Page 5 of Break Me Like a Promise (Oak Valley)

Ruby looked at up at the nurse and then at her mom, who closed her book and stood. They trailed the nurse into the intake room. While her mom was being weighed, Ruby kept scrolling through conversion ideas. It was easier than watching the nurse’s pitying face while she took her mom’s vitals.

The doctor came in, dismissing the nurse and shaking their hands, introducing herself as a Dr. Jessica Lahm. Her blonde hair was showing dark roots, pulled back in a ponytail. She had a warm smile, and when she looked at them it was without pity.

Finally.

“So, Beryl. We know from the biopsy that the tumor in your left breast is G3, which is high grade, and we saw from the CT scan that the breast cancer has metastasized to your lungs. These scans also showed some abnormalities in your bones. I won’t lie — I’m concerned the cancer has spread, and I’d like to have a PET scan done to check your bones.”

Dr. Lahm let the information sit between them. Ruby picked at her nails, staring at the table.

Her mom cleared her throat. “What are my chances?”

“Chances for having metastasized breast cancer in your bones, or chances of survival?”

“Both.”

Dr. Lahm sighed. “Chances for the cancer metastasizing to your bones? High. Chances of survival? We’ll know more once we conduct the PET scan. But currently, the chances aren’t terrible. For stage four breast cancer, the median life expectancy is three years. Some live longer, some not. But that also includes those that don’t seek treatment. I’m confident that with treatment, we can get you to over five years.”

Ruby glanced at the doctor. She seemed so sure, despite the odds. Her mom nodded and grabbed Ruby’s hand. She squeezed back. It had always been the two of them.

Her mom had to fight this.

6

The mailbox was tilting, but that didn’t stop Colton from throwing the door open, grabbing the stack of paper, and slamming the door shut. The post wiggled with the force, but he was too busy rifling through the mail to notice. The cold air bit into him through his thin henley while he made his way down the long driveway.

Nada.

He slammed the front door shut, throwing the mail on the entry table. He didn’t know if he’d hear from Hermé’s job via email, letter, or phone call, but that didn’t stop him from checking each avenue as often as possible. Or maybe that’s what he told himself as he tried to burn off steam, to keep the frustration from seeping in. He didn’t know how he’d get through another day at the auto shop, let alone another ten months. It helped having Katie around, and his mom. At almost thirty, being relegated to his childhood bedroom under the thumb of his father made what he’d lost even more unbearable.

Storming to his bedroom, he paced and tried to slow his breathing.

In, out. In, out.

That’s what his therapist had said. And his football coaches. And his physical therapist.

It’s not that his temper was legendary. More that it was just… well-known. It’d seen him benched more times than he could count, and while he’d managed to control it in the big leagues, his injury had sent him spiraling to square one.

He looked around his childhood bedroom, sparse and emptied of items from high school — most of the furniture in Colton’s luxury penthouse wouldn’t fit in his childhood home, both in size and style. He’d sold off his prized California King bed and was now stuck with a queen, which co-opted most of the room. A skinny IKEA dresser still held up in the corner, dusty and with sun-stains from where trophies had sat for years.

When he moved home, he didn’t need any reminders of what he’d lost.

Always back to square one.

His door flew open, nearly bumping his shoulder as his dad strolled in. Colton subconsciously recoiled, left over from his days as a kid with a big mouth. While Bryce had never gotten physical, he was loud and not a small guy. But now Colton was bigger. He stood to his full height, moving toe-to-toe with his dad. Hid dad was bright red, eyes gleaming.

Bryce thrust a large envelope in his face. “You looking for this, boy?”

Colton ripped it from his hands. Return address, San Francisco. Envelope opened. He swallowed, his skin humming. He risked a glance at his dad.

“Where’d you get this?”

“Where do you think? The actual question is what the fuck is a letter from some French chef doing in my home, addressed to my son?”

Colton stepped back from his dad, pulling out the contents. He skimmed the letter — they wanted a video interview, and if that went well, for him to fly out to their test kitchen in San Francisco. An email would follow shortly with details. A wave of hope rushed over him, similar to the one he’d gotten with his first draft. His first paycheck.

This could be his new start.

“Well?”

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