Chapter 39: Chapter Thirty-Nine

LOGAN

Mom starts nodding off fifteen minutes into our conversation with Sam. I knew when she hurried into the bathroom before our meeting that she merely wanted to put a door between me and whatever opiate she was swallowing.

She didn’t even bother to wait inside for a reasonable amount of time. She just walked in, ran the sink for a couple of seconds, and stepped back out.

“We can talk about this at a better time,” Sam says gently, eyeing Mom with more sympathy than she deserves.

I just want to get this over with. “There’s no such thing as a better time with her,” I tell Sam. “I’ll take care of it.”

Sam nods. “Stop me if you have any questions, okay?”

“Will do.”

“Right now, your father’s main symptom is fatigue. That’s not generally one that improves with time. We’ll expect that he’ll be sleeping more and more going forward.

“The pain medication he’s taking can cause grogginess and fatigue as well.”

I can’t bring myself to ask if he’ll ever wake again. “Got it.”

“At this stage, we often notice some decline in cognitive functions. Confusion is common, as is difficulty with language.

“These can happen quickly with glioblastoma patients. Sometimes it feels like changes happen overnight.”

“How long?”

Even Sam, a trained professional, can’t hide the momentary look of shock when Mom asks a question.

I raise my brows, not bothering to mask my surprise. I thought she was off in the hazy place between consciousness and sleep where she spends most of her time.

“It’s not possible to give an exact answer, and ballpark estimates are incorrect just as often as they are accurate. With that said, Dr. Sandoval believes we’re looking at weeks as opposed to months.”

“What?” I must be hearing wrong. ~Weeks~? No. Dad has five months left.

“It’s really impossible to tell, but Dr. Sandoval thinks that a month might be closer to the longest we would expect.”

“What happened to six months?” I demand.

“Six months was the estimate with chemo, radiotherapy, and surgery. Your father opted for palliative care, which doesn’t treat the—”

“I know what palliative care is,” I growl.

“How?” Mom whispers.

“How do I know what palliative care is?” She won’t talk to Sam about Dad’s treatment, but she’ll ask me how I know basic medical facts? She’s unbelievable. I swallow my scoff. “Everyone knows what—”

“No,” Mom coughs. “How… With Eric, how…”

“How do we make estimates?” Sam asks, staring at Mom, eyebrows slightly raised, like she’s a toddler asking something she’s too young to hear the answer to. It’s a fair response. Mom can’t even form full sentences.

“Yes.”

“There are a lot of factors we look at. We rely on data from past patients in similar conditions. Additionally, Dr. Sandoval looked through the images from his most recent scan this morning, and—”

I can’t listen to this. Memories of the horrible graphics from my glioblastoma research pop into my head. ~Shit~. I’m going to be sick. I grip the chair, willing my stomach to settle the fuck down.

Sam pauses, knowing I’m not paying attention.

My efforts don’t do a thing. Nausea explodes inside me, sending sweat to my forehead and a horrible clamping to my gut.

All I can do is hold up a finger and rush into the bathroom where Mom took her pill and get violently sick. I glare at myself in the mirror.

Am I really incapable of keeping my shit together? Thank God Dad’s asleep. If he saw me like this…

I leave the bathroom in search of a toothbrush. Sam and Mom can wait. I storm through the empty hall, checking each of the six bathrooms. Nothing.

How can my parents have so much fucking stuff but not a single spare toothbrush?

Huffing to myself, I settle on some mouthwash and nearly collide with Rae as I leave the bathroom.

“Hey.” Her voice is soft.

I swear, if my fucking girlfriend just heard me throwing up like a—

“I keep disposable toothbrushes in my purse,” she says, eyes fluttering up to mine. “I get sick a lot because of social anxiety, so I always have a couple with me.

“I wasn’t trying to—” She bites her lip “—I wasn’t eavesdropping; I just have really good ears, and…”

“Thanks, Rae.” I cough a couple of times, trying to clear the lump from my throat, while she unwraps a miniature toothbrush.

“The toothpaste is built in,” she murmurs.

I just nod. I don’t know what’s going to happen if I try to speak. She rubs circles on my back while I brush, and right now, in this moment, as gross as it is, I know.

I love her. I think I knew before, but right now, I’m certain. I’m in love with Rae Olson.

I love her gentleness, her sensitivity, how her reactions are always what I need, even though she second-guesses them herself. I love every last thing about her.

I pull her into my arms, and she melts into me. My shirt is wet where her face presses into the fabric. Rae’s crying silently and, somehow, that gives me what I need to get my shit together.

“Are you alright?” I ask, stroking her hair.

She sniffles. “Yes. Yes, I’m sorry. Sorry, I…” She wipes her eyes. “I’m… I just hate seeing people I love in pain, you know?”

A second passes, and the realization hits her square in the face. Her hands fly to her mouth, her eyes bulge, and she starts to stammer. “Oh… Oh, my God. I’m so… Oh, no. Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck.”

I was going to tell her in a nicer setting, but fuck it. “I love you, Rae.”

“Oh, thank ~God~.” She buries her head in my chest. When she takes a tiny step back, her face is bright red. “I love you too,” she squeaks.

I pull her in again with no plans to ever let her go.

***

In the middle of lunch, Sam calls down the stairs to inform us that Dad is awake. Her voice echoes around the house as if we’re in a cave, not a minimalist mansion.

Home was never silent, not until Zach. We had friends over most days, and Mom was always surrounded by a pack of fellow socialites. Utah socialites, I know. What a title.

Now, even Rae’s voice sounds booming. She actually stopped mid-sentence, eyes wide, and covered her mouth when the heat turned off and her story was suddenly the only noise in the entire house.

She’s a quiet person, but I like to think that our house or apartment or wherever we end up living together—it’ll happen, I know it—will never be so hushed.

“You don’t have to come,” I tell Rae as she stands up. Half her lunch remains on the plate; she’s the slowest eater in the world. It’s the cutest thing.

“Do you want to go by yourself?” I’m quiet just a second too long. “Then I’m coming,” she decides, lacing her fingers through mine.

I guide her into the hall and, checking that we’re alone, pull her in.

She leans into me, arms tightening around my neck, as I deepen our kiss, running my tongue along her bottom lip and explore her mouth, shutting out the rest of the world.

One of her hands runs through my hair and pulls softly. I swear, she knows how to push every single one of my buttons.

A door slams, and Rae jumps backward. Her head knocks against a painting that apparently wasn’t fastened to the wall very well. It falls onto her shoulders.

Rae freezes, red as a tomato, sputtering apologies while Mom stares with a bewildered expression on her face.

“No big deal,” I say quickly. Rae’s eyes are starting to water the way they do when she’s embarrassed. “I’ll hang this back up before we go.” I lift it over Rae’s head and rest it against the ground.

“Did I break it?” she squeaks. “I’m so sor—”

“No, it’s totally fine,” I interrupt. I wouldn’t cut Rae off in any other circumstance, but she’s psyching herself out, and she’s seconds away from tears.

“Okay, good.” She pretends to wipe sweat off her forehead, shooting me a wavering grin. “That’s a huge weight off my shoulders.”

The two of us burst out laughing at her terrible joke, and when I look up, Mom is chuckling softly. I didn’t even think Mom remembered how to laugh.

When I met Rae, I thought of her as a firecracker. Sassy, ready to explode at any moment. To be fair, that night, she was, and the firecracker side of her does emerge sometimes too, but overall, my interpretation was wrong.

Rae is a firefly. Quiet, unassuming, beautiful. She brings light wherever she goes.

I sound like a cheesy, whipped fucker—I definitely never talked about Taylor like this—but the thing is, I don’t really care.