But then he texted me again, and my heart got all squishy because it was clear he still had an interest in me, and God help me…I’m totally into him. So I responded and felt almost a sense of giddiness that I’d see him again.
But only after I made it through these two chemo visits and was past the accompanying sickness. Dr. Yoffman said I’d be back to feeling normal within a few days of the last treatment.
Needless to say, when Garrett showed up at my door, I panicked for a moment. I was so very close to getting him to leave without him being any wiser to my plight, but then those fucking dry heaves started again. And afterward…as I lay on the bathroom tile with my stomach muscles aching, my head splitting in two, and another wave of nausea rolling through me, I didn’t have the strength to keep my secret anymore.
He was wigged out. No doubt about that. The look on his face said it all. Horrified and angry.
I haven’t seen or heard from him since I fell asleep. I woke up a few hours later feeling a little better, having successfully kept the medication down. I stumbled out into the kitchen and ate a few dry crackers, drank some more Gatorade, and fell back asleep. I stayed under until my alarm went off this morning, and then I was getting ready for my next chemo visit.
Sutton picks up one of the magazines and flips through it distractedly. I pull the one blanket the nurse had given me up to my chin and curl my legs up underneath me. They have these really cool recliners the patients sit in that are spread around a large, airy room done in peaceful colors of mauve and gray. Large plants sit everywhere and soft music plays in the background. By my count, there are thirteen other patients in this room, all hooked up to IV bags.
Some of them look pale, sick, and wasted away. Some are bald. Some are fairly robust-looking. There’s quiet talking, some laughing, and one patient sits with her husband, who cries softly by her side. Cancer has so many different faces, I’m finding out.
Sutton closes the magazine and throws it down with a frustrated sigh.
“Nothing good in there?” I ask as I nod toward the gossip rag.
“It’s not that,” she says distractedly.
“Then what is it?”
“I think I really messed up,” she murmurs with pain-filled eyes.
“Okay…what did you do to Alex, and I’ll tell you how to fix it,” I tell her with a smirk.
“It’s not Alex,” she says quietly. “It’s Garrett.”
“Garrett?” I ask stupidly, because what could she have possibly done to that cocky man? I had told her about him coming over last night with soup, and that he now knows what’s going on with me. She didn’t say much, and, now that I think about it, it was uncharacteristic of her to remain quiet. She’s always been vocal about Garrett. She loves him to death, but she also doesn’t think he has much depth when it comes to women and likes to give him hell about it.
“He came to the house last night…after he found out you have cancer,” she says, her eyes cast down to her lap while she fiddles with the hem of her shirt. “He was pissed.”
“Pissed no one told him,” I guess.
She nods. “I said some unkind things to him. I insinuated he didn’t need to know because I figured he would be getting bored and would leave you in the dust right about now. I think I hurt his feelings.”
I can feel Sutton’s guilt and I end up taking it on as my own. In hindsight, I probably should have told him. It would have been easier because he could have made an early exit and never felt any further obligation to me. I should have told him before we had sex, because that’s such an intimate act…never mind that we both went into it with the idea of it being only a one-night stand.
“Hey,” I say, getting her attention. Her eyes raise up and I give her a confident smile. “We both owe him an apology for keeping him in the dark.”
“Think he’ll accept it?” she asks dubiously. “He was really angry.”
I shrug. “That’s up to him. All we can do is offer it. Besides…I’m pretty sure that now that he knows, his interest in me isn’t going to be so keen. I mean…who wants to be with someone with cancer?”
Sutton leans forward in the chair that sits opposite from me. “I don’t know, Olivia. He brought you soup.”
“When he thought I had the flu,” I point out.
“He stayed there and took care of you. Held your head while you vomited,” she says.
Yes, he had. He wiped my face with a cloth, held my hair back, gently helped me take my medication, and tucked me in to bed. But that doesn’t mean anything. Garrett’s a nice guy. He’d do that for anyone.