The Perfect Life (8 page)

“Northcutt, party of three, your table is now available,” the hostess announced from behind the wooden stand where she waited with menus, saving me from the double pirouette I was about to execute. And what a shame that was.

Monroe and I turned to follow the young woman to our table, only to find Allison watching us with what could only be described as a what-the-fuck-is-wrong-with-you-people look etched across her features. Narrowed eyes. Crinkled forehead. Mouth slightly ajar. Disbelief everywhere.

I snickered as I gestured for the two women to go first. “Fear not, oh mighty leader Allison,” I teased. “We promise the future of your organization is in safe hands . . . though perhaps not completely sane ones.”

Directly behind the girl who led us to the back of the restaurant, Allison threw a roguish smirk over her shoulder, pausing briefly on Monroe then landing directly on me. “You’ve been adorably odd and outlandish since the day I met you, sweet Oliver. I just had no idea you’d rub off on Monroe so quickly. If we ever open up a fourth home, I’ll be sure to ask the new director to brush up on his or her
Grease
trivia before introducing them to you two. I wouldn’t want them to not feel like part of the group.”

We all laughed as we postured through the trendy, open-concept bistro and bar. The distinctive smells of basil and tomato sauce drifted through the air as bubbling pizzas were displayed in the open hearth oven and chefs tossed steaming pastas in large bowls. I allowed the ladies to select their places first at the square four-top, hoping I’d have the option to not sit next to Monroe. My level of idiocy was apparently directly correlated with my closeness to her. However, because they settled in seats across from each other, either chair I chose was nestled between the two of them.
Naturally.
Sighing as I lowered myself onto the cushion, I ordered a water from the server, secretly wishing I could get something a bit stiffer to help calm my nerves.
Chill the fuck out, Sax. Just try to act normal.

Thankfully, for the first five minutes or so, Allison and I skimmed over the menu as Monroe rattled off a few of her favorite items. Lobster Combo.
She had good taste. Who didn’t like lobster and bacon on the same plate?
Beef Short Rib Bahn Mi.
Showed she was adventurous and not scared to try new things.
Chopped Southwest Salad with Salmon.
Not my favorite, but . . . wait! Why did I care what she liked to eat?

“What in the world is Sweet Italian Sausage Pizza on a Paddle?” Allison cackled as she peered at us over her menu. “It sounds like a kinky food fetish or something. I wonder if we can get the calamari on cuffs, too?”

My cheeks burned with embarrassment at her flippant remarks, even though I knew she was just being funny. I couldn’t bear to make eye contact with Monroe to see if her reaction mimicked mine, so as my boss rambled on about how a BDSM-themed restaurant called Grey’s would be wildly popular, I pushed my glasses up on the bridge of my nose and stared at the menu. Soon the words began to blur and move across the page, but I refused to look up. When Monroe eventually chimed in and words like
blindfolds
and
ball gags
floated off the tip of her tongue, I thought I was going to lose my damn mind. My cock demanded to be freed with such intensity I worried it was going to burst straight through my jeans. And I’m not sure if I would’ve been more relieved or embarrassed had it happened.

Escaping to the bathroom wasn’t an option. Neither was joining the conversation. But much like the impeccable timing of the hostess earlier, the server returned with our drinks and took down our food order, unknowingly saving me from what was bound to end in yet another humiliating moment for me. As if I hadn’t experienced enough in my life during the previous twenty-four hours.

Once he left the table, I brought the glass of ice-cold water up to my mouth for a long, much-needed drink. The lunch was not going anything like I’d thought it would. When Allison had invited me to meet her, dangling the bait of an unknown proposition in front of my face, I’d assumed it had to do with expanding the Chicago-based Mending Hearts house, or maybe choosing a location for another one in a different city. After all, her ultimate goal was to have homes spread out all across the country. But up until that point, the conversation had remained on a personal level, with no hint to any business-related topics.

However, as soon as Allison lowered her own glass back to the table after taking a sip of her iced tea, her expression changed from lighthearted to one with a more somber undertone. Instantly, all other thoughts vanished from my mind and my sole focus was on whatever she was about to tell us. She had yet to utter a word, but I knew something was wrong, and dread sat heavy, deep in my stomach.

“As much as I don’t want to talk about this, I’m sure you’re both wondering why it was I asked you to meet me here today,” she said, nervously tucking her short dark hair behind her ears. “I’ve always been a fan of ripping a bandage off in one swift motion, so here it goes.” All three of us inhaled a collective breath and held it as she blurted out, “Three weeks ago, I was diagnosed with Stage II breast cancer. I’ve since met with an oncologist, and because it was caught early, he’s extremely optimistic that we can beat it with a combination of surgery and chemotherapy. My mastectomy is scheduled for next Friday, and I’ll begin the chemo treatments once I recover.”

Stopping to finally exhale, Allison shook her head at me as if she could hear the only question that was repeating over and over again in my head.
Are you going to die? Are you going to die? Are you going to die? Oh my God, please don’t die.

“Look, I know it’s going to be hard,” she continued, reaching out to touch my arm with one hand and Monroe’s wrist with the other, “and there are going to be days where I wish I was dead, but the important thing is
I won’t be
. The five-year survival rate for the type of cancer I have is over seventy percent. I’m an intelligent person, as I know both of you are, and I urge you to do your research online for what I’m up against. I’ll even send you some links if you’d like. God knows, I’ve scoured every page on the internet with any information. This will be a serious test of my character and will, and I’ve got a great supporting cast around me, especially the two of you, to help me get through this.”

