Page 21 of Heart Strings
“We’d planned to put favors together for the guests, and welcome baskets for the out-of-towners,” Lark explains, “but oneof my animators is out with the flu and I need to put in some extra hours so production doesn’t fall behind.”
“I’ll do it—” Aidan answers at the same time I say, “I can handle that.”
We glance at each other. Amusement is splashed across his face.
“Great!” Lark says. “I was going to ask you two to do it together. Thanks so much, you’re both lifesavers.”
No matter howmany times you wear a hospital gown, you never quite get used to the feeling of your ass hanging out the back. Every year since I got the all clear, I’ve had a full annual workup to monitor my health. Poked, prodded, the whole nine yards.
The phlebotomist gives me an apologetic smile as she labels the last blood sample vial with my name, birth date, and patient ID number. I smooth down the bandage she’d placed in the crook of my elbow.
Acute lymphoblastic leukemia has a good remission rate, but my case had required three treatment cycles of chemo. I always figured if I could get through that, I could get through anything.
But I didn’t do it alone.
My mom gave me a bone marrow donation for a stem cell transplant. It allowed me to take a higher dose of chemo, which ultimately saved my life. Finding a family match was a stroke of luck; it’s not always so easy.
When my dad learned that leukemia rates are higher among Latine people and ethnicity can be important in tissue matching, he organized a local drive to get hundreds of his coworkers’ cheeks swabbed. My dad cared—but whether it was due to stoic machismo or depression, or a mixture of the two, he struggled to connect with me when I was actually in treatment. If there’s any way we’re alike, it’s that we both hate feeling powerless. We just handle it differently. I made treating cancer my own life’s mission. He could never quite handle the loss of control and stayed away.
“Any concerns?” the doctor asks, breaking my reverie.
“Not really. I’m a medical student. Stress and insomnia are part of the deal.”
She nods. “Yes, I remember.”
I don’t mention that my stifling mother is adding to the stress load. She’s already texted me twice: once to remind me of the appointment—as if I’ve ever overlooked my calendar—and just a few minutes ago to follow up. When it comes to these annual visits, she practically foams at the mouth until we get the all clear. Honestly, I can take feeling like a pincushion; it’s the wait between the exam and anotherNo evidence of diseaseon my chart a few days later that is the worst part.
When the appointment is over and I’m back in clothes that don’t expose my backside, I confirm with my mom that (a) I am alive and (b) I made it to the cancer center. She always assumes I’m kidnapped or in a roadside ditch when I don’t answer and sends me increasingly unhinged messages until I do. Having an ocean between us makes her even jumpier than normal about these visits. Which, in turn, kind of makes me anxious about them.
My greatest fear is a relapse that would derail my medical training. Of course, I don’t want to go through chemo again either, and there are always those big mortal fears that revolve around the diagnosis—especially considering how difficult it was to treat—but I’m worried it will interfere with my purpose. Everything I’ve worked for can’t be rendered moot. It just…can’t.
Shaking off the itch of anxiety, I exit out of my mom’s text and click on Aidan’s contact.
Hey, are you around to take care of those wedding favors?
Chapter 11
Aidan
Fresh lyrics andmelodies have spilled out of me in the days since the boat outing when Cielo and I shared a moment. And the songs aregood. Emotionally loaded and as lively as the waves that shimmered around us. Yes, her resentment for me burns hot, but now I know the glowing ember of our connection is still very much alive. If I tend to that cinder, it just might warm us both once more.
I have to try. I want her back.
Beams of concentrated malice aren’t shooting from Cielo’s eyes when I arrive at her flat, so that’s a start. She answers the door in a simple top and jeans. Shiny lipstick accentuates her modest smile in the most distracting way. In the past, I would have greeted her by tugging her close and testing just how colorfast her lipstick was.
I clear my throat and stow my shoes by the entrance. “Hey.”
“Um, hi.”
Her meticulously tidy flat hasn’t changed. Big Thief spins on the turntable under a framed Austin City Limits poster.Notebooks are stacked on the couch, as if she’d been studying. An example favor sits in the center of the kitchen table: a jar of homemade bubble liquid wrapped in fabric, tied with a double bow, and finished with a stamped name tag.
Lo holds up another bundle. An absolute mess. Lark’s and Callum’s stamped names and wedding date are crooked on the label, the guest’s name crammed onto a tag that hangs from a limp ribbon. This one’s definitely hers and I know the perfectionist in herhatesit.
“You’ve made hames of it, haven’t you?” I tease.
“I’d like to see you do any better. The fabric barely fit and if you even look at one of these favors wrong, it pops out of the wrapper.” She scowls at the bubble jar favor. “So, how do you want to do this? Assembly line?”
“Works for me.”
