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“You’ll recover.” He says it with such surety, such conviction, that I suck in a breath.
That’s my greatest fear, isn’t it? I haven’t been able to think about the tumor growing in my breast because I’m scared to death that I won’t recover. I saw my dad get eaten up by a cancer of his own. I saw the way it ripped my mother to shreds, and how it took her a decade to recover the same laughter that filled her up before. I saw my family adjust and fuss over my dying dad and take the world on our shoulders because that’s what we had to do.
I don’t want to make them do that for me. Not if I’m just going to die at the end of it all.
The worst part is if it weren’t for the baby, I’m not sure I would even have come back here. I had international health insurance and I was eligible for treatment in Milan. I could have stayed. I could have hidden my suffering and spared everyone from the feelings of guilt and powerlessness that come with caring for someone you love.
But it was the thought of my baby that brought me back here, that made me make sure I had people around me who would take care of my child if the worst were to happen to me.
And now there’s Rudy. It would be so much easier if I didn’t have these budding feelings for him—if I could just convince myself to keep him at arm’s length.
I close my eyes and grip his shoulders, taking stock of my situation. Rudy knows about the cancer, but he doesn’t know about the baby. Trina knows about the baby, but she doesn’t know about the cancer. My mother and Candice know nothing. I have ten weeks, give or take a few, until my bump starts showing. I have two weeks until I enter my second trimester and am eligible for my mastectomy surgery.
Time is ticking. The best course of action is just to be honest with everyone. I should deal with the pity, with the fussing, with the burden that everyone will carry because of me. I’m not doing anyone any favors by hiding these things. Rudy deserves to know that we have no future—not with a baby that isn’t his growing in my womb. My family deserves time to deal with this news.
“Let me walk you home,” Rudy says gently, and that’s what he does.
As my thoughts whirl around me, Rudy is a steady presence at my side. We pause outside my door, and I almost manage to invite Rudy upstairs.
But if I invite him up, I’ll have to tell him about the baby.
He must sense my hesitation, because he just tilts my chin up with the tip of his finger and presses his lips to mine so tenderly it makes my heart clench.
“I’ll call you later this week,” he tells me.
“We’re not supposed to care about each other like this,” I blurt.
His eyes crinkle at the corners, then his face grows serious. “I don’t care about the cancer, Lily. I could help you with it.”
I shake my head. “I don’t want that.”
He freezes for a moment, then relents. “I’ll wait for you to call me, then.”
Stomach in my throat, I nod. We hold each other’s gaze for a few moments, then I make my way upstairs to my apartment.
Alone.
CHAPTER 13
Rudy
I stare at the IRS audit letter in my hands, then lift my gaze to my grandmother. “This letter is dated April 15, Grandma. Why are you only showing me this now?”
It’s been nearly a week since my great-aunt’s charity auction, and Lily hasn’t called. We’ve texted a few times, but she hasn’t been to the bookstore and we haven’t made plans to see each other. It shouldn’t bother me though, right? She has a lot of shit going on; she told me she wanted to be casual. People who date casually don’t see each other every day. This is normal.
The paper in my hand crinkles as I grip it tighter, trying to tamp down my frustration. I’m not mad at my grandmother, I just feel…unsettled.
“I forgot,” she huffs.
“But you conveniently remembered only a few days before the IRS agent is scheduled to get here?”
“I remembered in time, didn’t I?” My grandmother crosses her arms. “What’s the big deal? I always pay my taxes. I have all my records saved in the storeroom.”
An involuntary shiver courses through me. I’ve only opened the door to the storeroom a handful of times in all the years I’ve helped my grandmother. It’s a dark, dank room with boxes stacked to the ceiling, old tools, and various bits of furniture stuffed in so tight it’s almost impossible to open the door.
“This is a field audit,” I say, waving the letter. “They’re not just asking for a few documents, Grandma. They’re going to go through your tax return from last year with a fine-tooth comb.”
“And you’re going to help them.” My grandmother gives me a curt nod.
