Page 11 of The Girlfriend Agreement (Conwick U #1)

One phone call multiplied by the number of steps it takes me to get home = the amount of time I have to panic about what could be wrong with Mom.

I’m out of breath by the time I step through the front door.

Conwick’s campus is only a stone’s throw away, but my legs are aching after speed-walking in heels for four blocks, and my hangover is somehow getting worse despite the caffeine weaving its way through my veins like a drug.

My head aches, and a stitch forms in my left side as my body mistakes my rush to get home as exercise.

“Mom?” I push the door shut and kick off my shoes, throwing my head back and sighing at the soothing sensation of my bare feet on the worn floorboards. God only knows what I look like right now, but I feel like day-old reheated trash. Thankfully, Mom’s never been one to shame.

“In here, Lex.”

At the sound of her voice, my heart jumps into my throat.

Despite how she was on the phone, I’m still taken aback by her tone, which is fraught and wavers, holding none of its usual steadiness.

Okay, something is definitely wrong. Even in her darkest hours, Mom has always kept her cool.

Nothing ever fazes her, which is why she’s the perfect relaxed yin to my somewhat—who am I kidding, very —uptight yang. My person I go to for everything.

My rock.

The fear that propelled me here sloshes in my stomach like acid, and my mouth is unbearably dry as I shuffle into the living room, like an inmate on death row being escorted to their execution.

Mom sits on the mustard-yellow three-seater sofa, her back as stiff and straight as a board, her hands clamped together in her lap like a triggered bear trap.

She’s unnaturally still, and her knuckles are milk white from how tightly her fingers are straining as they cling to each other.

She doesn’t look great, but she also doesn’t look any sicker than usual, though the relief I expect to feel at that observation never comes. Swallowing, I pause a few feet away, maintaining some distance between us, as if doing so will somehow keep the bad news I sense coming at bay.

“Hey,” I hedge, fidgeting with my glasses like I always do whenever I’m worried.

I cast a quick glance to my left through the archway into the seemingly empty kitchen before letting my attention stray back to Mom.

I’ve never once been afraid to look my mother in the eye, and yet, in this moment, I’m terrified. “Where’s Gina?”

“Hospital,” Mom mutters absentmindedly, her usually bright gaze dull, the skin around her eyes red from crying, though her tears have dried up since we spoke on the phone. “She had to cover someone’s shift at work. Family emergency.”

I bob my head, even as I feel a slight tug of resentment.

Post-treatment days might not be medical emergencies, but I still wish Gina hadn’t left Mom on her own.

Or that she had at least called me first so I could’ve come home sooner to be here in her stead.

But that’s Gina for you. My larger-than-life aunt has a heart of gold that must be four sizes too big for her body, like some sort of reverse Grinch.

She’s a sucker for sob stories and is always the first in line whenever anyone needs a helping hand, launching herself into action without hesitation or a second thought on the matter, like she’s trying to be the next Mother Theresa, even if it sometimes means she stretches herself a bit thin.

Still, despite often going out of her way to help others, Gina always puts her family first, and it’s for that reason I can’t be mad at her; I know she wouldn’t have left today unless my mom had insisted.

Plus, she’s earned a lifetime of good grace in my book.

After all, she’s been our greatest asset over the last eighteen months, through “the Dark Days” as I’ve come to call them, and not just because of her invaluable nursing experience but because of her giving nature and optimistic attitude—a trait she shares with my mom that clearly didn’t pass down to me.

She’s incredibly spirited with the most infectious laugh, able to light up the largest room with her presence, which has helped to keep Mom’s spirits up when the optimism runs low—which is vital for anyone battling cancer.

Plus, Gina is so loud that if she were here, everyone within three blocks would know it.

“Oh.” I tug on a loose thread dangling from the hem of my shirt, stalling for time to delay whatever world-shattering news Mom has in store for me. “When did she leave? You weren’t here on your own all night, were you?”

A chuckle breaks through my mother’s solemn exterior, and for a moment, I think she’s back to normal.

Happy, like she always is. But then the clouds darkening her expression return, overwhelming the brief break in the storm.

“Believe it or not, Lexi, I am capable of being on my own for more than five minutes.”

