Page 14

Part 7

“Falling into You”

May

Glass shattered and flew in every direction. Pain rose up my arm and into my chest like a lightning strike. My mother’s screams and the crunch of metal merged together in a cacophony of sound. My father’s last words—“We’ll always look out for you”—echoed in my mind as I was taken off on a stretcher. The beeps of the hospital equipment nearly drowned out the message that my mother was gone. The tears flowed until there were no more left.

Suddenly, I was sitting in a wheelchair being pushed toward the hospital exit. A man waited for me on the other side of the sliding doors, but I couldn’t make out his face. I shuddered in fear and begged the nurse to take me back to my room. She reassured me and kept propelling me forward. I realized this was the same person I’d seen in my dreams before, though I still couldn’t make out any discernable features. He handed me my favorite flowers as he helped me get into the car, and my heart softened a little.

Seated at a diner together, he held the menu for me. We both ordered comfort food—macaroni and cheese, and chocolate cake—not worrying about calories. He paid the check and drove me home. He helped me into my apartment, and I heard myself invite him in for tea. He accepted and we talked on the sofa for hours. When he left, he hugged me, and I felt safe in his arms.

* * *

“Feeling loopy yet?” Nate asks as we drive across town to yet another radiologist’s office a few weeks later.

This will make the fifth branch of Wake Radiology I’ve been to since this whole thing began. I keep suggesting to the receptionists that they should have a punch card and for every five visits, you get a free massage or something equally enjoyable. They’ve laughed, but no one has given me a punch card, a massage or even a free fro-yo yet.

Come to think of it, maybe that Valium has started to kick in.

“A little bit,” I slur. My doctor prescribed drugs for this test since it is not only another breast MRI, but I’ll be having multiple biopsies during it. She said it could take over an hour, and even though they use local anesthetic, it can still be quite painful. I was only too happy to take some Valium on my way, so I hopefully won’t care about what they’re doing to me and my poor breasts that feel more like pin cushions these days. This will be my fourth round of biopsies and the third type I’ve had. I started with ultrasound guided—had two rounds of those—then moved on to mammogram guided, now MRI guided.

“That’s good,” Nate chuckles. “I’m sure you’re going to want to be good and drugged for this one.”

I try to nod, but it feels like my head isn’t quite as attached to my neck as it used to be. “Yep. Afther the mamm-o-gram one, I don thin I wanna rememer thisss.” Wow. Even to my own ears that sounds terrible.

Nate parks the car and comes around to my side to help me out. “Whoa, there. Let me help you. Put your arm around my shoulder.”

I do as he says, but I can still barely stand up. I’ve never taken Valium before, but I didn’t think it would have this much effect on me. A nurse must see Nate struggling with me because she rushes out with a wheelchair. Soon, I’m seated and being pushed into the office.

“Thanksh,” I say.

“Yes, thank you,” Nate adds.

We get inside the office, and they check me in, all the while I’m feeling like my head is floating somewhere away from my body, and my legs feel like lead weights in the wheelchair. I’m fairly sure I’m going to sleep through this whole procedure, which is fine by me.

“O’Donnell,” a nurse calls from the doorway.

I try to raise my hand, but there’s no way. Thankfully, Nate answers her, and the nurse whisks me off to the changing area. She helps me get changed into a gown—which I’m sure is not part of her job description—and she wheels me to the area just outside of the MRI room.

“Dan, I’m gonna need help with this one,” she says to a burly man sitting at a computer.

He turns around and must see that the Valium has taken hold. “You’re hoping not to remember this at all, aren’t you?”

“Naht if I ca-an hep it,” I slur.

Dan helps the other nurse get me into position on the MRI machine—on my knees with my boobs in that jail contraption like they were in before—and the rest is just flashes. At some point, I feel them squeezing some sort of plastic thing around my breasts, which really hurts, but I don’t really care either. And I am pushed into and out of the MRI machine over and over again. Eventually, they announce that they are going to do the actual biopsies—which I thought they’d already done—and I can feel the needles going into my breasts. This time, I do care because it hurts like hell, and it takes them a long time and a lot of pressure to stop the bleeding. My poor breasts feel like they’ve been in a bar fight.

