Page 64 of Heart Strings
My cautious heart leaps at her question. Living here would calm Lo’s worries more than regular visits and nightly phone calls. It’s where I want to be.
“I know your family wants you close. And I bet London doesn’t have spice bags that come close to the ones from your favorite place.”
What always made the greasy little chipper special was Cielo snatching mine away after she’d said she didn’t want any.
“I thought this town wasn’t big enough for both of us.”
We talked about this being temporary, but what if these past few days have shown Lo what I’ve known all along: that we could work, if we try. I’m willing to, if she is.
“I wouldn’t mind sharing it, maybe.”
“You want me to move back?”
She rolls her eyes affectionately. “Yes, A. That’s a yes.”
Professional connections might be in London, but my heart is here in Galway. My muse. My friends. My family. Screw where the label wants me to live—I’ll find a way to make it work.
“That’s all I need to hear,” I tell her.
My overpriced flat is devoid of life most of the year; I really won’t miss it. Lo, on the other hand? I’ve pined for her every day for the last two years. There’s no contest, just logistics to settle.Martin insists that living in London lends me credibility and ease of networking, so he won’t like this decision—especially since he doesn’t want me romantically linked to anyone without some pop culture notoriety.
“You know…” She glances at the bedside clock then nuzzles back against my chest. “There’s an hour before the breakfast buffet opens. We can spare fifteen more minutes.”
Chapter 24
Lo
Aidan pulls onhis suit trousers from last night. “Are we still playing it cool around your mom? Because after last night, she probably suspects something.”
“We can sit together. Maybe we’ll head to breakfast separately, though?”
He’s not leaving town immediately, but he hasn’t committed to living in Galway full-time again, either. Maybe there’s a way forward for us, if he wasn’t just humoring me earlier when I asked. The idea of him being away for months at a time touring still puts me on edge, but now I know what it feels like to have none of him for years, and I’m willing to try if he is. Still, I’d rather not give this a label or make it “Mom official” until there’s concrete evidence of him relocating back to Galway. A signed lease, a moving date, something. Before Aidan leaves to change his clothes, I pull him into one last, lingering kiss, knowing they’re the final moments before we each go back to our everyday lives. This fragile, unnamed thing between us has to survivein the real world. The conviction and honesty in his kiss tell me that it has a fighting chance.
Alone for now, I take a quick look at my email while the shower water heats up. There’s a message from my doctor’s office saying new paperwork has been added to my patient portal. Nice. My mom wanted the full update from my latest annual checkup, and I’ll be able to relay the all clear in person over a couple omelets.
I follow the link and sniff at the body wash as the page loads.
It’s the bloodwork panel.
Elevated lymph levels. Elevated white blood cell count. What? This can’t be right.
It’s my name and date of birth at the top, but this has to be a mistake. If anything is amiss, the patient’s records are not supposed to be updated in the portal. A human being from the office is supposed to break the news; you’re not meant to find out that you probably have cancer from a cold set of numbers on a website. When I toggle back to my email, I find it was timestamped for midnight. It must have automatically updated and sent to me by mistake. Right when I’d been dancing with Aidan.
Three treatment cycles of chemo were needed to go into remission before. Hours a day tethered to an IV full of powerful drugs for six weeks at a time. Constant nausea, brain fog, crushing fatigue. Steroids gave me mood swings and a puffy face. Could I endure months of that while vying for a top spot in my class to impress the attending physician, and with the uncertainty of whatever is between me and Aidan? I’ve never been one to shy away from a challenge, but last time, chemo gave me the energy of a slug.
The stress of being a third-year has already been taking its toll. I’m constantly tired, my appetite has dwindled, and I’ll realize at the end of a frantic day that I’ve barely eaten. Medical school is designed to be grueling, so I’d written off those symptoms as typical stress from being challenged every day in the hospital. But now, I can’t ignore that they look like evidence the leukemia is back. My breathing becomes shallow as fear threatens to overtake me. This was not the plan. This cannot be happening. I take a deep breath and then another. I force myself to focus on what I know.
Results like these mean following up with a bone marrow aspiration and biopsy. It will be straightforward enough: local anesthetic, a special needle that twists into the hip to remove a small section of the solid bone and marrow, dressing the wound. The whole procedure will take around twenty-five minutes and then I can go about my day.
Condensation collects on the phone screen, making me aware of the steam now filling the bathroom. How long have I been staring at these results? Shit. Now I only have a few minutes to meet my mom downstairs before she comes up here looking for me again. Instead of the shower I need, I turn off the water and put up my hair to hide the singed ends. I’m not ready to face either of my parents on any terms but my own right now. At this rate, I’ll start losing my hair from stress before I even start chemo.
Another round of treatment would derail my academic career, right when I’m finally spending time in clinical rotations with real patients; when I can finally start making a difference. I’ve carried the weight of my parents’ impossible expectations and the responsibility to advocate for my own community sinceI was a kid. Everything I’ve worked for: striving for salutatorian in my graduating class, earning a bachelor’s in biology from University of Texas at Austin, scoring a 514 on my MCAT…could be for nothing if I withdraw from the program.
And Aidan…
Deep breaths. I need to compartmentalize this new information and get through breakfast. Then the rest of the day. Then the next couple weeks. Just take it one hour at a time. Then I can brace myself for the biopsy. Until then, it’s Schrödinger’s test results: both false alarm and utterly life-changing.
My phone buzzes and I expect it to be Aidan, but it’s my mom demanding to know why I’m not downstairs. The buffet hasn’t even officially opened yet. It’s like she can sense the bad news. She already hates that I decided to study abroad, and I don’t want to give her any reason to insist I return stateside.
