The sound of a jackhammer wakes me before I’m ready to get up. Everything hurts. The roof of my mouth is drier than a desert and my tongue feels thick, like it’s coated with sandpaper.
There’s no need to call in sick today now that Becky knows what’s going on—it was her idea for me to take another few days off. I flip the pillow over to the cool side and try to fall back asleep when I realize the offensive noise is inside my head.
In the hallway, I hear CeCe banging around, getting ready for school. I’m not sure if it’s my imagination or my current state, but it sounds louder than normal.
“Keep it down, please,” Tommy whispers loudly. His normal shrink voice is soft and quiet, but whenever he tries to whisper, he fails miserably. “Your mom is still sleeping.”
“So, what, she gets rewarded for being drunk?” CeCe’s voice gets louder with every word. “You’re the one who’s sick, but she gets to stay home from work? And I have to go to school?”
My stomach turns—I hope I didn’t let it slip last night that he was sick.
“I said keep it down.” Tommy raises his voice, clearly forgetting he was trying not to wake me.
“It’s not fair.”
I strain to hear his reply, but I can’t. Either they really are whispering now, or more likely, Tommy is using one of his shrink moves and not saying anything at all.
“Do you want to stay home from school today?” he finally asks. “I’ll be working, but you can hang out with your mom.”
Now it’s CeCe’s turn to not say anything. I picture the scowl on her face, causing her thick black glasses to slide down her nose, making her even angrier. The image makes me smile until I realize Tommy used the thought of spending time with me to make school look like the better option.
“Well?” I hear Tommy say.
“It’s not like I can just miss rehearsal after school,” she says in defeat.
“I think that’s a smart decision,” Tommy says, again in his shrink-voice. “I’m going to make breakfast, come down if you want to join me.”
Nailed it. I burrow deeper under the covers and close my eyes again. Since I’m not going into the office, I can spend the day doing more research on treatment options. I saw an ad the other day for a drug, Keytruda. It’s only for non–small cell lung cancer, but I figure it’s worth a shot to do some digging. Maybe the pharmaceutical company is working on a similar drug for the small cell kind?
I roll over and reach for my phone, which is miraculously in its usual spot, plugged in on the nightstand. I google “cure for small cell lung cancer.”
The first few results are ads for the clinic at Emory University where Tommy’s oncologist works. But halfway down the page, there’s a link to a blog by a stage 4 cancer survivor who beat the odds thanks to homeopathic remedies.
I tap the link and hold my breath as the page loads. I have to read the woman’s story twice to make sure I didn’t misunderstand. But the beautiful truth is there, written in black-and-white: her doctor told her there was no hope, but eleven years later, she’s still cancer-free after going to a clinic in Mexico that used natural remedies. She went from stage 4 to a zero, so it is possible.
For the next ten minutes, I continue down the rabbit hole, reading patient testimonials, choosing to ignore the “results may vary” and “not approved by the FDA” warnings. The site doesn’t go into detail of what the treatments entail, but the author lists a few by name. I reach for the notepad and pen on my nightstand and jot down the phrases to research individually: hyperthermia (“local whole body heat”), sonodynamic therapy, oxygen treatments, enzyme therapy.
Another quick Google search locates the clinic I’m pretty sure she’s talking about. It’s in Tijuana, less than half an hour from the San Diego airport. My pulse quickens as I read about their philosophy, how important the patient’s attitude is and how they see fewer patients in order to provide the highest level of individual care.
I’ve got to get Tommy into this program. As I fill out the form for more information, a plan starts to formulate.
It’ll be a compromise. Shrinks love compromise, it’s like part of their code of conduct. Tommy will get to spend the summer at the beach like he wanted, just a different beach, one near a clinic that can save his life so we can go back to Destin for years to come, long after Monica’s stupid show has wrapped. It’s the best of both worlds.
I’m so relieved to be feeling hope instead of despair that when I hear the bedroom door slowly open, I forget that I shouldn’t look quite so happy.
“Morning,” he says, slightly suspicious. “You look like you’re feeling better.”
“Just happy to see you,” I say. “CeCe left for school?”
Tommy nods and leans against the doorframe. He looks exhausted.
I hesitate before asking the next question, afraid to hear the answer. “I didn’t tell her, did I?”
Tommy shakes his head, and I feel more relieved than I have the right to be. “I told her,” he says.
I know better than to ask how it went, so I pat the bed beside me instead. Tommy gives me a small smile and walks closer. His eyes graze across the page where my scribbled notes and plans are outlined. He frowns and I quickly turn over the notepad before reaching for his hand.
“I have a patient in half an hour,” he says, lifting the covers and sliding underneath.