Once it’s all over, Nate takes me back to Abby’s, gets me changed into my pajamas, and I collapse on the couch—with more tiny ice packs in my bra—and fall into a deep sleep.

* * *

When I wake up, it’s dark in the living room and I can see the last remnants of daylight disappearing through the window. I roll to one side and immediately regret it, as I’m very sore from the procedure and the ice packs have long since thawed. I reach for my water bottle on the table, but another hand grabs it first.

“You’re awake,” a voice says, and it takes me a few groggy seconds to realize it’s Roddy’s voice. He helps me sit up before handing me the water bottle.

“Thanks,” I reply, taking a good, long sip as he turns on the light next to the couch.

He holds out some Tylenol. “Would you like these? Nate said you could have some”—he looks at his watch—“before now, actually.”

I take the pills and drink a lot more water as my throat is very dry. “What are you doing here?” I realize how that must sound and start over. “Sorry, not that I’m not happy to see you, but where’s Nate?”

He grins. “Nate had to go because of a client emergency he needed to deal with, he couldn’t reach Isaac, and Abby had some dinner thing, so he called me a couple hours ago.” Abby must have given Nate Roddy’s number. Sensing I’m done with the water for now, he takes it and sets it back on the table. “How are you feeling?”

“I’m…okay,” I say. “This one was definitely worse than the others, and I’m still feeling a little loopy. What time is it?”

“It’s about seven forty-five,” he answers. “Can I get you anything? Are you hungry? Do you need more ice packs?”

I smile at his thoughtfulness. “Yes and yes. But, first, I think I’m going to need help getting up to…you know. Not that I’ll need help in there, just help to and from.”

“Ah, yes. Can do,” he says masking any discomfort he might be feeling. He comes beside me and bends down so I can put my arms around his strong shoulders just long enough to stand up. Then he stands slowly, supporting me at the waist with his arms. I feel so incredibly safe and supported, and if it weren’t bordering on an emergency and my arms and chest weren’t so sore, I would stand here and relish his touch for a bit longer. I lower my arms and put one around his waist as he helps me walk to the bathroom.

Once I’ve taken care of business, Roddy helps me back to the couch and retrieves more tiny pink ice packs from the freezer for me. I swap them with the ones in my bra so he can refreeze those.

“Any requests for dinner?” he asks, taking the ice packs back to the freezer.

“I’m not super picky, but I am ravenous since I haven’t had anything since breakfast.” Nate offered to pick up something for lunch on the way home, but I was too groggy to care and just wanted to sleep.

“Understood. I’ll make us something quick.” He shuffles some things around in the cabinets and the fridge, then I hear him getting pots and pans out from under the stove.

“Do you need any help?” I offer, though I’m not sure how much help I’d be considering how unsteady I was just now getting to and from the bathroom.

His head pops back up over the bar top and he says, “Nope. You just relax.”

I leave the food in his, hopefully, capable hands and prop my feet up on the ottoman, snuggling the blanket around myself a little more since the ice packs are sending shivers down my spine. Or maybe it’s the handsome man in the kitchen making me dinner. Shelley deigns to walk by the couch, and I give her some chin scritches before she hops up onto Abby’s chair to have a nap.

To keep myself from dwelling on how attracted to him I am, I turn on the TV and find some old episodes of The Great British Baking Show , the most comforting program on the planet. It doesn’t matter how many times I’ve watched them, I can always watch them again. Everyone is just so friendly to each other, their accents are so delightful, and they bake up such delicious-looking treats that it makes you want to grab a cup of tea and dunk your shortbread into it just like Paul Hollywood does.

I’m in the middle of an episode where they’re making chocolate tea cakes for the technical challenge when Roddy appears with a tray of food. “I thought grilled cheese and tomato soup might be my best bet, based on what you had in the kitchen,” he says as he sets the tray down on the coffee table and I hit pause on the show.

