“Have you gotten to the part where Noah chases Ruby through the library?” He says it so casually it takes me a few seconds to realize he’s talking about the romance novel I was reading aloud to Mom when he came to her room a few days ago.
“You’ve actually read it?” I ask incredulously. When he told me he had before, I didn’t really believe him.
“Don’t tell the other residents. I’d never hear theend of it. But it’s one of my favorites.” His expression loses some of its heaviness, and a smile brightens his eyes. “A different form of medicine, you could say.” He winks, and my heart sings a shrill little song, just like a bird.
Despite his words, I get the impression he wouldn’t care who I tell. I’ve never met someone so unabashedly comfortable and confident. Someone so unashamed of what they like. It’s… attractive.
“See you around, Dr. Romero,” I say, trying to remind myself this man is off limits, as unreachable as the sun.
“Hopefully soon, Hazel Berton.” The dimples in his cheeks appear for the first time today, and I want to stick my tongue in those dimples—which is completely inappropriate and infinitely weird, but… so appealing.
I snap myself out of my lust-induced haze and force myself to walk away before I do something so embarrassing he’ll never want to look at me again, even if we can stop time.
Chapter Eleven
In the past week, I’ve finished reading all eight romance novels Aunt Joan brought and none of the literary ones I intended to read as inspiration for my novel. I’ve revised exactly thirty pages—nowhere near enough—and I’ve spent dozens of hours wondering if I’d see Cosmos again. I haven’t.
Mom is now on day sixteen of the trial, and I think the hardest part is the silence. The treatment has robbed my bubbly, vivacious mother of her voice. She used to babble on about any topic at all and talk to strangers for hours without a breath, but now it’s too much effort. She only talks when something’s really wrong or when I’m trying to get her to do something she doesn’t want to do, like eat. Or take her meds. Then her voice comes out again, and it stings.
“Do you want to eat something?” I ask.
The look on her face tells me she doesn’t, but shehasn’t eaten since yesterday, and she promptly threw up afterwards. I’m worried about her.
“How about you try just a little?” I prompt, lifting the lid off the covered hospital meal. No matter what they bring up, it all smells the same. It’s a scent I can only describe aswarmandfood, a kind of generic bland scent that makes me want to vomit along with my mom.
As soon as I lift the lid, she shakes her head and covers her mouth with her hand. I set the entire tray on the floor in the hall. As far away as possible. With my help, Mom drinks some water before sliding back down the pillows and pointing to the remote control for the TV.
I know I can’t really be upset with her, but I’m tired of being ordered around with grunts and points. I almost don’t feel bad leaving her to go to my writing workshop today. Although I’d feel a lot better if I had pages to read that I actually liked for once.
Aunt Joan waltzes in right on time, carrying another container of brownies, probably pot brownies, since I threw out the last batch, and Mom wasn’t happy about it.
“Here,” Aunt Joan says, handing me a printout of some sort.
A quick glance tells me it’s an article about the benefits of marijuana for cancer patients. I try to contain my eye roll. It’s not that I’m against Mom having weed. I know it can help her symptoms. It’s more that I don’t think she should mix weed with a new experimental drug. But I’ve already made myopinion known, and, as my mom continuously reminds me, she’s got twenty-two years on me and can make her own decisions.
“Just take care of her, okay?” I set the printout on the table by Mom’s bed and pick up my purse. “I’ll be back in a few hours.”
“Take your time.” Aunt Joan waves me away, already launching into a discussion about a book she left last time.
I leave them with their pot brownies and trudge myself through two hours of my writing workshop.
When I get back to the hospital, I’m exhausted and want nothing more than to watch a funny movie and pretend I don’t have a seventy-thousand-word novel to write and edit in the next three weeks. But, I can hear Aunt Joan’s distinct chortle as soon as I step off the elevator, and I know my plans for a quiet movie night just went up in smoke.
Rose is standing in the doorway of Mom’s hospital room with her hands on her full hips. “There are dying patients on this floor, and they don’t deserve to hear you cackling,” Rose shouts in order to be heard over Aunt Joan, who has now taken up singing the Star-Spangled Banner for no apparent reason at all.
Clearly, they’ve had more than their fair share of brownies.
“She’s leaving,” I say, from behind Rose. “Right, Aunt Joan?” I give her a pointed look. She snorts and goes right back to singing. Maybe she shouldn’t be driving after all.
Mom is giggling so hard she’s panting andgrasping her chest like she’s trying to contain a gaping wound. “Stop! Oh, stop. I can’t?—”
Aunt Joan sobers suddenly, looking at Mom with wide eyes, like she’s only just realized laughing is causing Mom pain. It’s good to see Mom happy, but I don’t want her exhausting herself. Or hurting herself. Clearly, neither does Aunt Joan.
“Sorry, Ticktack,” Aunt Joan says, bursting into tears. “I’m so sorry.”
Rose and I share a look. She seems as unamused as I am.
“How long have they been like this?” I ask.
