The Girlfriend (The Boss) (41 page)

“All right. I’m listening.” He lay back on the couch. He’d come downstairs wearing just his pajama bottoms. Chemo bloat had given him a little pot belly, and though no power on earth would move me to point it out to him, I secretly found it adorable.

“You’re half undressed. Are you coming down from a fever?” I stood and went to his side, despite his annoyed muttering.

“No, I just got warm. You’re changing the subject on purpose.”

“Oh, I was not.” I rolled my eyes. “Look, it’s not finished yet. I promise, I’ll show it to you when it is. But I don’t even know what I’m going to do with it.”

“I’m sure you’ll find somewhere to sell it. You’re a very good writer, Sophie.”
 

I looked up. “When have you read anything I’ve written? I never wrote a full-length piece in
Porteras
.”

“Oh, um… Can I say, for this one very small, but very embarrassing infraction, that I would like to forget I mentioned anything? Just this once? I will never ask for this favor again.”

Whatever it was Neil was ashamed to admit to me, it had to be good. This was the man who’d fucked me like a beast and made me ride home with no panties
on our first date.
What could he possibly be embarrassed about?

He was
so
going to tell me.

I didn’t have to ask. I just folded my arms across my chest and pursed my lips, and he said, with a heavy sigh, “All right. I googled you and found some articles you’d written for your college newspaper. I realize that this technically qualifies as stalking you. But my motives were pure.”

“And those were?” I shifted, tightening my arms a little, pushing my boobs up slightly.

He laughed, clearly relieved at my silliness. “Curiosity. Burning curiosity, probably born from my need for total control.”

“You’re making my job so easy on this end.” I couldn’t pretend that I’d thought what he’d done was all that bad. “Everyone Googles the person they’re fucking. It’s why you get their names.”

“Did you Google me?”

“I did. And you’re a knight?” Finally, an opening to ask about that! “It’s kind of intimidating to find out your boyfriend is a knight from Wikipedia.”

“It’s not that impressive, they pass them out like hard candy if you pay enough in taxes.” He could barely keep a straight face. “Besides, I’m just an MBE.”

“I’m an American. I don’t know what that means,” I chirped happily.

He shook his head in playful exasperation. “The difference is—”
 

“What makes me an American, and I’d like it to stay that way.” I leaned forward and kissed him.

“You knew quite a lot about me, then, when you decided to get into this mess. I can’t help but feel a bit relieved.”

I sat back on my heels. “Why’s that?”

“Because I sometimes feel guilty. I feel like I’ve thrown you into a rather deep pool.” He cut me off as I began to protest. “I know. You can handle anything. And I truly believe that you can. But I’ve worried that I was unfair to you, bringing you here, into a totally different way of life on so many levels.”

“And that’s why you wanted to give me money in your will?”

“I’m not just talking about the money, or cancer. You haven’t had many serious relationships. And while you’ve had a lot of sexual experience, you’ve never been a sub to anyone the way you are to me.”

I realized I was nervously clicking my nails on my bottom teeth, and I stopped myself. “It sounds like you’re saying I’m in over my head, and you regret this.”

“No. Never.” He took my hand and brought it to his lips, giving me the gentlest kiss. “I wouldn’t trade a moment of what we’ve had. I just wish that it didn’t have to change us.”

“I think it’s making us better.”

“I suppose what I should have said was, I hate the thought that I might die, and that it would change you. You would become a version of Sophie that I would never know. One I can’t properly imagine.” He shook the dark thought away. “I’ve been framing everyone in my life this way lately. Trying to imagine what they would feel if I were gone. And I’ve thought about the baby.”

“The b—”
 
The word died on my lips.

He looked me in the eye, nothing but the best intentions written across his features. “If this is hard for you to hear...”

It would be. But it might have been harder for him not to say it. “Not at all.”

His uncertain smile informed me that he wasn’t believing a word. But he went on. “I think about what would be happening if you were pregnant right now. Maybe I wouldn’t have lived to see my child born. And you would have been alone. That would change you. Maybe it would have destroyed the Sophie I left behind. That absolutely terrified me. So I thought if I gave you the money... if you could keep living the life I would have given you...”

