Page 27 of Beyond the Bright Lights

"It’s possible he could have an infection and the white blood cells are working overtime to fight it. But we couldn’t find any injuries on his body that would indicate an open wound infection. Has he been sick recently?"

We all shake our heads in thought, but I’m the one who speaks up. "Tyler is the healthiest person I know. I can’t remember him ever taking a sick day off from classes. He works out every day, eats all the right foods. He doesn’t drink, he doesn’t smoke.” My voice rises as my anxiety mounts. Then something occurs to me, and I let out a sob. "He . . . he mentioned feeling tired lately, drained of energy. And he had a nosebleed last week too. We thought it was weird but not cancer. He also mentioned not having an appetite, but he has a lot on his plate with classes and his football games. I thought he was stressed. I mean, we’re all stressed. It’s college. I didn’t think anything of it. Should I have? Oh God. Is this my fault? Are you sure the tests are accurate? We’ve only been here for a couple hours!"

“It’s not your fault, Lana,” Rebecca reassures me, squeezing my hand.

Doctor Brennan clears his throat. Cautiously he goes on. "We have labs here at the hospital. They ran a complete blood panel and based on the preliminary results showing Tyler’s white blood cells higher than normal, and especially after the additional symptoms mentioned, I’d like to send him to the West Clinic in Memphis. An oncologist there will do a bone marrow test among others to be sure."

Mylan’s hand on my arm pulls me from my thoughts. I exhale, my breath shaken. “Sorry, um, he was diagnosed a week later.”

“Why don’t we stop for today?” Mylan offers, still caressing my arm.

I stare at the way his hand moves over my skin, not at all sexual. His touch is calming. I crave it because I haven’t had a man touch me like this in a long time. Like he wants to be there for me, care for me, love me.

“Okay, let’s stop.”

At that, Mylan pulls his hand away. I strangely miss the warmth of his palm.

“I’ll email you the link to the site where I uploaded all the photos and videos. That way you can start working on the accent.”

He nods and gives me his email address. After sending the link, I close the laptop and stand up.

Mylan does the same, tucking one hand in his jeans pocket and rubbing the other hand over his hair. It flops back chaotically, strands every which way, and I smile through my sadness.

“So, when should we meet next?” he asks, acting shy all of a sudden.

“Well, tomorrow’s not good. I have to go to my grandparents to help clean out their garage for the annual city-wide yard sale next weekend. That’ll be a job in itself, and I really want to pop into the bar to relieve the manager who will be filling in for me these next few weeks. We can do Tuesday.”

“Or,” Mylan begins with the most mischievous grin on his face, “I can help you at your grandparents.”

I widen my eyes and straighten my back. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

“Why not? We can talk while cleaning. You’ll be done faster with my help.”

I want to argue and list all the reasons why he can’t go. I could say I don’t need the help. Lie. I could say my grandparents don’t like uninvited guests. Lie. I could also say I don’t want him there. Lie.

I’m not going to say any of that because I do need the help and my grandparents have been pestering me to bring him over since Betty Mea called Gram, blabbering about the handsome celebrity who showed up at my bar.

And I do want him there.

I drop my tense shoulders and shake my head.

“Okay,” I laugh. “But don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

Chapter 8 - Mylan

Silo Springs, Arkansas. Population 2,200ish. I can’t remember.

So small that Lana tells me the drive from the hotel where she picked me up, to her grandparents' home, will take all of five minutes. Which I’m thankful for because Lana’s car is an old, beat-up Volkswagen bug from the 70s with no working air conditioning and the window on my side doesn’t roll down. Her radio also doesn’t work but the cassette deck does. Except, fifteen years ago, a tape got stuck in there and only plays the same Spice Girls album over and over again.

The horrified look on Bruno’s face as we approached the tiny car was enough for me to suggest he ride separately in the chauffeured SUV. It would have been easier for us all to ride together, in the bigger air-conditioned vehicle, but Lana was adamant about driving.

She’s so damn stubborn.

“Do you know what this is?” Lana points at the console as soon as I jump into her car.

“Of course,” I scoff. “It’s a cassette player.”

---