“I’ll take all the time I can get.” I curl into his side and throw my arm around him, letting my head rise and fall with his breaths, which I try not to notice are shorter than they should be. I should have noticed; why didn’t I pay more attention? If I had, if I’d made him go to the doctor sooner, then maybe it wouldn’t be too late.
As if the universe wants to make the point loud and clear, Tommy coughs and I can hear the rattle echo in his chest. The sound hurts my heart, so I lift my head, away from what’s trying to destroy him from the inside out, and focus on his lips instead. I drink him in, tasting the coffee on his tongue.
Tommy’s hands slip underneath the pajama top I don’t remember putting on last night. His fingers feel cool on my back and I don’t want to wait any longer. I want his hands, his skin, his lips, on every part of me.
Knowing we don’t have much time to waste, I sit up and slip the shirt over my head before doing the same to his. I hesitate for a second too long, my eyes lingering on his chest, imagining the tumors hiding beneath the surface. Tommy notices and takes charge, flipping me over so I’m lying on my back. I smile before pulling him down to me. Lying beneath him, with his weight holding me down, I feel safer than I have since our lives turned upside down.
Tommy’s touch is both gentle and firm. I wrap my arms around him, holding him as close as I can. I relinquish all control and let him show me that he’s still very much alive.
AFTERWARD, AS WE lie together, Tommy kisses the top of my head. “I would have told you sooner if I knew it meant I’d keep getting lucky.”
“You have to stop making a joke of this. It’s not funny.”
“Of course it isn’t.” He kisses my forehead, then my cheek, and then my neck. “It’s just my coping mechanism.”
“I love it when you talk shrinky to me.”
“You hate it,” Tommy says, propping himself up on his arm. “Promise you won’t start lying to me, you’ll stay real.”
“I promise.” And from this moment forward, I will. He doesn’t need to know that I didn’t tell him the real reason I don’t want to go to Destin.
He lowers himself for one more kiss before rolling over to get his shirt. I watch him, so strong both physically and emotionally. I’m ashamed to admit what he’s too polite to say, that I’ve failed him the past few days.
“I’m sorry.”
“For what?” He sits back down on the bed beside me.
“For everything. The way I’ve been acting—you’re the one who’s sick, and here I am, falling apart.”
“It’s okay,” he says, forgiving me too easily.
“It’s not. But starting today, I’m back,” I tell him. “I’m here, just let me know what I can do. What can I do?”
“You can be here, loving me.”
“Done. What else?”
“You can try to understand . . .” I know the words aren’t easy to find, so I reach up and rest my hand on his cheek. “I know you don’t agree with me, but you can try to understand my decision.”
I bite my lip. That’s the one thing I don’t know if I can do. I look past him to where the notepad sits, full of hope.
“And you can reconsider going to Destin.”
The other one thing I don’t know if I can do.
As quickly as it disappeared, the tension I’ve been carrying around for days is back, making itself at home across my shoulders and down to my toes. Anything else I would do for him. Anything.
I don’t really think Tommy has a clue that Monica is back in Destin. Not that it would matter much to him if he did; he doesn’t have as much to lose. I’m not exactly jealous of her anymore. I don’t doubt for a second that he loves me. But I also know better than to underestimate the attraction to a beautiful woman and the power of fame.
And CeCe. The town’s just too small, and it’s too risky. If she finds out, she’ll think Monica is the reason I haven’t wanted her to pursue acting. But that’s not all of it. I’ve been on the other side of the casting couch, seeing over a hundred girls audition for a part that only one girl will get. The part that ninety-nine girls won’t. Being a teenager is hard enough without willingly putting yourself out there for people to reject you.
Plus, it wouldn’t be fair leaving Becky alone to handle everything back here. I made a commitment to her when we went out on our own to open the agency. She would have been happy to go on working for someone else, but she believed in me and my dream of opening up a woman-owned agency that could compete with the old boys’ clubs. I convinced her to walk away from a steady paycheck, from our 401k match and insurance plans we didn’t have to think or worry about.
“I just want one more summer,” he says, trying his best to convince me. I know he hates being landlocked in Atlanta, that he would never have moved so far away from the ocean if my career hadn’t kept me here.
I reach for the notepad. I guess now is as good a time as any to bring it up.
“What if I gave you the beach? An even better beach. In Mexico.” Tommy looks confused. “I found this clinic in Tijuana, they have natural cures, things like—”
“No.”
“But—”
“Goddammit, Lexie. Don’t make this harder than it already is.”
The words I want to say are caught in my throat—why can’t he see that’s the opposite of what I’m trying to do?
“I’ve got a patient.”
He turns and goes without kissing me goodbye, leaving me with a sinking feeling that I’m a horrible, selfish person who doesn’t deserve him.