I laid a comforting hand on his arm. “You thought if you did that, I wouldn’t be changed at all.”

“Yes,” he admitted with a sniff. “I know it’s stupid. I know that you love me and you would be crushed by my death. I’ve known that, even before you admitted it. I shouldn’t have let our argument go so far.”

“You hurt me.” I wasn’t going to let him forget that right now, or forgive him so close to the transgression. “You made me look like a fool in front of Valerie. If it had been anyone else... but it was Valerie.”

“You really hate her,” he said with a wavering smile.

I shrugged. “Yup. Don’t do that to me again, okay?”

“All right. From now on, I will not involve Valerie in personal business without consulting you.” He considered a moment. “This excludes business at Elwood and Stern, of course. I’m not going to run to you for permission over every little teleconference.”

“Well, obviously.” I rolled my eyes at him.

“Sophie, I want to make this very clear. Valerie is not a threat to our relationship.” He held up his hand to keep me from leaping in. “I have made some very unwise decisions in my life. My relationship with Valerie was one of them. The only good thing that came of dating each other was Emma.”

“Just don’t give her another opening to humiliate me,” I warned him. “That’s all I ask. And stop dealing with me the way you would deal with Emma.”

“I’m not—”

“I know it’s difficult and uncomfortable to hear me make that comparison, but tough shit. You try to protect me the same way you try to protect Emma, by trying to horn in and decide the course of my life. And by the way, that’s not going to work out with her for much longer, either.”

He sighed wearily. “I’ve been told that many times. Since she was six years old. I’ll step back, eventually.”

“When is eventually?” I teased.

“A full minute after they take me off life support.”

I didn’t dwell on that. “Just don’t stress yourself out, okay? Your counts have been amazing lately. You just keep going up. Let’s not reverse the trend because you’re worrying yourself into an early grave.”

“I just want this to be over. I want to have the transplant and move on with my life.” He sighed. “I realize I have to be well enough to have the transplant, but I feel as though I never will be. How am I supposed to get well when I’m being poisoned?”

“You’re not being poisoned. Remember what that blog said? Chemo damages your healthy cells, but it doesn’t kill them all off. You just need to get close to something that vaguely resembles remission. We’re almost there. Even if you have to do a fourth round of chemo.”

“I suppose we’ll see what Dr. Grant has to say next week,” he said with a sigh. “I don’t want to spend my birthday puking into a bucket.”

“If you do, I’ll attach some balloons to it. Make it festive.”

He smiled, but he didn’t laugh. Therapy was doing wonders for Neil, but he was never going to be one of those people who could make jokes about their cancer.

He grabbed the throw from the back of the sofa. “I’ll let you get back to work. Will it bother you if I sleep here?”

“Not at all.” Another lie. His snoring lately could wake the dead. I would put on headphones and deal. “Besides, I like having you close by.”

That one wasn’t a lie.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Neil’s last round of chemotherapy in the cycle had been like the last leg of a trail ride. He was barn sour, a horse who just wanted to get back to his stall and his straw.

He did not appreciate my folksy euphemism when I shared it with him. Possibly because he’d just had a bone marrow aspiration at the time.
 

During the last week of every cycle, Neil had a blood draw to make sure he was physically capable of handling the next round. This week, though, we’d gotten a call from Dr. Grant, saying he wanted to do further tests.

Of course, Neil had been furious.

“I feel fine. I don’t know why he thinks it’s so damned pleasant to have holes drilled in your bones,” he’d grumbled.

So, we’d gone and he’d had a hole drilled in his bones and Dr. Grant had said things that had sounded vaguely positive. Things like, “I don’t want to get your hopes up unnecessarily,” and “No, no, it’s nothing indicating you’ve taken a turn.” But he’d been unwilling to say, “I think the chemotherapy is working.”

We made an appointment to come back the day before Neil was due for his next dose.

That morning, I woke up in bed to find him beside me. I hadn’t noticed him get in, hadn’t woken when he’d taken me into his arms. I knew he had been feeling better, not just because it was his “good” week. I didn’t know if he’d begun to recover, or if his body was just getting used to the rhythm of chemo, but I was so relieved and happy to wake with his arms around me, his body spooned up behind me.

