“Okay,” says Dad. “I’ll take her to the hotel. We just had to see you. Make sure you’re okay. You understand?”
“I do. And for what it’s worth, I am sorry about how you found out. I wanted to tell you myself, if it came to it.”
“You’ve always been so strong, Valentina. I never realized you would use that strength to pull something like this. But we’ll talk more tomorrow. Okay?”
They both kiss me and walk away, though they glance back as they walk out the door. I take a deep breath. Okay. We can do this in small bites. We’ve ripped off the Band-Aid, and tomorrow we can do the rest.
Rory getsto my room before my parents. He wears his scrubs and doctor’s coat. Being hospital staff provides him the liberty to avoid visiting hours.
“How are you?” I ask and smile at him.
His face brightens when he sees my smile. “Good. How about you?”
“Feeling a bit stronger. But it won’t last. I get chemo tomorrow, and that usually knocks me out for a few days.”
“Think of it this way,” he says. “You’re almost halfway there.”
He is right. I know this. The trial is a five-week treatment plan, and I’m entering week three. I hadn’t let myself search for the light at the end of the tunnel, but there it is, reflected in Rory’s bright green eyes.
Rory places a vase of yellow and pink tulips on the counter by the window.
“I love tulips,” I say. “Thank you.”
“Do you? Or are you just saying that?”
“Would I lie to you?”
“Youhavelied to me. And you seem to lie to a lot of people.”
A kick to the jaw would have been less painful.
“I’m sorry,” he says. “I’m new to being on the other side of this. Usually, I’m the doctor. Navigating everything else . . . that’s harder,” he says.
“I understand.”
Rory takes a seat next to my bed and takes my hand, rubbing the top of it with his thumb in circles.
“I hate that you see me like this,” I admit.
“Like what?”
“Sick. I look awful.”
“Valentina, you have no idea how beautiful you are. I don’t think you’ll believe me, but I have to say it anyway. When I look at you, I don’t see a sick person. I seeyou. And you are strong, and yes, beautiful. I don’t care if you think I’m superficial.”
My eyes mist over for the first time because Rory Dennis says the only words I want to hear. He hasn’t let this disease alter his perception of me.
“Hey, don’t cry,” he coos.
“I’m not crying. You’re crying.” I shake my head to center myself and smile at him again.
I squeeze his hand, and he leans forward to land the sweetest and softest peck on my lips. It’s not a passionate kiss like what we shared before, but the tenderness and rawness of it plunges us into a different level of intimacy. I place my hand on his cheek as our lips pull away, and he presses his forehead to mine. We’re sharing this tender moment when a booming voice has us jumping and pulling away from each other.
“What is this?”
As he turns to face the door, Rory keeps my hand tight in his.
My father glares at him, his nostrils flaring, and his hands at his sides bunch into fists. His body shakes with fury, and my heart races.