He says this very nonchalantly, but the grilled cheese is made with thick cut French bread, and I can see spinach, tomatoes and at least two kinds of cheese oozing out of it. Not to mention it’s grilled to perfection. And the tomato soup has croutons and a tiny bit of shredded cheese on top.

“I think you’ve undersold your skills in the kitchen.” I smile up at him.

“Anyone can make grilled cheese and tomato soup.”

I gesture at the beautifully laid out tray and reply, “Not like this they can’t. My dad could barely boil water. Thankfully, my mom was an excellent cook.”

Roddy shrugs and sits down beside me on the sofa. “When your mother is French, you pick up a thing or two. Even though she’s not a chef or anything, she still learned how to cook and bake from her mother.”

I pick up my grilled cheese and take a bite. The crunchy, buttery bread filled with the melted cheeses tastes even better than it looks. “Remind me to thank your mom the next time I see her,” I say once I swallow.

He chuckles. “I’ll do that and I’m sure she’ll appreciate it.”

We tuck into our food, and I can’t help but notice that he’s sitting so close his arm brushes mine every so often while we eat. I hope he can’t see the goosebumps on my arms . Even though I’m self-conscious about sitting here in my pj’s probably looking like crap in front of a handsome man I barely know, I also think how comfortable this all feels at the same time.

I swallow the last spoonful of soup and dare to start the conversation I’ve been dreading. “So, um, this might seem like a random time to ask this…” I begin hesitantly, “but are we friends? Dating? Helpful acquaintances?”

He nearly chokes on his soup in what I hope is laughter. I hand him a napkin, and he composes himself before answering. “Considering that when we first met you practically attacked me by kissing me in broad daylight, I think we’re way past acquaintances.”

I put up my hands in protest. “I did not ‘practically attack’ you!”

“C’mon, you have to admit it was pretty close to an attack,” he replies.

I think back on that time, and even in my drug-addled state, I can see where he’s coming from. “Okay, it was pretty close,” I concede.

He grins. “Getting back to your original question. I’d say we’re definitely friends”—my heart drops a little—“but I’d say we’re also dating, as…unorthodox as it has been so far.”

“Sorry about that.” I look back down at the food on my plate.

From the corner of my eye, I see him shake his head. “Don’t apologize. It doesn’t matter to me if we’re going out for dinner or a movie, or just sitting here on your…err…Abby’s couch eating grilled cheese sandwiches. I love spending time with you.”

I feel the heat rise to my cheeks as I tilt my head to look back up at him. “I love spending time with you too.”

He gives me a sly smile as he reaches over and brushes the hair back from my face. “This part isn’t bad either.”

Our lips meet and I feel the warmth from my cheeks spread through the rest of me. The kiss is warm and tender at first, becoming more urgent as it continues. I feel his one hand tangled up in my hair and the other pulling me closer—the perfect mixture of passion and safety. The bristles of his stubble tickle my chin and it’s another sensation to add to the growing list of things I love about this man.

Wait, love? We both said love. The stray thought makes me almost lose my balance, even though I’m sitting down. I recover and don’t think Roddy is the wiser. The overwhelming feelings I have for him after such a short time are hard to reconcile in this moment, but I’m glad we’re on the same page, at least, with where our relationship stands.

The doorbell rings, and we break apart. We stare at each other for a long moment until the doorbell rings again.

“Shall I go see who it is?” Roddy asks, finally.

“Sure,” I reply. Not having any clue who could be coming by at this hour, and knowing it’s not Nate or Isaac because they would have texted first, and it’s not Abby because it’s her apartment so she would have used her key, unless she was carrying something.

Roddy opens the door, and there stands his mother. “Mother. What are you doing here?”

“I came to bring Clare this cake I baked to help with her recovery, of course,” she says, handing him an enormous cake carrier. Without waiting for an invitation, she brushes past him and coming straight into the living room. “Clare, darling, how are you feeling ?”

