Page 128 of Debugging Love

I tagalong while he drives to the Qdoba that’s only five minutes away. We both order loaded nachos to go. In less than fifteen minutes, we’re back at his apartment. He takes a seat across from me at the table. I reopen my laptop and get to work.

“How rude,” he says.

“I’m behind because someone insisted I go to Chai World.”

“You don’t regret it,” he says with a confident grin.

“I regret parts of it,” I say with a challenging grin.

We hold each other’s gaze.

“Fine, I’ll leave you alone.” He grabs his nacho bowl and slides out of the chair.

“You can still sit there,” I say while pounding furiously on my keyboard. It’s hard to eat cheesy nachos while typing, but I’m managing.

We both munch loudly on corn chips for the next several minutes, and then we fall into a productive silence. I try to stay focused on my code, not letting my mind wander to my design document that Chance is making “a few” changes to.

When three o’clock rolls around, my phone rings. It’s my sister, Willa. She always texts before calling.

I answer the phone, worried. “What’s up?”

“Molly’s test results came back.”

“Oh no. What is it?”

“Nothing too bad. The spot came back as cancerous.”

The word “cancerous” adds several pounds to my chest.

“They removed more tissue around it to make sure they got it all, and we found three more new spots that they removed.”

I fall back in my chair. “Sodidthey get it all?”

“They said they did.”

Like they got “all” my mom’s breast cancer, and then it came back a year later in her brain. I’m familiar with empty promises from doctors. During my mom’s illness, Willa and I were offered many, but the disease took her anyway.

“Do you believe that?” I ask.

“Well…”

She doesn’t.

“I’m going to keep a close eye on her and get her into the vet if I notice any more spots.”

“Okay.”

“I didn’t want to text you the news, because…you know. It’s Molly.”

And Molly is like a sister, the only family we have left.

“Thanks.”

We hang up and I set my phone face down on the table.

Cancer.

The word drills into me, all the implications, the uncertainties, the heartache. Molly is just a dog. Just. The dog my mom gave us for Christmas while she was still alive, that she worked extra hours to save up for. The dog Willa and I took turns snuggling with the day my mom died because, for some reason, she brought us more comfort than human arms could.

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