“Good morning,” He murmured against my ear. He pressed his morning erection against my backside, and I giggled, instantly giddy. Today was going to be a good day.

I remembered the date, and I gasped. “It’s your birthday!”

“That it is,” he said, nibbling along my shoulder. “Do you know what I want for my present?”

I let him roll me beneath him and spread my legs to cradle his hips. He kissed me, and I didn’t even care that I hadn’t brushed my teeth. I didn’t want to do anything that might break the moment.

“Is it this?” I asked, lifting my pelvis and rubbing shamelessly against him.

“No, it’s a stem cell transplant, actually,” he laughed. “We don’t have time for sex right now. We’re meeting Dr. Grant at ten-thirty.”

“Balls.” I pushed him off me and sat up. “Do you want the first shower, or do I get it?”

“We could make it a tandem shower,” he suggested, running a finger down my arm.

“Not if we’re going to make a ten-thirty appointment, we can’t.” I swung my legs over the side of the bed and stood, shimmying my nightgown down to cover my bottom. “Listen...”

“Don’t get excited, I know. I’m aware that this could all turn out to be just an indicator that we’re moving in the right direction.” He almost made it sound like he would be happy with that outcome. Almost.

I hated myself for saying more. “It’s just... he said it might take more than one cycle to get you into remission. And you’ve only been doing the chemotherapy for three months. You’re feeling better, but it’s not like you’re your old self, you know?”

“I do.” He sat up and reached for his glasses on the nightstand. “Look, I’ll be having chemotherapy tomorrow, or I won’t. Either way, would you like to go out to dinner tonight? It is my birthday, after all.”

“Of course.” I smiled brightly.
Please, please let this be about remission. Please don’t let him be disappointed today.

* * * *

“It’s either very good news, or just good news,” Neil said quietly as we waited in the chairs in front of Dr. Grant’s desk. “He said it was nothing to worry about.”

I took Neil’s hand in mine and squeezed it.
 

The nurse had led us to Dr. Grant’s office and told us he would be in presently, just like every time we’d been in to see him. But today it felt like drawn out reality show bullshit.

“Mr. Elwood, Ms. Scaife,” the doctor said as he stepped into the room. We both rose to shake his hand over his desk. Then Dr. Grant sat down and turned to his computer.

“Dr. Grant, very good to see you again,” Neil said pleasantly, though his entire body was tensed as though he would leap up and push the doctor out of the way.

“And very good to see you again. You’re looking very well,” the doctor said approvingly. “Your platelet counts were very promising in your last test, which is why I wanted your... bone... marrow...”

His voice trailed off as he read the screen.

I thought I could hear a drumroll in the back of my head. I almost screamed to break the brief silence as Dr. Grant looked down his nose at the computer.

“They didn’t find any blast clusters...” Dr. Grant made a “huh” noise and turned back to us. He looked pleased. Yes. This was positive. Dr. Grant had no bedside manner, so he wasn’t putting on a show. “I think we’re in a good place to go forward with stem cell collection.”

The air went out of the room. I didn’t dare to hope. Neil didn’t, either, I could tell from his shocked expression. “Are you saying...”

“Happy birthday, Mr. Elwood,” Dr. Grant said with a satisfied smile. “You’re either in remission, or damned close.”

* * * *

A uniformed sommelier popped the cork on a bottle of champagne with a professional flourish. I clapped politely and beamed at Neil. He looked like himself again, and better than he had in months. Than since New York, I realized, startled.

Neil was going to have his transplant. From all the stories I’d read online, and everything Josh had told me, Neil was having this whole cancer thing incredibly easy. Some people took cycle after cycle of chemotherapy just to get to the point that they could even begin discussing a transplant. So we weren’t just celebrating Neil’s birthday; we were celebrating a near miracle.

The sommelier poured champagne into my flute, then into Neil’s, and told us to enjoy.

Neil raised his glass. Tonight, he’d worn a dark blue jacket over a white shirt. He looked really great, even with a bald head; it was very Jason Statham on him. I’d almost forgotten what Neil looked like in anything other than a bathrobe. Seeing him wear normal clothing all day was a shock to the system.