Page 60 of Force Play

These acts of service are going to be the death of me. It’s not until I’m bringing the coffee to my lips, jump-starting my senses, that I see the pile of neatly folded clothes and my phone on top of it. Another crack forms in the wall I keep around my heart.

This would be so much easier if he was the careless dick I expect him to be. But coffee made just the way I like it and my carefully gathered things waiting for me are stirring feelings I’ve worked damn hard to avoid for the last year. The more time I spend with Dom, the less I know. Confused and tired, my will to fight is at an all-time low.

Strapping on my boot, I grab my things and head to the guest bedroom to change. When I return, there’s still no sign of him, so with my coffee in one hand and my phone in the other, I return a message from my dad asking me how my ankle is feeling. Next, I react to a few nonsensical texts in my chat with the girls. I’m about to check my email when my phone rings.

Dr. Smith’s office number flashes on my screen. Glancing around, I decide to take the call outside in case Dom is still around here somewhere. The sun’s already hot, so I head for the covered patio. Cushions and towels flung every which way from last night’s fun on the lounger catch my attention and I almost go ass over teakettle into the pool. Avoiding the reminder of how good his hands felt on me, I course correct in the opposite direction.

“Hello,” I answer tentatively, checking to make sure the coast is clear one more time, before I cautiously lower myself into the hammock on the edge of the patio.

“Hey, Indie! It’s Maryann. I’m sorry to call so early, but I wanted to catch you before the clinic opens for the day.”

“It’s not a problem. What can I do for you?” I press my palm against my chest. My heart is hammering so wildly that I wish I would have picked the more stable loungers. Fear coils in my belly and my head spins. What if she’s calling about an irregularity on my pap smear or something on the mammogram?

“First, I wanted to let you know everything came back normal on your tests and imaging.” The breath I release is audible and I fold over, dropping my forehead to my knees. She’s still talking, but nothing she says after that permeates the haze of panic still gripping me. After a few more deep breaths, the fog clears and I hear her say, “. . . tell me about the meeting. Was it helpful?”

“I’m sorry, Maryann. If anything you said after the update on my results was important, I’m going to need you to repeat it.”

“Of course, dear. Do you need a minute?”

“No. I’m fine now. What was it you were saying?”

“I asked how the support group meeting was and if you’d given any more consideration to if you want to consider genetic testing at this time.” There’s no judgment in her measured words.

“The meeting was about as fun as the mammogram.” Beck’s blunt honesty from that day floods my memory. “But there was another woman there around my age who shared her experience, and it gave me a lot to think about. She seemed happy with her decision to do genetic testing, but it didn’t stop her sister from getting sick. What’s to say it would be any different for me?” My voice wavers when I add, “Maybe I’m just not ready.”

“There are no guarantees in life. You and I know that better than most. I’ve seen patients go both ways and I’ve seen regrets on both sides. All you can do is make the best decision for you. If you’re never ready, that’s okay, Indie.”

“I know my dad and best friend would appreciate it if I do the testing, but what if it comes back positive and I wish I would have never found out?”

“That can happen. This is something you need to do for you, not to please anyone else. It’s a deeply personal decision,” Maryann reminds me, sounding more like a friend than a doctor at that moment.

“You’re not helping.”

She chuckles. “I’m just here to give you information and arm you to make your decision. I’m not going to tell you what you should do, because there is no right answer.”

The squeak of a tennis shoe has me whipping around in the hammock so abruptly that I almost flip it. Large hands wrap around my ribs, steadying me a second later, looking guilty as hell.

“I swear I wasn’t eavesdropping. Not really. Or at least not on purpose,” he whispers, dropping to his knees in front of me, his fingers playing with the hem of my shirt.

“Was there anything else you needed?” I redirect now that my audience has made itself known.

“Ah, Yes. We’d like to move the timeline up on the new clinic, and I wanted to see if you could come in later this week to meet the rest of the team.”

“Yes. Absolutely. Just email me the time and I’ll be there.” My spirits lift in anticipation of having work to fill my plentiful down time.

“Excellent, and you’ll let me know if you have questions about the testing?”

“I’ll let you know.”

Dom stays right there, his hands on my knees as Maryann and I say our goodbyes.

“I know that conversation was private, but I have to ask, are you okay?” Two deep lines crease his forehead and his hand hasn’t stopped rubbing up and down my thigh.

Maniacal laughter crackles out of me and once again I’m sobbing in front of the one person I really don’t want to see me like this. I’m not even sure why anymore. Every single time I’ve cried on Dom’s shoulder, he’s let me without judgment; never once throwing it back at me the way Jensen did. He’s never called me dramatic or gaslighted me by brushing aside my feelings; it’s the opposite. He gives me what I need in those moments—space, distraction, whatever he can do to make me feel better—he puts me first.

“Yeah, I’m fine. Everything is fine.” I swipe at my eyes.

“Don’t take this the wrong way, but it really doesn’t seem like it. Are you sick? Genetic testing, mammograms. I’m trying to stay calm here, because the last thing you need is me adding to your stress . . . but I’m struggling.” His voice cracks with the admission.

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