Total pages in book: 109
Estimated words: 103719 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 519(@200wpm)___ 415(@250wpm)___ 346(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 103719 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 519(@200wpm)___ 415(@250wpm)___ 346(@300wpm)
“They did.” He shrugged. “As for why it didn’t come up in your patient assessment report? I can’t answer that—maybe they were waiting to tell you at that appointment you skipped.”
And yes, it would have been more likely she’d be infertile because of the amount of chemo she’d had over the course of her lifetime, but who didn’t use protection for other reasons?
Someone who didn’t think they had a long life ahead of them, that’s who, he thought.
Across the way, C.P. came into sharp focus for him. She was dressed for treatment, nothing binding on her body, everything loose, cotton, and comfy—and goddamn, he wished he’d never lent her that fucking fleece. He certainly didn’t want it back now.
Pregnant. As if he needed a more obvious confirmation of what he’d walked into with that bathroom of hers—and the father was dead.
Sitting there all alone, she looked so tired, so vulnerable , the dark circles she usually concealed with expensive makeup smudging under her eyes, her lips pale without their applied tinting, her hair limp as it fell forward into her face, no spray on it to keep it curled and in check.
She didn’t even have shoes on, just thick, fluffy socks.
Then again, she’d come here expecting to receive therapy.
He glanced to the door. He’d told the three nurses and the other oncologist he’d asked to stay for the administration of the drugs to go home as soon as he’d noticed the test in her voluminous records. That had been back at five in the afternoon. And then he’d called C.P. down here—only after he’d gotten his own shit together.
“What’s going to happen if I keep…” She cleared her throat. “If I keep the pregnancy going.”
Clearly, she was having trouble saying “baby.”
His eyes went back to the test. “It’ll be a race between the pregnancy and the leukemia. And excuse me for being blunt, but that’s assuming you don’t miscarry along the way.”
The way her hands went to her flat stomach told him everything he needed to know about what her decision was going to be—and maybe more than she realized: She was going to want to keep what was inside of her, no matter how the baby came out. No matter what had happened to the father.
A kindling respect crushed what little was left of his stupid-ass hopes. Which should never have existed in the first place because, really, what was he hoping for? Well, he wanted her, still, and maybe he had lived inside their professional relationship, creating a house of intimacy that he had been shacking up in without being cognizant of his new address.
This was a good thing, he told himself. This refocus he had going on.
“You’re going to need to get a high-risk obstetrician,” he said. “Your age isn’t necessarily a problem, but your AML is going to be a challenge.”
“You’ll be my oncologist still.”
She was speaking absently, like she was developing her plan and he was the top bullet point.
Sorry, C.P., he thought.
“No,” he said. “I’m a researcher, not a clinician.”
That was not entirely true, the lines between the two obviously being blurred given his work in the lab. But there was no way he could give her the treatment she needed and deserved. His objectivity was shot to shit.
Well, and then there was the other reason he couldn’t be hers.
Her physician, that was.
Gus cleared his throat and tried like hell to pull himself back from the abyss. “You need to go to Houston and follow through with whatever Anderson tells you. You and this baby require a team, an integrated team. Get yourself a nice crash pad down there, and do what you need to.” He waved his hand around. “Forget this shit with Vita.”
He thought about what that mysterious caller had told him. And what had been offered.
What he had accepted when they had called back an hour ago.
“Sell the bitch and let it go,” he said hoarsely. “Take your money and live your life because you may have an heir who’ll need resources at the end of… it all.”
As he rattled on, C.P. Phalen was just staring down at her stomach, and he doubted she heard what he was saying. Probably for the best. His pain had leaked out there at the end.
* * *
C.P.’s hearing was on a delay: She was processing so much that it was hard to internalize what Gus was saying to her—except then his words sank in.
Looking at him sharply, she said, “You can consult on my case, though.”
“No, C.P.” He shook his head. “I’m afraid I can’t.”
“But—”
“For one, how would you explain the relationship, how I was involved in your care? I dropped off the national stage like three years ago. Now I’m back and talking to a bunch of experts about your case? Be real.”
“We can work around that—”