Page 117 of Never Stop
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Easton
The moment I saw Brooke’s face, I knew.
I knew she had another tumor. I wanted to tell her that we couldn’t know for sure until we heard from Dr. Bloom. Except by looking at her, I knew she was able to get information before they tested whatever it was they tested.
I was starting to get worried that the biopsy was taking too long until a nurse came out and told me that she was in recovery and would be there for at least an hour. Unlike the hospital in Boston, they didn’t let me go see her, sit with her or anything. I hated it, and I could only imagine what she was going though alone.
“She’s ready to go home,” a nurse said as she wheeled Brooke in a wheelchair toward me. I went to switch places with the nurse, but she waved me off. “I’ll bring her outside, and we’ll wait for you to bring your car around.”
“I can walk,” Brooke confirmed.
“I have to stay with you until you’re in your car. It’s policy.”
“I’ll bring the car around.” I kissed the top of Brooke’s head, and she nodded. Then I quickly walked to the garage to get our car. After pulling in front of the hospital, the nurse and I helped Brooke into the front seat, and then I slid into the driver’s side and we left.
Lacing our fingers together, I held her hand. The car was silent as I drove home. On the tip of my tongue was the question I wanted answers to. I wanted to confirm if I knew what happened during the biopsy. “You feeling okay?” I asked instead.
Still staring out the passenger side window she whispered, “Yeah.”
Fuck it.“So what happened?”
She finally turned her head and looked at me. “I have another tumor.”
My chest clenched at the confirmation. “How do you know?”
“Biopsy was the same as last time. It took him awhile to get the sample, and he said it was hard or dense—whatever.”
“Did it hurt this time?”
She snickered. “Like a bitch. I’m not sure what was worse, all the lidocaine injections or the actual biopsy.”
“I’m sorry, baby.” I kissed the back of her hand. “But we aren’t one-hundred percent sure yet.”
She took a deep breath. “I know, Easton. I know. Dr. Feldman said scar tissue is soft. This wasn’t soft—again. Again!” she snapped.
“I get it. I just don’t like you hurting.”
“It is what it is.”
I stole a glance over to her and saw that a tear had started to roll down her cheek. I groaned, not liking the entire situation. “Please don’t cry. I don’t like that I can’t fix this.”
“I’ll just deal with it when Dr. Bloom calls me with the bad news.”
“We’lldeal with it,” I countered. “Just like the first time around. This time at least we’re in the same house from the beginning and not me having to go back and forth for a few weeks. I can take care of you every day.”
More tears streamed down her face. “Let’s not tell anyone until Dr. Bloom calls.”
“Whatever you want to do, but you know everyone will be supportive.”
“As soon as they know, they’ll ask me how I’m feeling—how I’m doing—if I’m in pain. I want a day or so before I get hounded.”
“They only do it because they care.”
“I just—I just don’t want to deal with this.”
Neither of us did.
