Dumbfounded, I stared at her, waiting for … what exactly? Her to change her mind? She wasn’t going to. She wanted a fucking fairy tale, and so far I gave her a nightmare with a side of betrayal.
“Now leave,” she said primly.
“Nix—”
She slammed her window in my face, drawing the curtains shut for good measure.
She kicked me out.
Made new rules for our game.
Now I needed to play by them or admit defeat.
The first thing I did when I got back to my apartment was fling the pantry door open, nearly sending it off its hinges. There wasn’t much food there. And by ‘much’ I meant at all. There wasn’t any food there period. Only packs upon packs of Marlboros imported from Europe, because American cigarettes tasted like farts on fire.
I stared at the piles upon piles of what Aisling had referred to as cancer sticks, wondering if I was really about to do what I was about to do.
I was.
Fuck it. I took six bullets in my lifetime. I could do this.
I grabbed all the packs and shoved them into four recycling bags, including the pack that was in my pocket, and tossed everything into the building’s dumpster.
Then I went back upstairs and stared at the empty ashtray on my coffee table.
Proving to Aisling that I took her seriously just might turn into my idea of a nightmare.
And so help me God, she better come around fucking quickly or heads were going to roll on the streets of Boston.
My phone started ringing in my skirt’s pocket while I hugged Mrs. Martinez goodbye at the clinic door. Tugging it out, I was surprised to see Sam’s name flashing on the screen. I had saved his number that time he came in with his injured soldiers just in case but never expected him to call me. I drew a firm line between optimism and stupidity, and that seemed like the threshold for it.
What did he want?
“Everything okay?” Mrs. Martinez’s face clouded as she drank in my expression. Her hair had begun to grow again, fluffy and strewn about her head like little clouds now that she’d stopped her chemotherapy treatments. She was feeling better. Sometimes it worked that way after chemo. She opted to stop because her doctor had told her there was no hope for remission. But we now had new hope. She was taking an experimental drug that was supposed to shrink the tumor on her pancreas.
I was feeling hopeful she could live a comfortable life for months, maybe even a couple years.
“Yeah.” I smiled brightly, nodding as I all but pushed her out the door. “Sorry. I just had a moment there. Everything is fine.”
“You know …” She stopped, digging her heels into the floor, grinning. “I never asked you if you are married. Are you, Dr. F?”
I hadn’t given any of my patients my real full name. I needed to take safety measures to ensure my tracks were covered in case things went south.
“Not even remotely.” My fingers tightened around my phone, which kept buzzing. “I’m morbidly single, I’m afraid.”
“Hmm.” She looked thoughtful. “There is nothing morbid about your situation, dear. You will be married soon.” Mrs. Martinez winked. “I know about things like that.”
“You do?” I asked, my smile thin and distracted.
Please, lady, let me answer this.
She nodded enthusiastically.
“Absolutely. I was a fortuneteller my whole life before I retired. Traveled around with Aquila Carnival. Do you know it? They stop every summer just outside the city.”
Aquila Festival was where the most monumental part of my life had happened. Where I met Sam.
“I predicted I’d get cancer, all the royal weddings and divorces, and the exact order of Kate and William’s babies by gender…” her chest puffed proudly “…and let me tell you, my sweet, you will get married and soon. Maybe even to the person who tried to call you right now.” She jerked her chin to the phone I was clutching.
I dropped my eyes to it and realized I missed the call.
“Don’t worry.” Mrs. Martinez rose on her tiptoes, kissing my cheek. “He’ll call again. He has something important to tell you. Goodbye.”
I closed the door after her, frowning at my phone, willing it to ring again.
Sure enough, it did.
He has something important to tell you.
Swiping a finger across the screen, I received the call.
“What do you want?” I put on the most bored tone I could find in my arsenal of voices.
“You, spread eagle on my bed, wearing nothing but whipped cream and my favorite please-fuck-me-Sam expression,” he said darkly.
I did not reply. Responding to his banter would suggest I’d forgiven him.
“I need your help,” he said after a beat.
“You need help … I can agree with that. But it won’t be mine, Sam. I’m done handing you favors just to watch how you screw me over.” I ambled back into my office, pinning the phone between my ear and shoulder as I scrubbed my hands clean in the sink.