Like now.
I take four steps back and sit on the edge of the bed, rubbing my knuckles over my breastbone as I look around the spacious guest bedroom Dax put me in. I’ll never admit it to him, but I’m grateful to be here. I’ve felt such an emptiness since Lance died. I truly have no one.
The bedroom is furnished nicely with heavy oak furniture, but the walls are completely bare. Dax told me he’d just moved in a few months ago. He’d been sharing a big suburban house with Bishop when he first moved here, but then Bishop moved in with his girlfriend—now fiancée—and Dax had decided to downsize. He’d bought this three-bedroom townhome in Scottsdale mainly so he wouldn’t have a yard to mow.
Or so he said.
I haven’t seen him in a couple of hours. Not since we arrived.
It was just a six-hour drive from Encinitas to Phoenix. I only brought my clothes, toiletries, and a few mementos like the photograph of Lance and me. The rest we packed up and put in long-term storage paid for with Dax’s credit card. He also left a check with John for six months’ rent, apologizing for ripping his roommate away from him. John was sad to see me go, but the check more than made up for it. I called my supervisor, regrettably giving my immediate notice at my part-time job. That hadn’t felt good, and I hope I haven’t left them too much in a lurch.
After we arrived in Phoenix, Dax carried all my stuff in and promptly left, saying he had some errands to run.
Now here I sit in a room that I’m what… Supposed to live in for the next two years while I get a graduate degree? And what happens to my personal life? If I’m married to Dax, is it even possible for me to have a relationship with someone else?
Not that it’s a high probability. My one real relationship had fizzled and faded when I got my diagnosis. I’m not the most overall attractive package out there. I mean, who wants to saddle themselves with someone who has my issues?
A wave of uncertainty floods my senses.
Not the first to happen in the last two days, but the strongest. This was a stupid idea.
“Regan,” Dax calls from the living room downstairs. “I’m back, and I have dinner.”
Pushing up from the bed, I give a last longing glance at my brother staring at me from the picture frame. “I hope I’m doing the right thing, Lance. If I’m not, you need to give me a sign and really soon.”Dax is in the kitchen unloading bags of groceries, and I spy a pizza on the center kitchen island.
“I got a bunch of your favorite things,” Dax says as he reaches inside a brown paper bag. He pulls out a package of Oreo cookies, waving them over his shoulder with a grin. The cookies go on the counter, and he reaches into the bag to pull out Cheetos, Chef Boyardee Ravioli, and Pop Tarts.
My eyes widen as he deposits the stuff next to a twelve-pack of Dr. Pepper and box of Lucky Charms.
Dax turns to me, sweeps his hands toward the groceries with a flourish, and asks, “What do you think? Good memory, huh?”
I hesitantly reply, “Um… good memory. Ten-year-old Regan would totally be squealing with delight right now.”
Dax’s smile falls, his eyebrows drawing inward. He glances at the pile of junk food, then to me with chagrin. “I’m thinking by your lack of squealing, you’re eating a bit healthier these days?”
I laugh and move around the counter, poking through all the stuff. There’s a bag of Doritos, chocolate pudding cups, and Starbursts. All the things I loved as a kid and my parents had indulged me in, which might have accounted for my slight weight problem and bad skin. But my God, was that stuff good.
Turning toward Dax, I hold my hands up apologetically. “While I appreciate the effort, I truly do eat a lot healthier these days. The PNH has been a bit of a wakeup call to take my nutrition a bit more seriously.”
Dax’s face turns red, and he groans with a palm slap to his forehead. “Shit. I wasn’t even thinking about that, and I should have. I’m sorry, Regan.”
I squeeze his shoulder in commiseration. “No worries. Trust me… this disease of mine takes some getting used to. But how about you let me shop and cook? I promise not to swarm you with too many veggies, but I’ve got the balanced meal preparations down to a science now.”
“Deal,” Dax says, returning to the groceries. As I help him load the bags up, he promises to donate them to a food bank or shelter. “Is pizza okay for dinner or want me to run out to the grocery store again?”