Page 25 of Close Match
As she passes by, I drop a kiss on her short, graying hair. “Thanks, Mom.”
“No, thank you, son.” We exchange a meaningful glance. “Now, do you guys want pancakes or eggs with your bacon?”
“What, no sausage?”
My mother makes a gagging noise. Ever since she saw a television show on how sausage is made, she can’t stomach making it.
“You’re lucky I didn’t turn into a vegetarian after that,” she mutters as she makes her way to the refrigerator to get out the bacon. “And since you decided to sass me instead of deciding, I’m making pancakes.”
“You’re cooking, Mom. Like either was a problem.”
“He’s got you there, honey.” Ev comes up behind her and slides his arms around her waist, nuzzling her neck. It’s like watching them when I was a teenager. Hell, they act like teenagers.
It’d be fucking fantastic if deep down we all didn’t feel like we have a ticking time bomb over our heads.
Ev’s blood type is making matching him for a bone marrow transplant inordinately tricky. Since he has O negative blood, he’d be perfect if he was the one donating the marrow he so desperately needs. The problem is receiving it. Not only can he not have any marrow with any A or B antibodies in it, but it also has to be negative of a specific protein in the red blood cells—the Rh factor. Sure, 9 percent of the global population has the same blood type, but out of the seven and a half billion people on the planet, only thirty million are registered bone marrow donors.
The best chance would be a close match, but Ev can’t find one.
We’re running out of time. Clenching my hands at my side, I feel an overwhelming need to do something. My jaw tight, I go to open my mouth and ask if we’ve heard anything when I see Ev lower his head to capture my mother’s lips in a soft kiss.
And I realize I am.
I’m already helping them by being here and giving them this time.
Flinging myself into a chair across from where my mother was seated before, I give them a few more moments before I jokingly call out, “I’m not smelling any pork frying, Mom.”
I hear the soft, wet sound of their lips breaking apart. “Montague Parrish! You’re a thirty-eight-year-old man! If you want bacon and can’t wait for me to finish kissing Ev, then get off your ass and do it yourself.”
I lift my coffee to my lips to hide my smile.
No, it fucking sucks why I’m here, but I wouldn’t trade a single second for anything.
Fifteen
Montague
“Has it really come to this?” Weeks later, Ev’s spitting into a tube for us to send out to some genealogy company of crackpots to see if there’s someone out there who he might be able to pay for their bone marrow.
“Honey, it’s not ‘come’ to anything. This is just another option Dr. Spellman suggested since Ev’s lost contact with his family,” my mother soothes me.
I hide my fear behind a laugh of disgust and a quick drain of the crystal tumbler in my hand. “Rightfully so. They were a bunch of abusive shits, Mom. They should have been arrested for neglect. They should have…”
Ev makes a choked sound. “Can you rein in your indignation while I’m trying to procure enough phlegm to fill up this tube, son? I love your passion, but as always, discussing my family leaves a sour taste in my mouth.”
“Or in this case, dry mouth?” my mother jests.
He nods. “Now that. I, too, am not overly thrilled I may have to rely upon one of them—worse yet, give them some of the money I worked damn hard to earn to do it. I know I’ll be opening a door I can never shut if that happens. But if it means getting to spend even six minutes longer with you both, I’ll pay anything.”
My heart aching, I move next to my mother. Slinging an arm around her shoulder, I manage to grin at the man who taught me not to be satisfied with the life I could have, only to be happy with the life I wanted. By living that, I’ve fought for everything.
And I’ll help him fight for this.
“What do we do now?” I ask once the kit is safely sealed. Casually, I move away from my mother and pick up the small innocuous box.
“Now, we mail this off and wait,” Ev declares as he moves around the counter to pull my mother against him.
“And we pray on every star for a miracle,” my mother whispers as she curls into his chest.
