I believe it.
An hour later, we're back on the couch, cuddling, both of us cleaned up and changed. Sophie was a little cold, so she put her hoodie on and pulled on some longer pajama pants. She's sitting on my lap again as we continue watching our movie.
It's late, almost eleven, and I can feel her starting to drift off a little bit.
The chemotherapy makes her so tired, especially now as she's nearing the end. Then the surgery in December, if the chemotherapy goes well. If not, it might have to be pushed back. Sophie doesn't talk much about that possibility—instead, she talks with optimism. I can tell she is a little worried, though, and I'd be lying if I wasn't a little worried too.
I trust her doctors, I trust her treatment, and I have faith that Sophie will be cancer-free one day.
But it doesn't erase the fear.
It's the woman I love battling cancer.
She's tired every day, she's losing her appetite, she's losing weight, and she's forgetting things or losing her train of thought mid-sentence. Sometimes she feels so miserable that she becomes snappy and short, and then immediately feels so guilty afterward, beating herself up.
The necessary cruelty of chemotherapy is causing her tosuffer.
Then she'll have to suffer through recovery from the surgery and then radiation.
This battle is far from over, and I believe it may get worse before it gets better.
And no matter what, there isno placeI'd rather be thanholding her hand through it all.
I pull her closer, and she hums, snuggling into my shoulder, and stubbornly trying to keep her eyes open and on the movie.
My phone buzzes on the coffee table, Bailey's name flashing on the screen. Sophie leans forward, grabs the phone for me, and pauses the movie with the remote.
"Hello?" I answer, tucking the phone to my ear.
"Hi! I submitted the article! It's out tomorrow morning!" Bailey follows this with an excited, ear-splitting squeal that makes me pull the phone away to save my eardrums. Sophie giggles at the noise, and I put the phone on speaker, laughing when the squeal continues, "—eeeeee!"
"You're on speaker, Bailey. Sophie's here," I tell her, once she finishes. "Did they like it?"
"Sophie! Oh my gosh, shelovedit!" Bailey practically shouts. Her voice is racing, words tumbling over each other in excitement. "She thinks it's going to be a hit. Callum, you'd better buckle up. I believe it will attract a significant amount of business to the store. Sophie, thank you for allowing me to interview you. I'm so excited for everyone to get to know you."
Sophie blushes, cheeks turning an adorable pink, and I kiss the heated skin as she gives me a small, shy smile. "Thank you for interviewing me, Bailey. And for allowing me to set the pace."
"Of course, I promised," Bailey replies earnestly. "But that's not the only reason I'm calling. Are you guys still at Sophie's? I know it's late, but I wanted to talk to you both about something—and I want to do it in person—and I just can't wait!"
Sophie and I exchange a curious glance. She shrugs, "Sure, come on over."
"Okay, good, because we're actually downstairs."
Sophie lets out a surprised laugh. "What if I had said no?"
"We would have gone home, of course," Bailey replies innocently, though the dramatic'duh'is definitely implied in hertone.
"Wait—who is'we'?"
"You'll see!" Bailey laughs before hanging up the phone.
???
The we she meant is her and her fiancé, Michael.
The couple stands outside the front door. Bailey is dressed in a hot pink velour tracksuit, with those brown fur-lined boots on her feet, and her braided hair up in a high bun. I know what a velour tracksuit is now because last year, Bailey rushed into book club a couple of minutes late, and Tonya yelled,'What year is it?!'and said she looked like she had just stepped out of 2004. Bailey informed her that it was her work-from-home deadline outfit.
Jane spent the entire time rubbing the fabric on Bailey's arm, saying that it was a pleasing texture to her, and then Bailey promptly bought Jane her own—in black, of course.
