I sit forward and press my beer to the table. “Come again? And explain really fucking slowly so I can keep up.”
“You don’t have to swear about it.” She avoids my eyes, instead focusing on her glass of wine as she slowly spins it. Her brows furrow, her lip thickens the longer she abuses it, and her left arm folds across her stomach, the way it has so many times in the past when she wants to hide from me.
“I’m sorry if I sound harsh, Priss. But I think you just broke me a little. I need you to explain what the fuck you mean, because I know what I’m thinking is worse than reality.”
Her eyes sparkle as she peeks up from beneath her lashes. “What are you thinking?”
“You visit kids with cancer?” When she nods, my heart stops. “That makes me think you were a kid with cancer. But that can’t be right, because–”
“I was.” She clears her throat, and continues to spin that glass. “I was diagnosed with breast cancer when I was fifteen years old. It tore my world apart.”
I press a hand to my chest, because I swear, deep inside, something just snapped.
“Priss…”
“It’s why I’m small. It’s why my brothers obsess over me. It’s why I have scars on my arms and chest. It’s why I like to cover up and wear loose clothing. I used to hate my hair, but then I lost it all during treatments.” She reaches up and plays with the long strands. “Suddenly, I didn’t hate it anymore. To be fifteen, sick, without hair, always in the hospital…” She pulls in a deep breath. “It was a bad time for me. I was in there for months, because my treatment was complicated. So… I like to pay it forward. Do you know what I mean? I like to visit my friends and make them smile for an hour.”
“Fuck me.” I sit back and run a hand over my face.
The meal I just enjoyed is now tasteless. The beer I was drinking, bland.
I run another hand over my face and grunt. Then I push my chair back so fast that it topples to the floor and makes Abigail jump. I stalk toward her.
I know I frighten her. Her cheeks pale, and her eyes dart along my face, but I can’t slow.
I scoop her out of her chair and hold on tight while she squeals. I take her out of the kitchen and into the living room, then I drop down on the couch with a huff and squeeze her to me until I can breathe through the worry that surges in my blood.
She’s not scared anymore, but her heart races, her breath comes out in short pants. If it weren’t for her nails massaging the back of my neck, I’d worry she was freaking out as much as I am.
“Spencer?”
“Hang on a minute.”
She sits in my lap so her legs are bent and resting against my chest and arm. I bury my face in her hair, breathe her in, and try to let it replace the stench of hospitals that my brain somehow convinces me I can smell.
“Spencer? Are you okay?”
“Are you?” I pull back and stare into her eyes.
The times I teased her about her size. About her ill-fitting clothes. When I touched her in the bathroom at Kane’s wedding, and again inherbathroom, when she did all she could to cover up.
“Jesus, Abigail. Are you okay?”
Her brows almost touch as she watches my face. “It was a long time ago. I’m okay.”
“I’m sorry for all the times I teased you.”
“It’s okay.” Her lips quiver with a smile. “You’re basically the only person in the world that didn’t treat me like a fragile child. I fought you on it, but inside, I liked that you treated me like an adult.”
“How old?” I pull her impossibly closer and glance between her eyes. “You said, but I already forget.”
“Fifteen.” She swallows. “I was fifteen when I was diagnosed. I was in the hospital for most of a year, because of complications and stuff. But I’m better now.”
“Remission?”
She nods. “Surgery and chemo worked. I’ve been in remission for eight years. I get exams every six months, and blood tests once a year.”
“When was the last time they checked you?” I can’t help that my eyes flick down to her chest. I’m not checking her out, I’m checking that she’s okay. “Is it time for another? I can come with you.”