Page 270 of The Havenport Collection

Sam

I swallowed. I hadn’t meant to drop that so dramatically. It was a classic Sam move—overreact to a tiny bit of tension with word vomit. But sadly, this was not my usual ranting or overanalysis of a random movie. It was real and it was terrifying.

Not for the first time since my diagnosis, I found myself in the strange position of having to comfort someone about my own sickness.

Trying to soothe the feelings of the person who didn’t have cancer.

One of the great mind fucks of this diagnosis—having to manage everyone else’s feelings except your own.

“It’s okay,” I said, looking at his earnest face. “I’m going to be fine. It’s just a tiny little lump. I have an appointment in Boston tomorrow with Grace Larsen and one of the best teams in the world.”

Gio shook his head and reached for me, pulling me close.

“I am so sorry, Sam,” he said, sounding confused. “How? When?”

I shrugged, uncomfortable with his concern. Pity was something I detested, and I chafed against it as we talked. I hated the idea of him feeling bad for me. It brought back too much childhood baggage. I had worked damn hard to be the kind of woman who people were impressed by, not felt bad for.

“I found something in the shower a few weeks ago; it felt like a teeny-tiny pebble. I made an appointment and got it checked out. Turns out it’s breast cancer.” I pointed to my left boob, just under my armpit. “Very small, very early, and very treatable.”

“What’s the plan? What do you need? How can I help? Dr. Larsen is the best, but should you have a second opinion too?”

“I need a surgery called a lumpectomy. I have to have a ton of tests and meet with all the doctors and they have to stage me, but the odds are good. It’s still surgery and painful and it sucks, but I’ll live and everything will be fine.

And technically, Dr. Larsen is my second opinion.

But the doctors in Geneva were very encouraging. They said it’s very minor.”

He narrowed his eyes, crossing his arms over his chest. “This is far from ‘very minor,’ Sam. Remember when your appendix burst because you didn’t tell anyone you had been in pain for days and ended up needing emergency surgery?”

I looked away. He had me there. But I had been in high school and it was finals.

I didn’t want to miss an important test over a stomachache.

I didn’t like to slow down, and I certainly didn’t like to be reminded of my limitations, which was why I had the pesky habit of getting injured or sick when I pushed myself too hard.

But this was different. I had months for treatment and recovery and then everything would go back to normal. I just had to keep telling myself that.

“Fine. It’s a big deal,” I admitted. “It’s huge. But given how much worse it could be, I’m lucky. I’ll know more after all the tests, but things look good so far.”

He did not seem convinced. Instead he looked devastated. Gio was normally so steady, so easygoing, always comforting me when I was distraught.

But I could see him fighting his emotions, his face losing the battle as a single tear streaked down his cheek. I hated that I caused him pain and worry.

To see Gio of all people look at me like I was sick and broken was worse than learning I had cancer—to see his flirty demeanor change to one of concern. Ugh. Because when I arrived, the hug he had given me, it felt like so much more than a friendly hug.

And it didn’t hurt that he looked fantastic.

Gio had excellent style. He always dressed like a polished lumberjack.

His jeans fit perfectly, and his boots were a type of distressed leather never found in nature.

His haircut was impeccably trendy, long on top and shorter on the sides.

And of course, his carefully maintained beard—not quite bushy, but a few centimeters past stubble.

A tiny bit of salt in the sea of pepper added some gravitas.

Our relationship had always been ninety percent platonic friendship and ten percent other. And sometimes, in those charged moments, that otherness—the desire, the chemistry, and the belief that there may be something more there—just took over and flooded my senses.

We had never crossed the line, not once.

And it was sacred. We had been through so much together, and our friendship had weathered so many storms. Aside from my mom, he was the only family I had left.

And I would never risk that. Even if I wondered what it would be like to kiss him.

Or touch him without limitation. But I always pushed those thoughts away, buried them deep, and returned to our normal platonic state. It was better that way.

But the way he had looked at me when I ran into his arms?

The way he had discreetly sniffed my hair?

The feel of him pressed up against me? It was confusing and definitely not platonic.

But that was before he knew I was sick. As soon as I uttered the word “cancer” all that other disappeared, and he became my one hundred percent platonic caretaker friend.

Which was for the best. I had come back to Havenport for this reason. To have support and be surrounded by my loved ones. Not to cross the line with my childhood best friend.

“I’m glad you’re seeing Grace; she is the best.”

