Page 71 of Slow Burn (Driven 5)
I grab a drink and head out to the backyard per my usual end-of-day routine, the last rays of the sun calling to me before the night claims them for itself. I sit down in my favored chaise and bring my lemonade up to my lips. My thoughts drift to my time with Maddie this afternoon and how she was so cheerful and genuinely happy and how my heart felt so much better leaving her this time.
I know the grief will always be there for her, a constant, but at the same time, I’m starting to see pieces of the little girl she was a year ago before this nightmare we’re never going to wake from happened. And those glimpses tell me there’s the possibility of so many more just around the corner.
I process a couple random thoughts about work and the last Scandalous party coming up in the next few days. I’m more than satisfied with my job for them and know the message I received e
arlier this morning about how the higher-ups were raving about the job I’ve been doing boosted my confidence at the possibility of landing them as a client going into this last event.
And then of course my mind wanders to Becks. I don’t even try to fight the smile that graces my lips at the thought of him and everything he’s come to mean to me in such a short amount of time. I mean, if someone would have told me that I’d be falling in love with a man this quickly, I’d have told them they were crazy. But I rationalize and justify that we’ve been friends for more than a year so the transition to falling for each other is not as drastic as it seems.
And hell it feels so damn good. Butterflies in the stomach when my phone rings, staying up all hours of the night on the phone, talking about anything and nothing, just mesmerized by each other’s voices. It’s early yet, I know, and as good as it feels, I’m trying to pace myself, trying to take stock of everything because the fear is still there, still clawing at my psyche. Making its presence known with each thought, with every action so that I second-guess myself, but I’m trying desperately hard to ignore it. Push it down. Keep it at bay.
I close my eyes and lift my face to the sun, settling into the feeling when my phone rings beside me. I fumble for it, keeping my eyes closed, expecting it to be Becks since it’s getting close to his quitting time, and I’m quietly hoping I get to see him tonight. It’s been a few days and that just feels like forever right now when you’re in that getting-to-know-you stage.
“Hello?” The smile is on my face, my ears anticipating the timbre and cadence of his voice, which calls to me on so many levels.
“Ms. Montgomery, please.”
The disembodied monotone of the voice shocks me. “This is she,” I respond, half of me wanting to look at the screen and see who is calling and the other half that has my anxiety ratcheting tells me I’ll find out soon enough. But I already know.
“Hi, Ms. Montgomery. This is Dr. Blakely. How are you doing today?”
The forced cheer in her voice causes the hair on my arms to stand on end. “That depends on what you’re going to tell me.” My voice is a mere whisper over the line.
“Well, I’d like you to come in and have a chat with me.”
The saliva leaves my mouth, and my heart thunders in my ears. I’d like to think the sound prevents me from hearing properly, but I know better than that. I know that good news is given over the phone when test results are all clear, and meetings are scheduled when the results are bad. And regardless of how pleasant Dr. Blakely’s tone is, I can hear it in her voice, can hear the same quality to it as when she spoke to Lexi about her prognosis before shipping her off to the reconstruction specialist and the oncologist.
“Can’t you just tell me over the phone?” I ask, hoping against hope.
“I think it would be best if you came in so we could talk.”
And I know. Right now I know, but I’m still reaching.
“I can come in whenever it fits your schedule,” I tell her, thinking if she puts if off a week or two, I just might be wrong, that the results are nothing to worry about. I’m playing mind games with myself, I know, but I don’t care.
“How about tomorrow afternoon? I have some colleagues stopping by in the morning to meet with me in regard to your file, and so I’d like to speak with you after, if that’s okay? Say three o’clock?”
And the mind games are useless now. Tomorrow screams urgent. Tomorrow tells me cancer.
Tomorrow says Fuck you, Haddie.
I force a swallow down my throat, working to find the words I need to respond. “Okay.” I’m surprised she hears me, my voice is barely audible. I drop the phone and sit there, staring at the sky.
I have cancer. She may not have said the word, but she didn’t have to.
My glass slips from my hand and falls to the ground. I watch the lemonade spill onto the grass and then slowly seep into the earth. Disappear. Gone forever.
Ring around a rosie.
I wonder if it’s cold down there—beneath the surface of the dirt—when they bury your body.
A pocket full of posies.
I fixate on the thought. Wonder if Lexi is cold.
Ashes, ashes, we all fall down.
I close my eyes, unwilling to accept and not wanting to believe that fate has come knocking on my door. So I shut down, welcome the numbness, the disengagement I know is happening from my complete lack of tears and my inability to play the mind games needed to help me deal with the phone call.
