Beside her, Noah's feet shifted with nervous energy. "I'll wait here."
It was on the tip of her tongue to ask him to go with her, but his knuckles had tightened on the armrest of his chair, and she wasn't sure whether it would make things worse if he had to sit in an exam room with her versus just waiting in the waiting area. If it was bad news, hearing it on her own would give her a minute to regain composure.
She chickened out, following the nurse on her own.
It wasthe antiseptic smell that was getting to him.
They must've just had a cleaning crew come in overnight, because the smell was more intense than it had been a week ago. So intense that the coffee he'd downed in the car was threatening to make a reappearance.
The scent was what he remembered so vividly from the first time he'd woken up after the surgery that had saved his life. He'd known something was wrong.
He couldn't remember who all had been in the room. At least one nurse, one kindly lady about his mother’s age who had clutched his hand tightly and assured him that he was alive.
Later, he'd heard the same nurse tell Mom that the vision loss was permanent. They'd left it to Mom to break the news to him.
He'd had to work through the trauma of those first few days, the injuries he sustained and coming in and out of consciousness. And then there was the grief over losing his sight.
His mom had forced him to talk. When he wouldn't talk to her, it had been to a therapist. Sometimes, he still grieved for his lost vision. Who wouldn't? It seemed like everything in the whole world was built for sighted people.
Jilly's talk about Christmas decorations had been a good distraction. With his mom planning to be gone, he'd had Aiden mail her gift, and he hadn't thought further about the holiday. He had no plans.
But now that he'd opened the door a crack, should he be thinking about purchasing gifts for Jilly and the kids? Friends exchanged gifts. He'd put himself firmly in the friend category by coming with Jilly this morning.
He started tapping out a message to Aiden but was interrupted when a door opened and closed.
That had been too fast. Was it bad news?
Footsteps approached.
"Hey." Jilly.
She was breathless and pressed a shaking hand into his shoulder.
He didn't jump this time. He was trying hard not to crave her touch.
She swallowed audibly. "Let's get out of here."
He stood and followed her. She was acting weird. Without any context, he didn't know if she was happy or upset.
"Bad news?" He reached for her, connecting with her elbow, and all it took was a little tug to stop her before she reached the door.
She turned toward him, and he could feel the warmth from her body, the jittery energy coming off of her.
"Tell me," he ordered.
"I'm clear. It was clear. The cancer isn't back."
Her voice was shaking with emotion. Joy, he realized.
And it spiraled through him, too. So much so that he couldn't contain it and crushed her to his chest in a hug.
He'd meant for it to stay platonic, but her arms came around his neck. When he bent his head, his jaw brushed the apple of her cheek. He froze.
But she didn't. She pressed a kiss against the corner of his lips. And then another. Properly against his lips.
He was no dummy. He fell into the moment with abandon, accepting her kiss. Returning it. Exploring the contours of her lips, the softness that he'd dreamed about every night since they shared their first.
She pulled away first, breathing hard. He wanted to protest, or to kiss her all over again, but she raised on tiptoe and whispered in his ear, "The receptionist is watching us."
