He eyed me, then said, “I’m also going to write you a script for a cane.And if you want one, a wheelchair.”
My stomach hit my feet.“Will I need that?”
He tilted his head to the side.“That’s up to you.But my philosophy is, if those things exist to make your life easier, why live harder than you have to?”
He was right, and I hated it.He was right, but how was I supposed to handle everyone staring at me if I had a cane or awheelchair?How could I face Creek?He would freak the fuck out.I took a breath, then nodded. “Thanks. I actually do feel better.”
It was only a half-lie, but I couldn’t deny that I was grateful we had somewhere to start—and that it didn’t look like I’d be staring the grim reaper in the eyes for a good, long while.
Staring down at the bowl of soup Nash was holding, I blinked. “I don’t have the flu.”
“No shit. If you had the flu, I’d be pushing this into your room with a broom handle,” Nash said with a smirk. “This is my grandma’s recipe, and it’s sacred, so eat it, enjoy it, and don’t complain.”
That was most definitely an order, but it was a hard one to ignore because it smelled amazing. Dipping the spoon in, I took my first bite, and flavor erupted across my tongue. “Oh my god.”It was heavenly.I shoveled several bites into my mouth before I was brave enough to look back up at Nash.
“Told you. You want more, Oliver Twist.”
Glaring at him, I shoveled several more molten lava-hot bites into my mouth, not caring that it was searing my tongue. “I might.”
“The fact that you’re eating at all makes me happy.”
My appetite had been whittled down to almost nothing, so I understood what he meant. I felt hungry. Bean would come over sometimes with recipes he was trying out for his restaurant, and my stomach would rumble, but three bites in, I was done.
I’d lost weight.
And I was tired all the time.
And right now, I felt wrung out like an old washcloth squeezed too many times. The tests had been long, terrifying at worst, and painful at best. I had bruises on my arms from the blood draws, and there were still remnants of sticky adhesive on my temples and chest from where they’d taken all their readings.
I hadn’t understood half of what they were saying and not a quarter of what they were doing. All I knew was that I felt like I’d been scanned from head to toe.
Nash had pragmatically not asked me what the doctor said, but I could tell it was eating at him now. We were on the couch with tea trays on our laps, with some show about overseas real estate playing. The volume was so low I could barely hear it.
And he was tense.The least I could do was put him out of his misery.
“He doesn’t think I’m terminal.”
Nash’s spoon clattered into his bowl, and he cleared his throat. “Was that a possibility?”
“I mean, it’s always a possibility. I was thinking ALS or maybe brain cancer.”
He swore a long string under his breath. “Forest, I didn’t know it was that bad.”
My cheeks heated. “Yeah, sorry. It’s…been weird. Really bad some days and totally normal others. I was afraid to acknowledge it.”
“For how long?”
I swallowed heavily. “A while.”
“Forest,” he warned.
“Since before I moved. That’swhyI moved. I thought it was stress, but it’s been getting worse.” I finished the soup, then set the tray on the coffee table and pulled my legs up, curling into myself a bit. I felt a little judged.
Nash seemed to notice because he set his food aside and gripped my ankle with tender fingers. “Hey, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to get so aggressive.”
“No.” I offered him a smile. He’d been so kind. “It’s just me. I was freaked out, and I still kind of am because at this point, they’re trying to rule everything out before telling me what’s wrong with me. It could still be bad.”
“But it also might not be,” he said. I had nothing to say to that. It was true. It was a penny in the air, and I had no idea which side it was going to land on. “Will you tell your brother?”
