Pretty Pink Ribbons (11 page)

“Nope. Not a tear.”

“I don’t believe you,” Levi says skeptically. “It’s not one of those fake tattoos, is it?”

“No,” I laugh. “It’s real. Want to see it?”

“Actually, yes, I do.”

“Okay, well—” I reach for the hem of my shirt and raise it slightly, pretending that I’m going to lift it over my head. Of course I’m not going to, but he doesn’t know that.

“Hell no!” Mia snaps. “I didn’t get to see the tattoo, but you’re going to show him?”

“Whoa . . .” Levi reaches for my hands and tugs them away from my shirt, all the while looking around to make sure no one else saw. “What are you doing?”

“I was going to show you my tattoo.”

“Not cool,” Mia mumbles under her breath. “Sisters before misters.”

“And you have to take your shirt off to do it?” Levi asks, completely ignoring Mia.

“Yup. Probably my bra too.” Levi’s eyes blaze hot with lust and I can’t help but smile. He’s always been a boob man, and that’s probably what he’s picturing right now. “Another time?” I ask sweetly, resting my hand on his arm. Something in him relaxes, I can almost see it. It’s like he has this wall up and I just knocked a few bricks off the top. His eyes dance with a playful familiarity as he watches me.

“Another time,” he says, his voice low and rough. He reaches for his beer that Tatum had placed on the bar earlier. “You ladies enjoy your evening. I’m going to go talk to some friends. Mia, it was a pleasure meeting you.” Levi flashes both of us one last smile and Mia looks at me with a twinkle in her eye.

“He’s fantastic. And I’m guessing by that goofy-ass grin on your face that whatever just happened here made your entire night.”

“It made my entire week,” I answer, thankful that Mia convinced me to come out tonight.

BAKING POWDER . . . BAKING POWDER . . . you’ve got to be around here somewhere. Aha! There you are.
Pulling the box from the shelf, I measure out two teaspoons and pour the essential ingredient into the bowl along with the flour, shortening and salt. I stir in warm water and mix the dough until it’s nice and smooth, then cover the bowl and let it sit. But there’s no time for me to sit, because if I sit then I think. I’ve done a lot of thinking already and frankly, my brain hurts. There is only so much information one brain can or should process in one day and I’ve hit my limit . . . and then some.

Quickly, I move through the kitchen, pulling out more ingredients. The dough has to sit for twenty minutes, which is more than enough time to start making something else. I set the timer and get to work.

This is how I deal with things. I cook, or bake, it doesn’t really matter which as long as it involves me in a kitchen. And after the day I’ve had, I needed a big kitchen in a big way and mine at home wasn’t going to cut it. I spent nearly the entire afternoon at the treatment center with my doctor and a few dozen nurses, who instructed, poked, prodded and hauled me from room to room until they were certain I had every piece of knowledge I needed to proceed with my treatments. Dr. Hopkins was nice but overly cheery, and there were several times that I wanted to slap the smile right off of her face. Didn’t she know what I was going through? Didn’t she understand the storm that was raging inside of me while she spoke of labs, scans, tests, appointments, side effects and every other medical thing she could throw in there? Shouldn’t she have known that while she was talking about tissue, staging, blood cells, and hair loss, I was thinking about one thing and one thing only?

Surviving.

“Laney, I’ve spoken to your oncologist and your surgeon from California. I know that they’ve both talked with you in great detail about your diagnosis and the treatment plan that would ensue after your mastectomy, but I just want to start by recapping so that you and I are both on the same page.”

Dr. Hopkins is sitting in front of me with a file, which I assume is mine. It’s thick, and when she flips it open I see the words written in bold lettering at the top of the page.

Name: Laney Jacobs

Diagnosis: Stage III Invasive Ductal Carcinoma

My eyes linger on the page, but I’m not reading anything. There isn’t anything in that file that I haven’t already been told, and it all really boils down to one thing.

I have breast cancer.

There was—or is, who the hell knows—a disease growing inside of me . . . killing me.

“Laney?” A gentle hand touches my knee and I look up to find Dr. Hopkins watching me. “Are you okay?”

That’s a stupid question
. No, I’m not okay. I had my breast removed, for crying out loud, and now I’m about to have some extremely toxic chemicals pumped through my body for the next several months in case there are any ‘bad cells’ left floating around. So no, I’m not okay. “Yes, doctor. Sorry, please keep going.” Luke wraps his hand around mine and squeezes it gently. I squeeze back, thankful that I’m not doing this alone.

She nods with a knowing smile. We spend the next hour reviewing my diagnosis, surgery, and upcoming treatment plans. “So if it’s okay with you, Laney, I would really like to get started as soon as possible. You’re six weeks post-op, and the sooner we can start your chemotherapy, the better.”

I look at Luke, though I’m not sure why exactly—it’s not like he really has a say in this. But his soft smile is all the reassurance I need. “I’m ready to get this started,” I answer with false bravado.

“When can she start?” Luke asks. He scoots forward in his chair—as if it will help him hear her better—but his hand stays locked in mine.

“Well,” she says, looking at me with a hopeful smile. “We’re going to draw your blood here today, so as long as all of your blood levels look good, we can start tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow?” I pull my arm away, my fingers sliding from Luke’s tight grip, and I run a shaky hand across my head. “I . . . I wasn’t expecting it so soon.” I’d thought maybe she’d say next week, or the week after that, to give me time to adjust and process everything. But isn’t that exactly what I’ve been doing the past several weeks?

