Page 45 of Wild Flower

“The first time?” Finn asks, not missing that little nugget.

“Yeah, it goes away, it comes back. Symptoms, cancer cells, treatment, remission. It’s a cycle.”

“So how long has it been since cancer cells were detected?” he asks.

“I’m fit as a bull,” I deflect, motioning to my body. “You saw me jump off that cliff last night. I’m fine. You don’t have to worry about me.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

The elevator door dings and opens to the rooftop. I quickly step out of the confinements of his interrogation.

“Sixteen months,” I admit, walking off the lift. “It’s lymphoma, and it’s not uncommon for men to get it in their twenties. But I’m fine. If I need you to hold my hand the next time I go in for a scan, I’ll call you up. Okay?”

“Youshouldcall me up,” Finn says honestly, right on my heels.

It’s a nice gesture, but I doubt he actually means it. Plus, seeing a doctor is always better alone. I remember the looks on my girlfriend’s face. It’s too hard to carry your own emotions when you get bad news, much less someone else’s emotions too.

“Is your family back in San Diego?” Finn asks, as we head for the front doors of Flambé.

“What little is left,” I admit. Finn’s eyes narrow, and as much as he doesn’t give himself credit as a photographer, he’s observant. “My parents died in a car crash,” I explain. “It happened when my sister and I were nineteen and twenty.”

That usually does it. Dead parents and a cancer in the same conversation will make any normal person run for the hills. That’s what my ex did. One tragedy is enough to deal with.

“Drunk driver on the freeway,” I share. “California freeways are dangerous enough without drunk shitheads behind the wheel.”

“Fuck,” Finn hisses under his breath. “I’m so sorry.”

Everyone’s always sorry.

“That was eight years ago. I’ve dealt with it. Now let’s go see what Arie wants.” I point to the kitchen, but Finn grabs my elbow and before I know it, I’ve been wrapped in a full-on man-hug.

I try to pull out of it, but Finn doesn’t let go. He doesn’t say he’s sorry again or any of the other consolatory BS. He’s just arms and pressure and silence—but this silence is the kind where you’re not alone.

I want to fight it, but after last night with Becca this doesn’t feel like an overstep. It feels … I don’t know. It doesn’t feel like shit, I guess.

“Thanks,” I say quietly when he lets me go. And when he catches my eye, something in his gaze says he’s got my back, whether that’s jumping off a cliff or walking into a hospital room.

Five minutes later, we’re in Simon’s office. He’s our other boss and co-owner of Flambé. Arie’s the cook and he’s the management. Simon sits behind his desk staring at his laptop and wearing a sports coat, his horn-rimmed glasses perched at the end of his nose as he waves us in.

“Please,” he says. “Arie will be here in a minute.”

Simon’s office is obnoxiously clean. It’s the kind of tidy where you don’t want to touch anything because he’ll know you messed with something. I exchange a concerned look with Finn. Didn’t Arie say last night that shewasn’tgoing to tell Simon about Becca? Didn’t she tell him we had food poisoning?

“Archer! Finn!” Arie’s voice floods us from behind, and we each step to the side like the Red Sea parting. Arie blazes between us, done up in spit-curls and flamboyance. Only, walking in behind her is the last person I expect.

“Becca?” I question, as our Wild Flower trails in behind the parade of Arie’s exuberance. Becca looks beautiful, but tired, a blush of red kissing her cheeks at the sight of the two of us.

What is this? With Simon in the room, this is bound to turn into some HR who-knows-what. My eyes flash to Finn in alarm, maybe wearegetting fired.

“Archer, Finn, Becca,” Arie commands, “please sit down.”

She motions to three chairs in front of Simon’s desk, and frankly, the last thing I want to do is sit. When people tell you to sit down, they have bad news to follow it. But Finn and Becca oblige, making me the dick who’s still hesitating. Begrudgingly, I pull out the chair to their left.

“I already talked to Becca this morning at the Birds of Paradise,” Arie says, leaning against the side of Simon’s desk and peering down at us. Arie went to see Becca at her work? “And we think this will be brilliant.”

What’s brilliant? I look to Becca and a sheepish blush creeps across her pale cheeks.

“We’re doing a photoshoot,” Arie announces. “I was inspired last night when Becca came to Flambé, and when a great idea strikes, I run with it. It’s also been approved by Simon.”

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