Page 76 of You First
“But if you don’t have surgery now, you’ll lose your life?” Her voice rose with the question, and anger etched her features. He’d frustrated her before, but he’d never seen her angry. Not really. Gray didn’t relish the fact that she was angry with him, but he was grateful that she wasn’t afraid to let it show. It meant that she would claim the life she wanted. She wouldn’t let someone else cheat her of what she deserved. And she wouldn’t cheat herself. She wouldn’t be a victim.
Without warning, Gray thought of Cecilia. If she’d had some of Meredith’s anger, some of her strength, maybe she would have fought harder for herself.
He reached up and ran his fingers down Meredith’s face. He’d kissed her. Twice now. And those memories burned bright in his mind. Maybe they were stored in a place far, far from the tumor. Maybe — if he played chicken and lost — they’d be the last thing to go before his breath stopped.
Gray hoped as much. That wouldn’t be so bad.
“Meredith, how can I make you understand?” he asked, tracing a finger around her ear and wanting to commit this, too, to the deepest recesses of his mind. “The thought of losing who I am — of living a life of someone who can no longer think the way I think and write the way I write — is far more terrifying than the thought of dying. I know waiting is a gamble, but I’d be able to face whatever comes with peace.”
She stared at him for a moment, and her face softened, the anger still there but less sharp. Drawing in a deep inhale, she sat up straight beside him.
“Why?” She eyed him with unflinching focus.
“My books.”
Meredith blinked, but to his relief, she didn’t roll her eyes. “How long?”
Gray shrugged. He needed another week to tie up the novel and give it two solid rounds of editing before he sent it to his publisher. He’d get it back a week after that to go through content edits, and then line edits would occur later. In the meantime, he could be sketching out an outline for the fifth installment. If he left himself a solid outline and good notes — and he survived the surgery, and he still had it in him to write — it would be best to have something to work with.
“Another month, I guess.”
“Why a month?”
“To finish this book and get enough of a start on the next one that it’ll be obvious to me where I need to go with it — even if my head’s messed up.”
Meredith watched him for a moment. “Does your doctor think you have another month?”
She pinned him with her gaze, and Gray found himself answering honestly.
“No.”
He watched her try to hide the shock that washed over her face. And he admired like hell the way she rallied and asked the next question without a trace of hesitation.
“When does your doctor think you should have the surgery?”
Again, he found he couldn’t lie to her. Lying now would dishonor her in a way he couldn’t bear.
“Tomorrow.”
This time, her mouth fell open like she’d been slapped. “Shit,” she muttered. Gray watched her swallow. “Shit, Gray.”
Meredith rarely swore. The fact that she did now — over him — tugged at something inside his chest. He pulled her closer to kiss her again, but she braced a hand against him.
“Wait. Don’t.”
Gray froze, discovering he didn’t like her rejection one bit. It felt like a punch to the gut.
“Meredith, I like you,” he blurted. “I mean, I really,reallylike you.” He heard the awkward words, and he could only just suppress his shudder. He was supposed to be a writer. Surely, he could have come up with something better than“I really, really like you…”
But Meredith didn’t seem to care. In fact, it didn’t appear that she’d even heard him, which, he realized, probably wasn’t any better. Instead of responding to his attempt to kiss her and his clumsy declaration, she frowned at him. He’d changed the rules on her overnight, and it wasn’t hard to imagine she’d walk away.
“…and I really hope you’ll be on my side.” He made himself stop talking then.
Gray sensed she was making a decision, and he guessed it would be best to keep still and shut the hell up until she spoke. Of course, he wanted to do neither. The bench beneath them was cold, and they both blew frost. The tip of her nose pinked with the chill, and her coat hung open, unbuttoned. He wanted to gather her up in his arms and keep her warm. He wanted to send his family away, spread a blanket in front of the fireplace — banked high and blazing — and spend the whole night talking… tasting… touching.
“Two weeks,” she said, jerking him from his reverie.
“What?” It was his turn to frown.
