“You exposed everything.”
“Yes.”
“You made me face Caleb.”
“No,” he said. “You did that.”
I swallowed.
“I’m scared, Owen.”
His hand tightened lightly at my waist.
“I know.”
“If treatment doesn’t work—”
“Then we deal with that day when it becomes today.”
“And if I lose my hair?”
“I’ll help you pick scarves.”
“If I get mean?”
“You already are.”
I laughed.
Then cried again.
He smiled faintly.
“If you get scared?”
“I am scared.”
“Then I’ll sit with you.”
The song ended.
Neither of us moved.
I whispered, “Why does this feel more real than my actual engagement?”
“Because nobody is selling you certainty.”
I rested my forehead against his chest.
“I don’t know what you are to me.”
His voice came quietly above me.
“That’s okay.”
For once, I believed it.
Treatment began the following week.
There is nothing cinematic about treatment.
No montage can capture the smell of antiseptic, the taste of metal, the humiliation of needing help to shower, the rage of watching hair come out in your hands, the boredom of infusion rooms, the terror before every scan.
Owen drove me to the first appointment.
Then the second.
Then the tenth.
He brought coffee that slowly improved.
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