"Please," he deadpans and looks at me like I'm ridiculous, which makes me laugh. He'd done the same thing at the store when he first scooped me onto his boots. I'd protested then too, worried about hurting him, and he'd given me the same dry look as he swayed me around to the music playing.
He does it again, but this time there's no music, just the sound of our breathing, the hum of the apartment building. He pulls me flush against him, one hand going to the back of my head to tangle in my hair, the other an iron bar around my waist as we just exist together for a moment or two.
"Whatever they say," Callum murmurs into my temple, "we will face it together."
"Together," I breathe, clinging to him tighter, but his words give me strength.
I can face anything with Callum at my side.
He releases me and grabs his keys and wallet from the dresser as I grab my purse from the bed and swing it over my shoulder. Callum then walks to the bed, where Westley and Buttercup are placed in the center, grabs them, and hands them to me. I take them with a smile, cuddling them to my chest. I need all my otters' support today.
"Are you ready?" Callum asks.
"Yes," I nod, taking his hand and heading toward the door.
I stumble, my abrupt stop causing Callum to look at me in concern. "Baby?"
My eyes turn toward my bedside table, and I walk over to open the drawer. It's still there, buried under a couple of sheet masks and tubes of hand lotion and lip balm.
But it's still there, wrapped in my pretty stationery envelope.
With shaking hands, I pull it out and look at it, gently running my fingers over the script of my own name.
All the emotions I felt while writing this crash over at me all at once—heartbreak, fear, and hope threaten to swallow me wholefor a moment. My lungs tighten, and my legs wobble. I wrote this hoping for the best, but what if it's all for nothing? What if I take a turn for the worse? What if...
And then I feel him at my back, two warm hands on my shoulders, and a soft, steady voice in my ear. "What's that?"
Callum soothes all of the burning emotions in my chest, shutting them all out. I take a deep breath and tuck the envelope into my pocket.
I tilt my head up, offering a small, fragile smile. "I'll show you later."
He studies me for a moment with warm eyes, but nods gently, reaching to grab my hand and press a kiss to the back of it before threading his fingers with mine again.
"Let's go."
???
The waiting is always the worst part.
My leg won't stop bouncing. Callum reaches over without a word and lays his warm, steady hand on my thigh. He doesn't tell me to relax, he doesn't minimize my anxiety, he just steadies me. That's all I need. He squeezes once, gently, and I take a deep breath to calm my nerves. Meeting his eyes, I lay my hand over his and tangle our fingers together.
I left Westley and Buttercup in the car, having kept a death grip on them the entire ride. The other hand was locked into Callum's while I silently apologized for how sweaty my hand was. He didn't seem to mind, lifting it to kiss the back of it at every red light.
They drew my blood as soon as they took me back, then I had a chest X-ray and an ultrasound to make sure everything was clear. Now they've tucked us into Dr. Rajab's office so he can review everything. It's been about half an hour now. Longenough for my mind to catastrophize every scenario and send me into panic, so I distract myself by scanning the office.
Many impressive degrees line the walls, but what truly stands out are the family photos scattered throughout the room. It's clear what Dr. Rajab takes more pride in. A framed picture of him and his wife, Amara, standing in their wedding regalia, him gazing at her in wonder. Another photo of their three children at a barbecue, smiling with toothless grins at the camera. He framed a finger painting and hung it right beside his Harvard Medical Degree, signed in bright redNoor.
The photos and drawings give me comfort, in a way, to see life going on and to know that my doctor understands what his patients fight for, even if their families look a little different. It eases my nerves.
Last August, I sat in this same office—but beside a different man. I talked with Dr. Rajab about treatment plans, what the future is going to look like for me, and what battle I'm going to be fighting. Back then, I had felt scared, but hopeful, with a general idea of what was going to happen and who would be in my corner.
It all changed, though, that day in August, right after scheduling the beginning of my treatment, when Paul confessed. That, oddly enough, was the best thing that could happen. Would I be here, in the same spot, if he had never cheated or—God forbid—I had never found out?
Maybe I would have healed physically without Callum, without my friends.
But would I be this happy?
No. Not in a million lifetimes.
