Page 56 of Bad Blood

He tsks under his breath.

“We need to cover all our bases.” I flip to the next page in his chart—the one that needs his signature—the part I’ve been dreading. I rub my temples, pushing away a migraine. “Unfortunately, with this metastasizing and spreading, the survival rate has dropped below fifteen percent. This is a rapidly spreading tumor, and we weren’t expecting to find it this far progressed.”

“That’s what that meant.” He grabs the report he left on the exam table. “The T, N, M, G?” he points at the last page of the report, holding it for me to see.

“Yes, you’re at a G3 TM. It’s considered high-grade, metastatic. Treatable”—barely—“with the outlined protocols we discussed. Do you have questions?”

“Nope. I got it.” There’s a tremor in his hand as he offers me the report. His face turns a pallid shade of ash as he stares off into the distance. His knuckles turn white as he grips the edge of the table.

I set a hand on his knee, and he goes rigid, giving me a hesitant smile as he tries to rein in his emotions.

“That’s your copy.”

He gives me a grin. “But I have no idea what it says. Do you go through training or something?”

“As an oncologist?” I’m a little thrown off by his question. “Or . . .”

“To give results. Tell patients they’re gonna die.”

My words catch in my throat, and I cough into my hand. “Is that what you think this means?” I take the papers from his hands, flip to the last page, and point at the findings.

He hangs his head.

“These are the facts. They aren’t a precursor to the outcome.”

“What if I don’t want to treat it? Then what?”

“Are you serious?” There’s no way I can keep the shock off my face or out of my voice.

“I’m weighing my options.”

“You’re young. What would make you think . . .”

“I can’t focus on this right now,” he interrupts.

Shut up, Brighton. You’re overthinking.

Again.

Breathe.

It’s okay.

You’re going to figure this out.

You always do.

“There’s a chance for remission if we hit this hard and fast. I strongly advise we move forward with the treatment as outlined.” I offer the paperwork once again, turning to grab his chart. “Can you do that for me? You wouldn’t be going through it alone.”

“I might be. You don’t know what it’s like dealing with Dax.” He takes the CT scan, rolls it up, and stuffs it into his back pocket.

“You said Dax was running late. I’m sure he’ll be here any minute.”

“I was just venting.”

The way he hangs his head in acceptance makes him look like a vulnerable little boy. I hold out my hand, and he shakes it.

There’s a knock at the door, and Liam steps aside as Lauren peeks into the room. “Are we ready to make some appointments?”

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