I nodded. She was. It wasn’t often you grew up with a world-famous surgeon, but Grace Larsen and I had gone to school together before she started skipping grades and went to college at sixteen. She practiced in Boston, and I knew there wasn’t anyone on earth I would rather have remove this cancer.

“You didn’t want to get treated in Europe?”

“The healthcare there is excellent. But things have been weird, and I was contemplating coming back to the states for a bit anyway. Then this happened and it seemed like a sign.”

His questions came quicker as he began to wrap his mind around the news, making me recount every single doctor’s appointment with him.

I hated this part. The questions. Because people wanted answers.

They wanted to feel good about your cancer.

They wanted to “understand” it, and that was the thing about cancer—you can’t understand it. It’s intangible. Undefinable.

“What else aren’t you telling me?” he asked, after I had given him every detail at least twice. “Did something happen with work?”

Damn. He could read me so easily. “I got passed over. For the director position.”

“What? How is that possible? You’ve been killing yourself.”

“I don’t want to get into it.” That was a lie; I wanted to rant and scream about the unfairness of it all. That a guy with half my qualifications and half my experience but a well-connected father was chosen over me after more than five years of nonstop excellence.

I wanted to rage that I had given up so much—my passion for helping others, my ideals, my time, relationships, friends, everything.

I had built my life around the pursuit of the corporate brass ring.

And, in the end, my degree from the London School of Economics was not as valuable as a penis and a well-connected dad.

But I knew I had bigger fish to fry right now. My health was more important. And I had just dropped the cancer bomb on my best friend. I couldn’t pile more on his admittedly very strong and broad shoulders.

“I’m sorry. I know how hard you’ve been working. You deserved it.”

“At this point, I’m over it. So I wanted out of that office since I couldn’t possibly report to Jonathan. I requested a transfer to the Washington, DC, office and then I got this news. So when my medical leave is up in three months, I’ll head there and try to start fresh.”

Gio looked unconvinced. I shifted on the bench, struggling to prove to him that I was totally fine.

I was far from fine, but I couldn’t bear the thought of his worry and concern.

Gio had always lived his life passionately.

He’d never compromised his ideals and his values.

He had built a successful career in the wine industry on his own and loved it.

Before I derailed our evening with cancer talk, he had been telling me about his upcoming buying trips and some new varietals.

I loved when Gio talked about wine—his face lit up and his eyes sparkled.

His hand gestures became exaggerated, and usually, he would disappear and come back with several bottles of rare vintages for me to try.

I wanted one of those nights. Carefree, catching up with my best friend and sipping delicious wine while he told me stories of multigeneration vineyards and ancestral seed-saving techniques.

But that wasn’t my life anymore.

The concern on his face as he asked me questions about the treatment plan almost broke me.

I had promised myself I wouldn’t cry in front of him.

He had always been an emotional support, a person I could lean on, and right now, I wanted to be strong.

I wanted him to see me as an invincible ass-kicker, not some sick, sad, middle-aged woman.

“It’s a minor surgery,” I rationalized, trying to soothe him and myself. “The doctors cut out the cancerous cells and some margins, then stitch you up. There is scarring and my poor boob will never be the same, but all in all it’s not that bad.”

He squeezed my hand. “I’m glad to hear it. How’s your mom doing with all of this?”

Glad to shift the conversation away from my well-being, I filled him in on my mom.

She was one of the reasons I came back in the first place.

She was so upset and worried, threatening to quit her job and fly to Geneva to take care of me.

It just seemed easier to come back here and get treated.

Because even though I was the one with a mutant terminator boob that was trying to kill me, the burden on my loved ones felt even worse.

And, although I would never admit it out loud, I was lonely.

For years, I was satisfied with my nomadic existence, working nonstop and jumping from project to project.

I loved to travel, I loved to experience things, and as I watched other women my age slow down and lose opportunities once the demands of marriage and motherhood kicked in, I reveled in my lack of attachments.

But things had begun to shift. I couldn’t put a finger on when exactly, but I started to miss my mom more and more.

I started to yearn for distinctly American things like shopping malls, burgers, and baseball.

When the Patriots won their last Super Bowl, I was watching alone in my sad corporate apartment on my laptop at one a.m.

I took care of myself, always had. My independence was my superpower, having served me well my entire adult life. I answered to nothing and no one, carving my path and living with the consequences.

I wasn’t used to having to depend on others. I wasn’t used to watching people buckle under the weight of my burdens. And I hated it.