Total pages in book: 215
Estimated words: 199344 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 997(@200wpm)___ 797(@250wpm)___ 664(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 199344 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 997(@200wpm)___ 797(@250wpm)___ 664(@300wpm)
I nod, tears welling in my eyes. “I’m going to be okay,” I promise him.
“I know you will. You’re stronger than anyone I know,” he tells me, before slipping his hand into his pocket and pulling out an old phone. He hands it to me. “I want you to take this.”
My brows furrow as I glance up at him, meeting his stare. “What’s this?”
“Just something that got me through the really bad times after Linc died,” he tells me. “It kept me from drowning in grief, and if it can offer me just a little bit of peace, then hopefully it might do the same for you.”
I nod, pushing up on my tippy toes and brushing my lips over his. “Thank you.”
A knock sounds at the door, and I reluctantly steal my gaze away from Noah’s and turn toward the sound, finding Dr. Sanchez with a clipboard under her arm and a strained smile across her face. “Ah, you made it,” she says, striding into the room, her gaze shifting to mine. “How’s my patient today? Feeling good?”
I arch a brow and scoff. “I feel like I’ve been superglued to the middle of the road with bull ants biting my ass. There’s a semi heading toward me with failed brakes, and I’m just waiting for the collision.”
Dr. Sanchez nods and spares a quick glance toward my parents, probably concerned about my mental health. “That was, uh . . . oddly descriptive.”
“I’ll say,” Noah agrees with a grunt.
Dr. Sanchez glances toward him and holds his stare a second longer than necessary, watching him with a fierce curiosity as if trying to remember something. “You seem familiar,” she tells him before her eyes widen and she glances at me, then to my parents. “This isn’t little Noah, is it? The same kid who used to kick and scream outside Zoey’s door until I let him in.”
Mom grins wide. “The one and only.”
“My goodness,” Dr. Sanchez says. “Time really does fly. It’s good to see you two have stuck it out all these years and are still best friends.”
A smile pulls at my lips, and I don’t bother to correct her. I’m sure we’ll have plenty of time to catch up on the drama that’s been mine and Noah’s lives over the next five weeks. Hell, over the next few years.
A nurse comes in, ready to prep me for the day, and as if on cue, Dr. Sanchez glances at my parents and starts going through everything that’s going to happen today. As she explains the things we need to look out for, the nurse ushers me over to my bed.
I climb in, and before she can hook me up to machines, Noah walks over to my side and leans down, pressing a kiss to my lips as I clutch his old phone in my hand. “I’ll see you soon, okay?”
I nod, trying to be brave for him, knowing if he sees me break, he’s going to spend his whole day sitting outside my door, kicking and screaming until someone lets him in, just like when we were little. “I’ll call you as soon as I’m done.”
With that, he strides out of my room, stopping by the door to glance back at me. A million messages pass between us, but with Dad and Hazel walking out, he has to keep moving.
The nurse starts documenting my vital signs and doing all of her checks as Dr. Sanchez stays with us, going over everything that’s going to happen today and giving us the rundown of any reactions I may have to the drugs.
She explains how we’ll start by drawing blood and running some tests. The second those results are back, and everything looks good, I’ll receive some anti-nausea medication and be hooked up to a chemotherapy cocktail that will take me right through the afternoon and toward dinner time. Following that, my IV will be flushed with saline, and I’ll be free to spend the rest of my night how I’d like . . . within the safety of my room of course.
“Now,” she continues after all the nitty-gritty stuff is out of the way. “We have our treatment room, and there are a few other girls your age who will be receiving their treatment in there today. You’re more than welcome to go in there, or you can opt to remain in your room.”
I glance at Mom, who’s made herself comfortable in the chair beside my bed, knitting needles, magazines, a book, and her laptop protruding from the top of her bag. She just stares right back at me, leaving this completely up to me. “I, um . . . I think I’ll stay in here,” I tell her. “At least until I know how my body is going to react. I don’t want to be hurling all over everyone in there.”