Kennedy
Silence has this wonderful way of communicating everything you need to understand, without saying anything at all.
The small plastic chair feels hard beneath my legs, fake leather sticking to my skin as I shift to alleviate my discomfort from the prickly heat. “So, Doc. How bad is it?”
My consultant is a well-meaning beta with a shock of white hair and eyebrows to match. Late fifties – or maybe early sixties – he sighs before shuffling his papers. A cough punctuates the air, the good doctor clearing his throat as he braces to deliver bad news as though it’ll be any kind of news at all.
Is there any other kind of news than bad?
I recognize the signs, the uncomfortable movement, a little too well. “This isn’t our first meeting. You can just say it.”
In fact, I’d rather he hurried up about it. Some of us don’t have time to waste sitting in beige rooms waiting around for the next blow.
His next sigh is a little more frustrated. I mentally award him an extra point for his tone when he finally speaks. I expected pity, but I get professionalism instead.
“I’ll be frank, Kennedy.” He glances down before looking up again, making sure he makes eye contact. Ticking off a mental checklist of how to talk to the dying. “Your prognosis is worse than when you were last here.”
It can get worse?
My blink is slow. “How much worse?”
Another awkward cough. “It’s difficult to give an exact timeline, as you know. But from your reported symptoms and the frequency – I would say we’re looking at weeks.”
Weeks.
“Maximum.” He says the word softly, as though it’ll be less of a smoking gun. “Possibly - more than likely – it will be days, Kennedy.”
This little leather chair is sturdier than it looks. My back slams against it, and I ignore the resulting shock of pain as I tilt my head back and take a breath.
It shouldn’t be a shock.
It shouldn’t.
And yet—
“I didn’t think it would be so fast.” My words are quieter than I’d like them to be. More uncertain.
Doctor Abrams gives me a considering look. An assessing one. “Have you been resting?”
I bite the inside of my cheek hard before responding. “Yes?”
He tilts his head. Professional he might be, but he has a way of pinning down bullshit. “You remember what we discussed. Plenty of rest – care – everything that soothes an omega – that’s what will help right now. Nesting. Time with family. Even without a mate, it will help.”
His wording threatens to stab into the hard set of shields I keep locked around certain memories, and I bite the inside of my cheek again. Metal on my tongue, the copper tang of blood.
A familiar scent.
“Sure.” I stare down at my hands, clenching them. “I’m getting all the care, Doc. Everybody’s been great.”
“But you’re here alone today?”
Damn, he doesn’t miss a trick. My cheeks heat, and I don’t look up. “My dad got held up at work. He’s coming.”
He doesn’t dignify my bald-faced lie with a response. “Yours is an unusual situation. You’re very young. If you had found your mates, there could be a small window of possibility where we could reassess—,”
“I haven’t.” My voice sharpens as I cut him off without apology. My back straightens. “We are where we are. I see no point in wasting time over possibilities that won’t happen. What do we do now?”
Abrams considers my question. His voice is heavy when he responds. “You have a key worker at the Center, correct?”