She focused her attention primarily to a sniffling Monroe and offered a small smile. “Sweetie, this project is going to continue on schedule, okay? I’ve discussed my condition fully with the Board of Directors, and they know there is to be no setbacks because of this. I can still help you select the house before the surgery, and the only thing that will change is that I’ll no longer be able to temporarily relocate here to help you hire your team and get things set up. Traveling is discouraged, especially until I know how my body will react to the chemo.” Twisting her shoulders in my direction, her pleading eyes found mine and I swallowed hard, knowing what was coming. “That’s where you come in, Oliver. Since plans have been in place for me to stay in Boston for some time now, we’ve already signed a lease for a furnished downtown apartment here in Boston that I’d like to offer you in exchange for assisting Monroe in getting the house up and running. You were an active part of the startup at the Chicago house, so you’re just as qualified to do this as I am.”

“I, uh, I-I dunno,” I stammered, choking on the emotions. “I’m having trouble processing the first part of what you said to even try and think about the second.”

Chuckling at my raw honestly, she nodded. “I know it’s a lot to take in at once, but unfortunately, we don’t have time on our side. These decisions need to be made today. After lunch, I’m scheduled to meet with the landlord of the apartment to get the keys and tour the building. If you’re going to say yes, I want you to come with me. I understand you’ll have things at home that need tending to, so I’d ask that you be back and ready to get started two weeks from tomorrow.”

“What about the Chicago house? Who would be responsible for my kids if I was here? When would I go back home?” The questions tumbled from my mouth as my mind swirled with confusion.

“Jeff and Tracie, as well as your other counselors, are more than capable to run the house for six months,” she replied. “And it’s not like you’re more than a phone call away, or in the case of an emergency, a few hours on a plane.”

The idea of helping set up a new home sounded fun and challenging, but I loved my kids and my employees in Chicago, and I couldn’t imagine being away from them for that long. Even though I’d always wanted to live somewhere outside of Illinois, and this would be a great opportunity to try out a new place,
new
often meant daunting and intimidating. And then there was the whole having to work closely with Monroe on a daily basis thing, which scared the living shit out of me. Being around her made me a stumbling, bumbling fool who couldn’t conjure up a single coherent thought, so how in the world could I be of any assistance to her?

I shifted my gaze from Allison to Monroe then back to Allison, both waiting with bated breath for my answer. I sucked at making decisions on the spot. I preferred to make lists, compare and contrast, and mull over things for much longer than necessary. However, as a woman at a nearby table stood up to leave, I noticed the pink scarf covering her bald head and all of the conflicting thoughts warring inside of me were silenced. Whether or not her hairstyle was by choice or the result of medical treatment, the only thing it made me think of was no matter how much the statistics were in her favor, Allison—a woman I respected and sincerely cared about—would soon be fighting for her life against a terrible, putrid disease. There was never a decision to be made.

“I’ll do it.”

“We build

castles

with our fears

and sleep

in them

like kings

and

queens”

–Christopher Poindexter

Monroe

IT WAS 7:14,
and Effie was officially late . . . even by her standards. In the five years I’d known Seth’s younger sister—Alexandria Sheffield Andrews, or Effie, as he and Colin had nicknamed her when they were kids—I couldn’t remember a single time the girl had ever been on time, much less early, to anything. According to the guys, it was a trait she’d possessed from birth, forcing doctors to induce Mrs. Andrews nearly two weeks past her due date. Once I got to know her, that story didn’t surprise me in the least.

“Have you tried calling her again?” I asked Seth while pacing the distressed hardwood floors of the living room, or
pah-lah
(parlor) according to my husband in his Bostonian accent. I tried my best to subdue the irritation in my voice, but making others wait over forty minutes without so much as a phone call or a text crossed the line of her usual ‘running a little late’ to ‘rude and selfish.’

My mood was already shot, as I was still reeling from the news that my mentor had breast cancer.
I was drowning in an overload of emotion from the news, and I couldn’t even imagine what Allison must be going through . . . no matter how much she had tried to downplay the severity of it. It took every ounce of willpower I had to keep myself from breaking down and allowing the fear and sorrow to engulf me. I fought off the tears, because she didn’t want me to be upset for her, and since I wasn’t able to physically heal her, all I could do was respect her wishes, try to keep her spirits up, and support her through the treatment.

Then, once I’d gotten home, I didn’t want to put a damper on the happiness Colin and Seth were sharing after the apparent reconciliation from their fight a few weeks ago, so I’d spent most of the afternoon reorganizing my closet for no other reason than it had kept my mind busy. And I was about ready to say to hell with the game and march my tooshie back upstairs, slip into my most comfortable sweats, and feed my sadness a tub of cookie dough ice cream.

“Yeah, I did a few minutes ago. It keeps going straight to voicemail,” he replied from the couch, where he and Colin were watching ridiculous YouTube videos on the laptop to kill time. Glancing at his phone on the coffee table, he grimaced and tapped Colin’s shoulder then shot up off the brown leather cushion. “Shit, brah, it’s after seven. We gotta go. Effie can just meet us—”