“Hi, Sabine,” I say. I see Roddy mouthing “I don’t know,” from the kitchen as he puts the cake on the counter. “I’m doing okay. Your son has been taking great care of me.”

Sabine beams at me, then at Roddy. “Auguste, sorry, Roddy is very good at taking care of people. His father and I raised him well. Didn’t we, mon chou?” As an aside to me, she adds, “I used to call him mon petit chou, but he is no longer so petit, n’est-ce pas?”

I laugh as Roddy arrives back in the living room to stand next to his mom. “Yes, you did,” he says, either not having heard her last comment or choosing to ignore it.

“I can’t thank you enough for teaching him to cook. The dinner he made me tonight was just what I needed,” I tell her.

She gives Roddy another proud smile. “It is in the French nature to cook. My mother taught me, and I taught my children. Food is…how do the children say it these days…my love language.”

“I’m sure Clare will really appreciate the cake, but maybe we should let her rest,” Roddy says, trying to shoo Sabine from the apartment.

“Yes, Sabine, it was really good of you to stop by and to bring a cake,” I echo. I shift with my blanket and feel a jolt of pain in my breast. It must show on my face because Roddy is there in two quick strides to check on me. “I’m fine. I just moved wrong. I think my ice packs might need a refresh again.”

“On it,” he says, taking the thawed ones I hand him. “Be right back. Mom, I can walk you out.”

He puts a hand on his mother’s shoulder and nudges her toward the door. She goes, unwillingly, but calls back to me, “Take care of yourself and enjoy the cake, ma chérie.”

“Thank you, Sabine,” I call back as Roddy practically shoves her out the door.

He comes back with the new ice packs a few moments later. “I’m so sorry about that. I texted that I was going to stay with you after your procedure, but I had no idea she’d just show up here. She must have tracked my phone since we’re on one of those family plans.”

I shrug. “It’s fine. Plus, she brought cake.” I turn away to get the ice packs situated, then turn back to him. “Do you not get along well with your mom?”

He shakes his head. “It’s not that. She can just be…a lot, as you’ve seen. I didn’t want her to scare you off, and she does have this habit of showing up at inopportune moments.”

I blush, remembering his lips on mine. “I see.”

There’s a beat of silence as I gather he’s remembering as well. He gives a sharp nod of his head then says, “Right. Let me clear these dishes, then I’ll cut us some cake. Sound good?”

“Perfect. What kind is it?” I ask, not really caring because I haven’t met a cake I didn’t like.

“If I know my mother,” he says, taking the tray to the kitchen, “it’s probably a fraisier cake. That’s her go-to unless someone is allergic to strawberries.” He looks up from the counter. “You aren’t allergic to anything, are you?”

“Nope, no food allergies here.”

He opens the cake carrier and it’s most definitely a fraisier cake. I’ve seen them made on baking shows enough times to recognize the cake, cream and strawberry halves lining the outside. “Oh, it’s gorgeous!” I exclaim.

Roddy cuts slices and brings them over. It’s even more beautiful close up. “You won’t find a better fraisier outside of Paris, I can guarantee that.”

“I’m sure,” I agree. I take one bite, and it’s absolute heaven. The delicate sponge is the perfect complement to the cream and the sharpness from the strawberries.

“Is this the one with the gingerbread strooctures?” Roddy asks in his best Paul Hollywood impression, indicating the show on pause.

I let out a giggle. “Oh my god, yes!” I reply, thrilled to have a subject I could talk for hours about. “Do you watch Bake Off too?”

“Who doesn’t?”

“Do you want to watch the rest of the episode?” I ask, not sure how long he’s staying.

In response, he picks up the remote from the ottoman where I left it and presses play. He moves to the corner of the sofa and puts his arm across the back, gesturing for me to come closer. I slide over and snuggle in next to him, using the blanket to cover both of us. Shelley comes over and curls up next to me on the blanket and purrs. We end up watching the last two episodes of that season before Abby returns from dinner with her parents.