Page 61 of Parallel

There is a beat of silence. “You told me before you told your fiancé?” he asks. “Interesting.”

I groan. “No, it’s not. I just…” I really have no excuse. The truth is that, in just a few weeks, Nick’s become my person. It’s him, not Jeff, that I want to turn to with all my good and all my bad. I want to hand him my problems in a tidy package and have him help me carry the weight. I want him to hand me his. “I’ll see you later,” I say, ending the call abruptly.

I close my eyes, wishing I could just push a pause button on my life for a week. Long enough to get things straight in my head. Nick’s taken, I’m taken. Even though we’re arguing, I love Jeff. I picture how devastated he’d be if I were to suggest cancelling the wedding and feel this unbearable lurch in my stomach. He’s loved me and trusted me for most of our adult lives, and I can’t just throw it all in his face now, weeks before the ceremony. I just can’t be that person.

I wander through the city and arrive at the hospital an hour later. Jeff is in the waiting room when I walk in. He rises and wraps his arms around me. “I’m sorry about last night,” he says. “I shouldn’t have taken off like that.”

My eyes close and the air slides from my chest. “I’m sorry too.” I’ve always hated any kind of friction between us, so I’m not sure why I merely feel resigned rather than relieved.

A nurse takes us back to Dr. Patel’s office, and as we are introduced, a joke I heard somewhere long ago comes to mind: Why do they have to nail coffins shut? To keep out the oncologists. In other words, if you’re faced with an oncologist who doesn’t seem optimistic, who doesn’t have a long list of options for someone who is obviously beyond hope, you are really screwed.

And Dr. Patel does not seem optimistic.

His smile is muted, rather than encouraging. There’s a lack of urgency to his movements, as if he already knows he won’t really be doing anything today. “We’re a little early,” he says. “So we should give Dr. Reilly a moment to get here.”

“I think we can start without him,” Jeff says, a flicker of irritation in his voice.

“Let’s wait,” I say. Fortunately, Nick appears at the door just then, with the look of someone who ran to get here—loosened tie and tousled hair. His eyes go immediately to me, his gaze drifting over each inch of my skin so intensely it feels palpable. There is a connection between us, something physical I can’t put my finger on. It’s as if my nerve endings wake from a long rest whenever he’s near.

The two doctors shake hands. Jeff and Nick merely nod to each other, the movement so small and so hostile on both sides that even Dr. Patel seems to notice. Nick pulls up a chair alongside mine.

“So, I’ve looked at your scans,” Dr. Patel begins, facing me, “and the reports from Dr. Reilly. I think he explained that this tumor is an area we can’t reach?”

I nod, holding my breath. I want him to lay out options and tell me there’s a good chance. A seventy percent chance, but I’d settle for thirty. I’d settle for twenty.

“Unfortunately,” he continues, “a tumor like this is unlikely to respond well to available treatments.”

My breath releases and my spine bows. I was held upright by hope, and he just took it away from me. Nick’s hand clenches into a fist. He knew, just like I did, that the situation wasn’t optimistic. We were both hoping for a miracle, when neither of us believes in them.

“Unlikely doesn’t mean it won’t,” says Jeff.

Dr. Patel nods. “Right, it doesn’t mean it won’t. But I think our best-case scenario is that chemo might give Quinn a little more time.”

My hands shake, but inside I feel absolutely empty, depleted. Zero percent is what he’s saying. I have a zero percent chance of surviving this. I look out the window. There are students in the distance, backpacks slung over shoulders, talking and texting and thinking about evening plans. This is the moment I officially separate myself from them, from all the people in the world who’ve forgotten the value of time. And Patel is offering me more of it, but I’ve seen firsthand how that goes. We begged my father to fight. We convinced him to try experimental treatments when the regular ones failed. He got an extra three months out of it, but it was three months during which he was bedridden and nauseous. He turned into a dry, wizened old man before our eyes. “More time during which I am very, very sick,” I finally say, still looking out the window.

The doctor frowns. “Under normal circumstances, a tumor of this size would be having significant side effects, and I’m not quite sure how yours isn’t. But given how well you’re doing, I can see where you might not want to commit to a course of treatment, knowing it will make you feel worse.”

I think about that. I think about the fact that I’m finally going back to school. I have a chance of making it long enough to get my degree. And more time with Nick, I think before I can stop myself. If I start on chemo, will I enjoy any of it? Will I even be well enough to go to school? No. I’ll be sick and frail and miserable.

“I’m not interested in that,” I reply.

“Quinn,” hisses Jeff. “You can’t just dismiss what he’s saying. You haven’t even considered it.” He turns to Dr. Patel. “What are the options? Because the tumor might not be making her sick, but it’s definitely affecting her personality.”

Nick’s head jerks toward Jeff’s. He looks like a volcano on the cusp of exploding. “What’s that supposed to mean?” he snaps.

Jeff narrows one eye at him and offers his reply to me rather than Nick. “You’re making decisions that aren’t…that might not be rational. I’m worried it’s a sign there’s worse to come.”

My jaw clenches. Is he really trying to imply that the decision to get this degree is irrational? A product of my tumor rather than the thing I’ve wanted, without cease, for a decade? I have many, many things to say about that, but not with an audience. “We can discuss this at home,” I say tightly. “But I’m not interested in treatment.”

“I know you don’t want to hear this,” he says softly, “but brain tumors do cause personality changes—and irritability and impaired judgment are two of those changes. I read about it earlier. You need to at least hear what the options are.” He turns back to Dr. Patel. “So there’s chemo and radiation, right? Which of those might help?”

Nick’s voice emerges, a low growl. “You seem to be struggling to hear what Quinn’s saying,” he seethes, “so allow me to repeat it: she doesn’t want treatment.”

Jeff snaps his gaze toward Nick, the thin veneer of civility discarded. “And you seem to be forgetting you’re not a part of this decision.”

Nick’s eyes have this gleam to them that doesn’t bode well. “I haven’t forgotten anything. It’s just unclear to me why you think it’s okay to ignore what she wants and talk over her.”

Jeff stands, pushing back his chair, and in seconds, Nick is on his feet too. Their hatred for each other is a force, the fifth member of our little gathering, and someone is about to get hit.