Dr. Hopkins must notice my hesitation because she scoots her stool closer to me. I hold up my hand, signaling her to give me a minute. Her eyes are soft and understanding. “I know this is hard, Laney, but it’s necessary.” I nod. “If you need the weekend to prepare yourself, we can start on Monday. It’s your call.”

She’s right. I need to get this over with. I need to make sure this horrible disease is gone for good so I can get back to my life.

“Tomorrow is perfect.” My voice hitches, and I try for a smile but fail miserably. Luke wraps his arm around my shoulder and whispers in my ear.

“I’m here with you every step. Got it? Every. Single. Step.” I nod again, because apparently that’s all someone can do in this situation, and then wipe away a tear that slips from my eye.

“Great.” Dr. Hopkins stands up, shaking first my hand and then Luke’s. “Sit tight for a minute. One of the nurses is going to come in and give you information about the treatments and talk to you about side effects and what to expect.”

A loud beep pulls me from a fog and I look down to see that my whisk is sitting in a chocolaty batter. Honestly, I have no idea how I even got to this point. It’s sort of like arriving at a destination and then realizing that you don’t remember actually driving there.

Another timer goes off and I walk to the stove, slip on an oven mitt and pull out the pan, loving the way the sweet cinnamon smell fills the kitchen. Closing my eyes, I inhale deeply, allowing my body to savor the familiar scent—a scent that may very well become foreign to me in the near future.

“You must be Laney.” A short, plump woman pushes her way into the room and extends her hand. Yes, another formality that I’m just not in the mood for. I shake her hand nonetheless, and she sits on a rolling stool and opens up a folder. “My name is Tara and I’m one of the nurses in the oncology unit so you’ll probably be seeing a lot of me.” She flashes me a quick smile, but her attempt at making me smile falls flat. “Okay, this folder is for you. You get to take it home and you’ll want to comb through it and read everything thoroughly, but right now I’m going to hit on some of the important stuff.” She hands me the first paper. My eyes slide across the page and my heart stops momentarily before slamming violently into my rib cage.

SIDE EFFECTS OF CHEMOTHERAPY

I suck in a deep breath as my eyes travel over the words, one by one, each word crashing into me like a freight train, each one affecting me a little bit differently.

Nausea . . . vomiting . . . diarrhea . . . constipation . . . bruising . . . bleeding . . . fatigue . . . loss of appetite . . . loss of smell or taste . . . loss of hair
.

Each word is a knife to the gut, but the last three feel like someone takes that knife, jabs it in as far as it could possibly go and then twists it until every last bit of my insides are shredded into tiny little pieces.

I am a woman, and there are two things that help distinguish me as such—my hair and my breasts. A giant lump forms in my throat and my bottom lip starts to tremble. My hand slides across my lap and into Luke’s, whose tight grip is probably the only thing holding me together right now. It’s bad enough I’ve already lost one breast and that in the place of my once perky, plump tissue I have a jagged scar over sunken flesh. But now, on top of that, I’m going to lose my hair. I don’t want to lose my hair, I don’t want to wear a wig, and I certainly don’t want the looks of pity that a bald head will undoubtedly draw.

Luke nudges my arm and I look up as I struggle to keep my emotions in check. He nods to Tara and I shift my attention, but the fear of everything that is about to happen to me has my blood pumping so hard through my body that it’s now pounding behind my ears. The only thing I seem to hear is the beat of my own heart, and I suppose I should at least be thankful I can hear that . . . it means I’m still alive. I watch Tara absently, and I’m able to decipher a few things she says.

“Your treatments will be every other Friday for six months . . . Treatments will take approximately four to five hours . . . You’ll get your blood drawn before each round of chemo . . . We’ll give you medicine in case the nausea and vomiting get to be too much . . . Make sure you’re eating healthy . . . Be sure and drink lots of water . . . Feel free to bring someone with you during your treatments . . . Don’t hesitate to ask any questions.” My eyes clog with tears and I look down, rubbing my temples, willing myself to calm down.

“Laney? Laney . . . are you okay?”

A large hand settles on my shoulder and I whip around to find myself face to face with Levi. He steps back, his hands up in the air. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you.” I look at the knife in my hand and then back up at him. “Are you okay?” he questions.

I lower the knife and mumble an apology before turning back toward the counter. What was I doing? Oh yes, the dough. I finish cutting the rolled-out dough into three-inch chunks, and then I check the oil to make sure it’s warmed up to the right temperature before I drop the chunks into the sizzling pot. I turn back toward Levi and find him standing in the exact same spot as before.

“I’m fine,” I shrug. “Why would you think I wouldn’t be okay?” I ask as nonchalantly as I possibly can. He eyes me curiously for several seconds.

“Well, for starters, you’re crying.” I rub my arm across my face and sure enough . . . tears. The strange thing is that I don’t even remember crying. Levi chuckles, but I’m not really sure what he’s finding funny about the situation.

“What? What are you laughing at?”

He shakes his head and steps toward me. I watch as he slowly lifts his hand and wipes it gently across my cheek. “You just smeared flour all over your face.” His hand leaves a trail of heat against my skin and when he pulls back, a part of me wants to grab his arm and insist that he keep touching me. But that might be a little much.

“Thanks,” I mumble, still breathless from his touch. “I’ve just had a really bad day.” His blue eyes are staring tenderly into mine, and I want nothing more than for him to tuck me against his big warm chest and hold me and promise that everything is going to be okay. “Like really, really bad.”