I roll my eyes, ignoring the sudden prick of heat in the corners. I can feel the moisture building there, threatening to blur my vision, waiting to overwhelm me. Even my tear ducts know what’s coming.

Diversion , I tell myself. I need a diversion—to drive the conversation elsewhere. What better way to escape bad news? Avoidance is a proven technique. I would know, I learned it from my dad. Avoidance is his middle name.

If I don’t hear it then it won’t be real.

I glance in the direction of the kitchen again. “How are you feeling? Are you hungry? Do you want me to make you something?”

In my peripheral vision, I catch Mom shaking her head. “I’m fine. Come sit with me.” When our eyes meet, she loosens the death grip her hands have on each other and gently pats the cushion beside her.

Bracing myself, I trudge toward the sofa and plop down, still making it a point to keep some space between us so I can breathe without having a panic attack or worse, word-vomiting all my worst fears, which would definitely do neither of us any good.

We sit for a few moments in a strained, uncomfortable silence, and as the seconds tick by, I almost feel like I’m in first grade again and I’ve just been caught putting glue in Jennifer Harbottle’s hair in retaliation for her drawing with bright orange Sharpie all over the back of my favorite shirt (a vintage Trolls tee with a giant rhinestone belly button).

I expect Mom to say something—to tell me what’s wrong so I can help fix the problem—but she doesn’t.

Her mouth is a steel trap, offering nothing.

I stare at her, wordlessly pleading for answers, but she just stares straight ahead, avoiding my gaze.

When I can’t take the suspense any longer—when I’m literally about to explode from the nerves rioting under my skin—I snap, “Are we going to just sit here all day, or are you going to tell me what’s wrong?”

I don’t have time to feel bad about raising my voice. Her eyes shift to mine, and my stomach instantly sours with a fresh bout of nausea. “These arrived today,” she murmurs, retrieving two pieces of paper from the coffee table and handing them to me.

As I frantically skim the paperwork, all the air rushes out of my lungs. It’s like I’ve just been slammed in the chest by a wrecking ball. Was this feeling what Miley Cyrus was singing about? Because everything hurts, and I can’t seem to breathe.

With shaking hands, I blink twice, forcing myself to focus on the pages in front of me; both are letters from our health insurance provider, which my mom gets through her job.

The first warns of a raise to our yearly deductible, while the second informs us of a change to the formulary, indicating what services and medications are covered under my mom’s policy as of the upcoming calendar year…

As well as what they’re no longer willing to pay for.

“Wh…what does this mean?” I ask, my voice barely a whisper, even though I already know the answer.

I just can’t process it at the moment.

Mom lets out a tired sigh, and her shoulders slump, revealing the prominent notches in her spine through her T-shirt.

She’s gotten so thin recently. “If we want to continue receiving healthcare, we’ll have to pay a lot more money out of pocket…

and figure out a way to afford my medication since, come January, it’s no longer covered. ”

At her words, my eyes dip back to the formulary as if pulled there by magnetic force. Sure enough, the Tier 5 meds that my mom’s life literally depends on—and which were previously covered—are now noticeably absent.

I blanch, and it takes all the willpower I have to find the strength to speak. “Well, how much is it likely to be? And what about your treatments?”

“Still covered. For now. But they won’t pay for anything starting in January until the deductible is paid in full, and it’s just…

it’s too much, Lex. And that’s without the added cost of my meds.

” She runs a shaking hand over her head, and for a split second, I envision what she looked like before the cancer.

When she still had hair, it was blonde, just like mine.

“I called the pharmacy earlier and it’s…

not good. Without insurance, we’re looking at about sixteen thousand dollars a month for my prescription. ”

“Sixteen thousand dollars?” I screech.

My eyes water as they drop to the papers still clenched in my hands, and I once again scan the letter informing us about the upcoming change to the deductible, reading and re-reading the words typed there until they finally sink in.

The five-digit number explodes in my mind—a tower of teetering red, green, and yellow blocks that slot into place one after another, stacking higher with every subsequent zero until they threaten to topple over and crush me.

No matter how I mentally shift the pieces, there’s no way to push them away…

or tear down the towering weight of what they represent.