Page 23 of Parallel

He nods, his hands wrapping around the edge of the desk. “I don’t want you to panic when I tell you this, but we found something on your scans yesterday.”

Found something. I freeze, suddenly aware of my heart, pounding louder than normal, so loud I’m surprised he can’t hear it too.

He rises, flipping on a light board just to our left. What I presume is an image of my brain hangs there. I’m oddly relieved to see it looks normal, as if I thought it might be half a human brain and half something wildly improbable, like antennae or another set of teeth. “This,” he says, pointing at a black dot in its center, “is what we found. It’s so small I’m not even sure it’s what’s caused your seizures. Something of that size, in that location, should not be symptomatic.”

“What is it?” I whisper.

He takes the seat beside me. His eyes are the softest gray-blue, like the wings of a dove. “It appears to be a tumor.”

Ice fills my lungs, making a deep breath impossible. “A tumor.”

His hand reaches out, and for a moment I’m certain it’s going to grab mine. But just like yesterday, he stops himself. “The majority of brain tumors are benign, so I really don’t want you stressing about this just yet. You very well could have had this for your entire life.”

“And if mine isn’t benign? What then?”

He nods, his eyes flickering away. “Operating in this area of the brain is impossible. But again, it could very well be nothing. We need to do another imaging test—similar to what we’ve already done, but this time looking at the metabolic activity around the tumor. It should help us determine the type of tumor it is and how likely it is to grow.”

My mouth is dry. I nod, feeling…nothing. Nothing at all. I dig my nails into my palms but it barely registers.

“Are you okay?” he asks.

“I don’t know.” What I want more than anything is to dislodge the sense that all of this can’t really be happening. I’m only twenty-eight. I’m about to get married. My life is just starting, and out of nowhere I’m missing him and wanting what I’ve never wanted, and I may be looking at the end of all of it. I don’t know how to put this into words. “My life was completely normal a week ago,” I finally say.

“Let me take you down to imaging,” he says, rising. “Your life may still be completely normal.”

This time he sets me up for the exam himself, helping me onto the table, getting everything into position. He seems to hesitate when it’s time to leave. “It’s going to be fine,” he says.

“You know, even if the tumor is nothing, I’m still having bizarre dreams about someone I don’t know and discovering they’re accurate.”

His smile is soft. “Hey,” he says, “I’m not a bad guy. There are worse people to dream about. Unless I’m a jerk. If I am, then your dreams are completely fictitious.”

“You weren’t a jerk.”

“Good.” His dimple appears, and I have a sudden memory of him in that convenience store smiling at me through the glass, unaware that my heart was breaking, that we were going to be separated. And as I slide into the MRI to check on my inoperable brain tumor, I can’t help but feel history seems to be repeating.

11

NICK

Meg and I both have an hour free. She wants to go out to lunch and is not happy when I tell her I want to swim instead.

“Again?” she asks. “You already worked out.”

I blow out a breath. I am way too keyed up to sit with her for an hour. “It’s just been one of those days.” One of those days when I’m waiting for a report from radiology that won’t fucking arrive. One of those days when I’m going to put a fist through a wall if I hear, again, that it’s “on the way.” And one of those days when I can’t stop thinking about a patient, can’t stop picturing her…even though we are both with other people, and, as my patient, she’d be off-limits even if we weren’t.

I get over to the pool and dive in without preamble, with no routine in mind. I just need to push, to swim until I’m too exhausted to think about this anymore. I’ve always hated impossible questions. Medical journals produced nothing helpful, not that I expected them to. There’s no answer to what’s going on with me and Quinn, but I can’t stop pushing and prodding at it, as if something completely obvious will present itself. It spins in my brain until I’m sick of thinking. And thus the need for this swim, which doesn’t seem to be doing a damn bit of good.

I thought I was happy with Meg. Maybe it wasn’t everything I’d ever wanted from a relationship, but it felt like enough…certainly far more than my brother will ever get to experience. Except spending a morning with Quinn was like being exposed to sunlight after an entire lifetime beneath fluorescent lights. I’m not sure, now, that I can be happy with less.

I hustle back to the hospital with my hair still wet, stopping by Darcy’s room on the way. I never see her without thinking about what could have been. If her mother had brought her in when Darcy’s headaches first started, we could have saved her. As much as this bothers me, it’s her mom who’s being destroyed by the knowledge, and it wasn’t even her fault. When the pediatrician dismissed her concerns, she listened to him. God, I wish she hadn’t. Doctors know a lot less than they want you to believe. Especially that one.

Darcy is in bed when I get to the room, with her mom curled up beside her. She smiles wide, more animated than usual, and lifts a massive cupcake in the air. “Look what Quinn sent me!” she says.

Darcy’s mother reaches behind her to a massive box from Sprinkles, where ten of twelve cupcakes remain. “Want one?” she asks. “Darcy’s new friend sent six for Darcy and six for Raven, so I feel like we may have more than we need.”

Something expands inside my chest. Who learns she has a brain tumor and manages to think about a little girl she just met instead? I decline and head straight to radiology, ready to unleash hell if the results aren’t in. Fortunately, that’s not necessary. I rip the radiologist’s report from the envelope before I’ve even gotten to my office.

She answers on the first ring.