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“I couldn’t put you through that, baby,” I whisper back, taking another step toward her—slowly, carefully. “Not when you’re?—”
“What?” she says, whipping around. “I’m what?”
I inhale, brace, and move closer, taking her hands in mine. “It’ll be okay, baby.”
She tugs, but I hold fast. “How will this possibly be okay?”
“It’s not serious,” I say. “Not like my mom had.”
Her eyes go wide, new worry creeping into the edges of her expression.
“It’s treatable,” I say in a hurry. “Just a few rounds of chemo, some radiation. It worked before, and?—”
“It came back,” she says.
Guilt ripples through me.
“Brit—” I begin.
She shakes her head. “You say it’s not serious.”
“It’s not.”
“But it came back,” she whispers.
I squeeze her hands. “The doctor’s going to be more aggressive this time.”
Her brows furrow. “But you said you’re delaying treatment.”
“I—” Damn. I exhale silently, gently touch her cheek. “It’ll be okay.”
She shakes her head again, sending her ponytail flying behind her. “You’re not doing this.”
“Baby—”
“You’re not fucking doing it!”she snaps, jerking free of my hold. “In fact, you’re calling the doctor’s office right fucking now and getting on the schedule immediately.”
“It’s not that simple, sweetheart,” I begin.
“It isthat fucking simple,” she snaps, beautiful in her fury. “You pick up the phone, you make a call. You treat the fucking cancer that’s growing in your body as we speak.” She stomps across the room, grabs my cell from the nightstand, unlocking the screen and shoving it in my direction. “You make that call right fucking now?—”
“Brit—” Dan begins, moving toward her, reaching for the phone. “Maybe you should just take a beat and?—”
She jerks away from him, shoves my cell in my direction again.“Not now,” she snaps at her brother before turning back to me, her rage a beauty to behold. “Make the fucking call, Stefan.”
“Brit,” Dan says again, carefully approaching her like she’s a scared and cornered animal—and I suppose she is. Scared and cornered and hurt.
Because I fucked up.
“Babe,” he says, carefully touching her shoulder. “Stefancan’t get a hold of the doctor in the middle of the night.”
“I—” She freezes. “I—” A shake of her head, seeming to jar herself back into focus before determination fills her frame and she shoves my phone at me a third time. “Maybe not,” she says. “But you can leave a message.”
Still, taut air.
Fury and hurt.
Guilt and fuck-ups.
