Page 140 of The Backup Plan

Because where do you go when the woman you trusted just told you that she won’t be fighting with you?

Emery

I sit on the floor just inside my doorway, knees pulled to my chest and back pressed against the wall.

Waiting.

The building is quiet except for the subtle hum of neighbors talking and an occasional door shutting outside. Every sound makes my heart stutter—footsteps in the hall that aren’t his, a door closing too hard on the floor below, the elevator dinging down the hall.

I don’t know how long I sit there like this, but it’s long enough for my eyes to burn. Long enough for the tears to come and go until I’m empty and numb. Long enough to know that while my heart feels broken, I know it’s nowhere near what his feels like.

There’s so much more to him than football. I know he won’t even entertain the thought let alone accept it, but it’s real and valid and—

A door closes.

Not mine.

Lucas.

I’m on my feet before I think about it, wiping my face with the heel of my hand like that will erase the evidence of how badly this has wrecked me.

My legs are unsteady as I cross the hall. My fist lifts to knock even though every instinct in my body screams not to do this.

I knock anyway.

The door yanks open.

Lucas stands there looking like something has hollowed him out.

You did this, Emery.

His shoulders are stiff. His eyes are dark and exhausted. He looks angry and wounded and stripped bare in a way I’ve never seen before. No smile. No teasing. No armor.

“Dr. Porter,” he says coldly.

“Don’t,” I say and shake my head. “Don’t do that.”

His eyes hold mine. “Did you need something?” he asks flatly.

“We need to talk.”

He emits a harsh laugh and steps back. “What? So you can crush me again?”

I step inside without waiting for an invitation and shut the door behind me.

Funny how the apartment feels different now. Tense. Heavy. Unwelcome. Almost like it knows what’s about to happen.

“This diagnosis isn’t the end of the world,” I say quietly. It’s probably not the right thing to say, but if I don’t start somewhere, it probably won’t start at all.

“It’s not the end of the world?” There’s that disbelieving chuckle again. “For who? For you or for me?”

“For you.” My voice shakes despite my best effort to keep it steady. “So you can live your life as normally as possible after this.”

“You don’t get to decide that for me.”

“I’m not trying to—”

“Ruin my life? You’re standing in my living room trying to sell me the fact that the results of the scan aren’t the end of the world. I appreciate the attempt, but I call bullshit.”