looked like in anything other than a bathrobe. Seeing him wear normal clothing all day was a shock to the system.
“To the end of chemotherapy,” he said with a broad smile. “I am so, so happy to be done with it for now.”
That “for now” would be over sooner than either of us wanted, but it didn’t matter. His cancer wouldn’t stay in remission forever, and the transplant process was going to move fast. But we had a glorious month of no chemotherapy, no puking, no late night sweating through his clothes or searing body pain.
“And to your birthday,” I reminded him. “Forty-nine, practically out to pasture.”
“Jest all you like, I’m thrilled to be forty-nine. It means I’m still alive.” We clinked glasses together.
“To the hottest forty-nine year old I know,” I purred at him over the rim of my flute and took a sip.
He smiled fondly. “You look beyond beautiful tonight. Your dress has been noted.”
I smoothed down the front of the black chiffon dress he’d bought me in France. I was easily the least clothed person in the restaurant, but I didn’t care. I hadn’t worn it for the other diners.
The place Neil had chosen was super fancy. As in, there were no prices on the menu or any signage out front to declare it was a restaurant. Just a little brass plaque beside the door. The light was low and the tables were spaced perfectly for intimate conversation. It was incredibly romantic, and I was surprised at how much I had missed doing normal couple things together.
It would also give us a chance to catch up on stuff. I hadn’t been bothering him with all my problems and daily bullshit, unless it was somewhat positive. We’d had enough troubles. But I could at least let him know what was going on with me.
Our food arrived, a gorgeous pesto and eggless pasta for Neil and a beautifully presented red tai curry and grilled tofu for me. The vegan thing was surprisingly easy to live with, and it hadn’t occurred to me to order meat in the first place.
I kinda wanted to call Emma and tell her.
“So,” Neil said, spreading his napkin in his lap. “I have barely heard anything about what’s happening in your life these days, Sophie.”
“You’re my life these days,” I said with a sweet smile he would know was partially me pulling his leg.
“That’s very sad, if it’s true.” He lifted his fork. “Something is happening. I know it is. You’ve been a bit moody, and I know it’s not still about my will.”
It wasn’t still about the will, he was right. We’d worked that out between me and him and Emma. If anything happened to Neil, I would receive ten million, all my jewelry, and Neil’s New York apartment. I’d fought him a little, until I’d realized that to Emma and Neil, it was practically pocket change.
My biggest problem lately had been missing Holli, and my bizarre unwillingness to speak to her in spite of it. I believe the exact word Lauren, my therapist, had used to describe the situation was “avoidance.”
I swallowed a bite. “Actually, something has been kind of bothering me. But I don’t want to bring you down.”
“Sophie, I just found out I don’t have to have chemotherapy tomorrow. You couldn’t possibly bring me down.” He lifted his fork to his mouth.
For a minute, I was paralyzed by the sight of his lips closing over the tines.
When we got home, he was in such trouble.
I cleared my throat. “Well... Holli and Deja are moving in together.”
“Congratulations to Holli and Deja. That’s wonderful news. Are they going to live in your old apartment?”
Old apartment? “Um, no. Holli is moving into Deja’s place.”
He nodded, like he understood something. “You’re worried about what will happen to your things? We can have them shipped here, or moved to my apartment—”
“No, I’m not worried about my stuff. I’m worried what will happen to the place where I live.”
He frowned slightly. “Why is that?”
I tilted my head, sensing the beginnings of a misunderstanding. “Well... we haven’t really discussed what’s going to happen after your treatment is over.”
His frown deepened. “I assumed we would continue living together. Was that a wrong assumption?”
I guess I had never thought about it before. Well, I’d thought about it, I’d just never brought it up to him. “I suppose that’s something we need to figure out. I have to get a job. I can’t do that here, I don’t have a work visa.”
“We could always get you one,” Neil said easily, as though it were just a matter of making a phone call. For him, it probably was. He had lawyers and stuff who took care of all of that. “Or we could go back to New York.”
“Your company is here, though. I thought the only reason you were in New York was because of Porteras. If Valerie is taking that over, what would be the point?”
