Page 65 of Heart Strings
Gathering myself, I head to the banquet hall. Aidan is sat with my mom and dad, who are on opposite ends of the table with a spot for me in the middle. Their eyes all snap to me at the same time.
“Good morning,” I greet the table as cheerfully as I can manage.
An attending once told me that physicians also need to be actors. Hold neutral poker faces when patients present in the A&E with various objects lodged in their colons. Mustering patience when a combative patient is on your last nerve. A pleasant demeanor for the next case, after you’ve just given a family horrible news about their loved one. I’ve never been one to hide my feelings—about anything but Aidan, I guess—but bedside manner is an important part of the job. I try to take that approach now: This is for their sake, not mine.
“Why are you late?” my mom asks before I even have a chance to sit. A few of the other guests at the table swing their necks toward me at the question.
“The burnt ends of my hair aren’t easy to style.” I pat my brunette bob self-consciously. It’s in desperate need of a trim to even out the patch that singed.
At the end of the table, my dad’s face brightens in a smile. “Morning.”
“Hey, Dad.” We have to talk soon, but right now, I’m just trying to get through this meal without breaking down.
Concern shades Aidan’s face when I take the chair beside him. My mom pushes a plate with a veggie omelet my way. “Here, you need something nutritious after drinking last night.”
“She’s allowed to have some fun at a wedding, Tracy,” my dad says lightly.
I clench my jaw and Aidan pats my leg reassuringly under the table. The small touch offers me so much strength. “Thanks, Mom.”
Aidan nods, eager to keep things smooth. “I’m so glad you could all be here to celebrate the happy couple. The reception was gas.”
“Cielo really shouldn’t be drinking.” No matter what I do, my mom will see a cancer recurrence as my fault. I didn’t eat clean enough. Didn’t get enough sleep. Used a microwave too often. Burned the wrong candle. She wanted so desperately to know why I got sick to begin with, but the truth is that sometimes it just happens. I still don’t think she’s accepted that.
Anxiety has zapped my appetite, but I dig in anyway because if I don’t eat, the whole table will get an earful about overindulgence.
Aidan makes small talk with my mom and a few other guests who have joined us, chatting about the history of the castle, but periodically his gaze lands on me. When the others split off into a side conversation, he whispers, “Are you all right?”
Of course he’s sensed the energy shift since he left to take a shower.
“It’s just been a long weekend.”
“Too bad we couldn’t sleep in.”
I can’t help but think back to my first serious boyfriend. I convinced my mom to let me return to public high school for senior year using a PowerPoint presentation explaining the advantages of in-person advanced placement courses and extra curriculars on my college transcript. After being kept on a short leash while homeschooled, I immediately fell for a boy at school. We dated for a few months before prom and I wanted that night to be my first time. Seventeen-year-old me was determined to finally get some pleasure out of a body that knew the insides of MRI machines before it knew intimacy.
Then I got a cold that developed into pneumonia and spent prom night in the hospital as a precautionary measure. My first love ended up going with someone else and publicly cheated on me in front of the whole school. I was devastated, but I learned a lesson: Guys don’t want to be with someone sick.
One of the many depressing facts I learned in class about cancer is that it nearly doubles the divorce rate—but only when the patient is a woman in a relationship with a healthy man. When the roles are reversed and the man is the one diagnosed, it plummets to a fraction of the typical separation rate. It didn’t surprise me that it sent guys packing: It happened to me.
Aidan isn’t the dirtbag seventeen-year-old who cheated onme while I was hospitalized. Not by a long shot. But his life does resemble my dad’s. Work takes him away, and his work is what gives him purpose.
Something about this thought process must show on my face, because he sets his fork down and pivots in his seat to face me. “What’s wrong?”
I fidget with my napkin. “It’s not you.”
“I’m here, okay? I’m right here if you need me.”
Yes, he’s here now, but he won’t always be. Is it better to protect myself from that pain now or wait until I’m in deep with him again?
Lark and Callum thank everyone for joining them. Her eyes train on me, slightly watery, her smile filled with love and gratitude. I hate keeping secrets from Lark, but I can’t tell her about the test results now. It would hover over her romantic Spanish honeymoon like a dark cloud. For her sake, I grin widely and pass out the bubble favors that Aidan and I made.
Everyone heads outside, bubbles in hand, for the honeymoon send-off. Aidan’s eyes glimmer with anticipation as we follow Callum and Lark toward their Peugeot, only to find the hearse, decorated in streamers and flower garlands instead.
“Who’s responsible for this?” Callum laughs. Lark shakes her head in amusement, but delicately touches the sunflowers and acknowledges Saoirse in the crowd.
I grab Aidan’s hand and raise it for him. “It was all this guy’s idea.”
“Look,” Lark cries, “the garland on the back window!”
