Grant managed to tame his laugh first. “Why don’t you just pick a few things that you think we’d like, and we’ll give that a try? Sound okay?”
The confused look grew more pronounced.
“Surprise us,” Grant added before the waiter could ask a question.
After a moment, the waiter nodded, seeming to finally understand what we wanted before scurrying away like he was worried our brand of crazy might be contagious.
“If anything rolls out of that kitchen looking like a cheeseburger, I’m calling dibs,” I announced, folding my napkin into my lap.
“As long as you share a bite with me.”
“Deal.”
Grant reached for his water glass again and drained the whole thing in a single drink. When he glanced at me, I knew all jokes about the menu were past. “How was your appointment today?”
The turn in conversation was about as abrupt as it could get. For one minute, I’d almost forgotten all about the disease tearing apart my body, one nerve at a time. For one minute.
It was one minute more than I thought I’d ever have.
Grant had a way of making me forget about what was happening to me, and reminding me of who I was. He had a way of making me feel present and whole, instead of focused on the future and broken.
“It went well,” I said, folding my napkin into my lap. “Dr. Goldstein is great. Thank you for arranging that. I know getting in with a doctor like him isn’t easy.”
In fact, when I’d called pretending to be a new patient who wanted to make an appointment with him, I’d been told his next available appointment was nine months out.
Grant waited a minute, brows lifted. Then he circled his hand. “Did he have any ideas for how to help?”
My tongue worked into my cheek. “He changed a couple of my meds and the dosage of them.”
Grant shifted in his chair. He looked like he was swimming in an ocean of nervous energy. “Does that mean . . .”
“It means it’s a crap shot. It might help make the chorea better and give me more time as symptom-free as possible. Or it might make things worse and hasten the advancement of my symptoms. It’s like throwing darts at a wall, Grant. You don’t know what’s going to stick until you throw it and wait.” I paused to take a few breaths, reminding myself to keep my voice lowered. I didn’t need to announce to the entire restaurant that I had Huntington’s. I was hoping to save that secret from the media until the very end. Until it became impossible to hide. “No matter what new medications I try, or what new doses I go between, I’m going to get worse every day. That’s the way this thing works. It might be a little or a lot, but every day I’ll be worse than the day before. That’s going to continue to happen until something kills me.”
The abruptness of the word hit him like a slap to the face. He visibly winced, his eyes darkening right after. Staring across the table at me, he leaned closer. “I’m not going to let that happen.” Each word was uttered purposefully, like he’d never known a truer thing.
I wanted to believe him. God, I wanted to. But I’d stopped believing in fantasy when I watched my mom pry a gold crown from her own mouth to support her drug habit.
“It’s not something you let or don’t let happen.” I swallowed. “It’s kind of predetermined that way.”
His fist hit the table, making the crystal glasses tinkle. He made sure I was looking at him before he said, “I’m not going to let that happen.”
Other than my heart pumping hard inside of my ribs, I couldn’t feel anything. The confidence in his words, the look on his face that boded no doubt, the set of his brow daring me to challenge him—Grant believed he could save me. He believed he could save me like he had when we’d been kids.
I almost believed he could, and god knew I wanted to believe he could, but this time, the threat wasn’t outside of me—it was buried into my very makeup. No amount of brute strength and pain tolerance could tackle what was threatening my life now, but if Grant wanted to believe otherwise, I wouldn’t stop him. I’d rather have him and Charlie hold onto hope up until the day they laid me in my grave.
I’d kept none of it for myself, leaving it all for them.
“There’s got to be something, Ryan. Somebody, somewhere, knows something we don’t, and I’m not going to rest until we figure out who and where that is.”
I nodded and took a sip of my water. “Okay.”
He could tell I was placating him. It pissed him off too. His fist hit the table again. “It all comes down to money. Enough money can buy a person anything. Whether it’s a cure for AIDS or cancer or Huntington’s.” His voice had gone lower. “There’s a cure out there.”