Then, Dr. Ramirez’s gaze shifts above and behind me.
“Dr. Dennis,” she greets, and I freeze at the sound of his name. Does he know it’s me sitting here?
“Please, Dr. Ramirez, call me Rory outside of work.”
“Okay, then please call me Carolina.”
Rory shifts to stand at the side of the table so he can see both our faces, and I panic. I remember I didn’t wear a scarf today and wonder if my pixie hair is pointing in all different directions. I try to tame it with my hand discreetly, but I don’t know if it’s helping. Why did this joint have to be all classy and not have any mirrors?
“What are we celebrating?” Rory asks.
“You want to tell him?” Dr. Ramirez asks.
I look at Rory for the first time. I haven’t seen those green eyes in six months, and I don’t know how I keep it together. He’s as handsome as ever. I have always regretted that we didn’t take any photos during our brief time together to remember him by. Though honestly, I wouldn’t have wanted to be in them at the time. But it would have been nice to have recorded our time at the park for posterity.
“I, um—” I clear my throat. “Remission. Six months,” I say and sink a little in my chair, though I keep my plastered smile, hoping it looks natural.
“That’s great!” Rory all but shrieks.
The pang of guilt forces my eyes to the ground. I should have messaged him at some point to tell him I was better. I force myself to look him in the eye again, and his smile never dissipates.
Our eyes are locked when Dr. Ramirez interjects in the exchange. “Rory, why don’t you sit with us?” she asks.
Rory looks at me, waiting for me to echo the invitation. Part of me doesn’t want to open this door again, but I know it’s the part that will lose because I’ve missed him, and I need to know how he’s been all this time, so I nod.
Dr. Ramirez gets another champagne flute for Rory, and the three of us clink glasses.
“To kicking the shit out of cancer,” says Dr. Ramirez.
“To kicking the shit out of cancer,” Rory and I both echo.
It’s hard to include Dr. Ramirez in the conversation because we both have a lot of catching up to do, but we don’t want to be rude, so we steer clear of any heavy subjects for the time being.
“So, I saw your fight with the Russian—what’s her name?” Rory asks.
“Galina,” I say.
“Yeah, that’s right. It looked like you won. I can’t believe the judges gave her the fight.”
I smile, remembering that fight. At the time, it had seemed like the most unfair thing I’d ever go through. I hadn’t been diagnosed yet. Now, it seems so minor and unimportant. “You weren’t the only one,” I say.
Rory keeps babbling about the fight, and I look over at Dr. Ramirez with concern. She is looking at her phone with her face scrunched up, and those eyebrows of hers are drawn together into twin frowns.
“Is everything okay?” I ask her.
“I don’t know,” she says. “I, uh, have to go. Do you mind?”
“No, please. I hope everything’s fine.”
Dr. Ramirez kisses my cheek warmly in a gesture I know is crossing a line, but I also think she is telling me she is no longer my doctor because I no longer need her. This was always the plan—for me to return to Mexico and get follow-up care close to home. Watching her leave the bar, though, makes my chest constrict a bit. I’ll miss her immensely.
“So, you look good,” Rory says.
“Thanks. I’m starting to feel a little like my old self.”
“That’s great,” he says.
“Though I finally resigned myself to the fact that I’ll never be what I once was—”