from hell.”
His jaw was tight, but he slid his phone across the table toward me. “Text yourself your address,” he said, “and that way we have each other’s numbers, too.”
“Fine,” I said, opening his texting app. “There better not be any dick pics in here.”
“You wish,” he said, his voice deep with meaning.
I’m packing some heat.
I stared hard down at the phone and texted myself, then slid the phone back across the table at him. “Have a nice day,” I said.
“See ya, Sunshine,” Jason said, and I walked out the door.
Eight
M egan
I got most of the way to Detroit before I admitted to myself that I’d been a bit of a bitch.
It was Jason’s fault, I told myself at first. He brought it out in me. He goaded me somehow, so what did he expect? He’d pried into my appointment. He’d brought up Charlotte.
But no, that was me. I’d brought up Charlotte.
I sat in slow traffic on the interstate and ran a hand through my hair. Okay, so I was a little on edge. I had a really good reason. And he could have at least been nice about it, right?
Except I hadn’t told him my reason. And he had been nice. Or he’d tried to be.
Fuck.
I made it to the hospital with barely fifteen minutes to spare. I found my way through the maze of hospital parking, then jogged through the massive complexes of buildings to the Cancer Center, stopping twice to ask for directions in the halls. I finally got to Dr. Pfeiffer’s office, sweaty and damp, my sneakers squeaking on the floors and my purse banging against my thigh.
I had never met Dr. Pfeiffer before. I’d been referred to him by my mother’s oncologist, who had contacted me and recommended he refer me for an appointment. Dr. Pfeiffer, it turned out, was in his late forties, one of those vital, thick-bodied men who gave off a lot of presence and an air of lively intelligence. He sat down on the chair across from me in his little appointment room, put down my file next to him, and leaned toward me as if I were interesting.
“Miss Perry,” he said. “You’ve been sent to me because of your mother’s history.”
I swallowed. “Yes.”
He didn’t have to glance at the file; he’d already read it. “I’m very sorry for your loss,” he said. “From everything I’ve read in your mother’s file, she had the best possible care.”
“She was only forty-three.” I said the words in nearly a whisper. All of my anger was gone, all of my bravado, in this little office, sitting in a chair across from this man.
He nodded. “I’ve worked in cancer treatment for all of my career, Megan, and I can tell you with certainty that cancer is a bastard.”
I blinked.
He gave me a small smile. “I didn’t offend you, did I? It’s just what I’ve observed.”
“No, you didn’t offend me.” I actually felt a little more comfortable now.
“So,” Dr. Pfeiffer said. “Are you aware that your mother participated in genetic testing before she passed away?”
“I remember something about it.” So much of that time was a blur. An awful, nightmarish blur.
“That’s where I come in,” Dr. Pfeiffer said. “Since your mother’s breast cancer was so rare, and so aggressive, she was asked to do the testing. As a result, even though she’s passed away, we actually have her genetic profile.” He watched me carefully, making sure I was following. “Breast cancer has a genetic component to it in many cases. Are you aware of that?”
I nodded again. I felt a little like a schoolgirl, but I didn’t mind. I wanted to be led through this, and I didn’t want to think. “It means I could inherit the tendency to get the cancer from her.”
“Technically, it’s a genetic mutation,” Dr. Pfeiffer said. “I won’t get too technical, but I have some literature you can take home and read so you can fully understand it. But the short version is that your mother carried a specific genetic mutation that contributed to her cancer risk. And there is a
His jaw was tight, but he slid his phone across the table toward me. “Text yourself your address,” he said, “and that way we have each other’s numbers, too.”
“Fine,” I said, opening his texting app. “There better not be any dick pics in here.”
“You wish,” he said, his voice deep with meaning.
I’m packing some heat.
I stared hard down at the phone and texted myself, then slid the phone back across the table at him. “Have a nice day,” I said.
“See ya, Sunshine,” Jason said, and I walked out the door.
Eight
M egan
I got most of the way to Detroit before I admitted to myself that I’d been a bit of a bitch.
It was Jason’s fault, I told myself at first. He brought it out in me. He goaded me somehow, so what did he expect? He’d pried into my appointment. He’d brought up Charlotte.
But no, that was me. I’d brought up Charlotte.
I sat in slow traffic on the interstate and ran a hand through my hair. Okay, so I was a little on edge. I had a really good reason. And he could have at least been nice about it, right?
Except I hadn’t told him my reason. And he had been nice. Or he’d tried to be.
Fuck.
I made it to the hospital with barely fifteen minutes to spare. I found my way through the maze of hospital parking, then jogged through the massive complexes of buildings to the Cancer Center, stopping twice to ask for directions in the halls. I finally got to Dr. Pfeiffer’s office, sweaty and damp, my sneakers squeaking on the floors and my purse banging against my thigh.
I had never met Dr. Pfeiffer before. I’d been referred to him by my mother’s oncologist, who had contacted me and recommended he refer me for an appointment. Dr. Pfeiffer, it turned out, was in his late forties, one of those vital, thick-bodied men who gave off a lot of presence and an air of lively intelligence. He sat down on the chair across from me in his little appointment room, put down my file next to him, and leaned toward me as if I were interesting.
“Miss Perry,” he said. “You’ve been sent to me because of your mother’s history.”
I swallowed. “Yes.”
He didn’t have to glance at the file; he’d already read it. “I’m very sorry for your loss,” he said. “From everything I’ve read in your mother’s file, she had the best possible care.”
“She was only forty-three.” I said the words in nearly a whisper. All of my anger was gone, all of my bravado, in this little office, sitting in a chair across from this man.
He nodded. “I’ve worked in cancer treatment for all of my career, Megan, and I can tell you with certainty that cancer is a bastard.”
I blinked.
He gave me a small smile. “I didn’t offend you, did I? It’s just what I’ve observed.”
“No, you didn’t offend me.” I actually felt a little more comfortable now.
“So,” Dr. Pfeiffer said. “Are you aware that your mother participated in genetic testing before she passed away?”
“I remember something about it.” So much of that time was a blur. An awful, nightmarish blur.
“That’s where I come in,” Dr. Pfeiffer said. “Since your mother’s breast cancer was so rare, and so aggressive, she was asked to do the testing. As a result, even though she’s passed away, we actually have her genetic profile.” He watched me carefully, making sure I was following. “Breast cancer has a genetic component to it in many cases. Are you aware of that?”
I nodded again. I felt a little like a schoolgirl, but I didn’t mind. I wanted to be led through this, and I didn’t want to think. “It means I could inherit the tendency to get the cancer from her.”
“Technically, it’s a genetic mutation,” Dr. Pfeiffer said. “I won’t get too technical, but I have some literature you can take home and read so you can fully understand it. But the short version is that your mother carried a specific genetic mutation that contributed to her cancer risk. And there is a
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