“The point would be,” Neil began slowly, interrupting himself with a small, awkward laugh, “to be with you.”
“But how would you run your company?” I asked. “It’s not that I don’t appreciate the idea that you would uproot your life and move to New York for me—”
“As you’ve done by moving to London with me,” he pointed out.
I nodded patiently. “I just didn’t want to be presumptuous. I said I would move in with you while you had treatment. I didn’t know if this was something you wanted to be more permanent.”
He swallowed the bite he’d taken and paused thoughtfully. “I would be willing to live in New York and expand the American office, if you want to go back to the States. I would have to come back to London on occasion. And I’d still like to retire at Langhurst court—”
“I don’t think we have to prepare for retirement yet, do we?” I laughed. “I know it’s your birthday and you get weird about that stuff, but come on.”
“If I plan to retire at sixty-five, that’s... Christ, that’s only sixteen years away.” He began rapidly swallowing from his champagne flute.
I rolled my eyes. “That’s a really long time. I mean, it’s nice to think that we’ll still be together then, but we haven’t even been dating for a year yet. Do you think you’ll even want to still be with me in fifteen years?”
“Yes,” he answered automatically. “You don’t have to answer that question for yourself. I know that our concept of time is quite different at the moment.”
“How so?” Not that I minded talking about the future. I’d been so careful to avoid the subject lately, since we had no idea how long Neil’s future would actually be.
“Right now, to you, fifteen years seems like a terribly long time. But you’ll get to a point where a year passes so much faster than it did before. And that feeling of accelerating time only gets worse the older you get.” He dug his fork into his food, then added, “I think it starts in your thirties, and it’s really all downhill from there.”
“Yikes.” I slid a bite of curry into my mouth and chewed.
I was incredibly glad that I’d swallowed by the time Neil said, suddenly, “I was actually thinking of proposing tonight, but I didn’t know how you would take it.”
I lunged for my water glass and drained it in six huge gulps. I’m sure I looked the picture of sophistication at that moment; judging from the expression on the face of the man at the table next to ours, I could have only been more disgusting if I’d birthed an alien baby at the table.
A faint smile crossed Neil’s lips. “Not well, then, I see.”
“You can’t do that,” I gasped, shaking my head. “You can’t just casually drop marriage into the conversation.”
“Why not?” he asked pleasantly, as though we were discussing the concept of marriage in the abstract and not as it pertained to the two of us. �
�If I were going to get married again, it would be to you. I carried a torch for you for six years without any guarantee we’d ever see each other again. It shouldn’t come as a surprise that I’m certain about my feelings for you.”
“That’s true,” I said cautiously, a little out of breath from the water. “I just had no idea marriage would ever be an option.”
“Only if you wanted to get married,” he clarified. “I could just as happily go on living in sin with you.”
Neil was talking about this like there was really a chance for the future. He hadn’t done that in ages. It had to be because of the good news he’d gotten today. He saw light at the end of the tunnel.
I wasn’t going to point out that between him and the tunnel-light was a big, scary monster of a transplant that could still kill him. He wasn’t stupid. The fact that he’d been considering proposing to me was proof that he felt this happiness could be fleeting.
I just needed to know that he knew that. “So, you were going to propose tonight. Why did you change your mind?”
He gave me a shrewd smile. He knew I’d picked up on his mental state. “You’re in the wrong business. You shouldn’t be a journalist, you should be a psychologist.”
“You should answer the question,” I said with prim sweetness as I put another bite into my mouth.
He sighed and sat back in his chair. He regarded me for a long moment before he answered. “Because it’s not the right time. It’s not fair to ask you to marry me now, when you might feel you had to say yes because of my health. That, and I already have what I suspect will be an atrociously expensive wedding to pay for.”
“Emma is going to bankrupt you,” I laughed.
“When I do ask you to marry me... I don’t want it to be out of desperation. That’s what it would have been, tonight. That’s how it was when I proposed to Elizabeth. I made a mistake there.”
“Proposing to me would be a mistake?” I was only half teasing. I wanted to know that Neil found the idea of living without me just as impossible as I found the idea of living without him.
The Girlfriend (The Boss) Page 33
