Page 115 of Bad Blood

“Please, don’t hang up.”

There’s a commotion on her end of the phone. There’s a woman’s voice, and I assume she’s placed her hand over the mouthpiece since a muffled conversation takes place. A door swings open, and more hurried footsteps follow.

There’s a lot of silence.

Did she forget about me?

Then her voice cracks. “Liam?”

32

In Over My Head

Brighton

Monday, June 5 th

9:22 a.m.

My phone clatters to the ground. I have a strong urge to throw my arms around Liam and another to strangle him for scaring the shit out of me.

“Where were you?” My hands fly to cover my mouth.

What is wrong with me? I shouldn’t talk to a patient like that.

He grins, confusion etched in his weary eyes. “At the park?”

“Your appointment was at eight.”

His grin turns into a grimace as he rubs a hand over the back of his neck. “That’s what Lauren said. I thought it was at nine-thirty. Look.” He grabs his phone from his back pocket and slides it open to a text thread before offering it to me to read.

+ (502) 913-8827: Your chemo appt at Mount Sinai West is on Monday, June 5th at 8:00 a.m. Please call the hospital at 519-226-1400 ext. 701 with any questions.

I guide the phone back toward him. “It was at eight.”

He flips the screen around to face himself and chuckles. “I know. So stupid. Totally got it mixed up with something else. I can come back.” He points over his shoulder at the elevators and yawns. As he takes a step back, there’s a crunch. I cringe, glancing at the cracked screen on my phone.

Liam winces, pulling his shoulders to his ears as he picks it up and offers it to me. “Sorry.”

I take the phone, remembering Dax was on the line.

“Hello? You still there?” I ask, holding up a finger for Liam to wait. “He’s here. Liam’s here.”

“What the fuck?” A horn blares along with screeching tires. “Let me talk to him.”

“I’ll call you back.” I hang up before Dax gets the chance to argue.

“You okay?” Liam asks. His face softens, and he gives me a partial smile.

“Are you? We were worried.” I tuck my head and watch a couple of wet spots bloom on my scrubs. Am I crying? I wipe a hand under my eyes. What is wrong with me?

My phone buzzes in my hand, and I glance at the cracked screen.

“We?”

I hold up my phone in explanation. “Dax. Me. The manager.”

He tilts his head and scrunches his nose. “Bree?”

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