The doctor’s brows shot up. “That’s at least an eight-week delay.”

“What are the risks of waiting?” asked Adam. He was stiff, facing the doctor like he was conduction a business negotiation. It was almost like I wasn’t even there.

“With her type and stage of breast cancer—had she been able to start now, without this complication and with the full round of chemo, she would have had an eighty-five percent survival rate.”

The doctor had Adam’s full attention now. He seemed focused in on everything Dr. Metcalfe was saying, his jaw tightening, obviously not happy at the eighty-five percent number that I already knew about.

“And now? If she continues with the pregnancy and delays the chemotherapy? How does that change the prognosis?”

The doctor glanced at me and took a deep breath. “That’s difficult to say. You want an exact number? I can’t give that to you. You want a rough estimate? She has hormone-sensitive carcinoma and is not only delaying treatment but also exposing her breast tissue to pregnancy hormones. Also, if she proceeds with the chemo at the second trimester, a less aggressive drug will need to be used, one that is not as successful with her type of cancer. At best, I’d say a fifty-five percent chance of survival.”

My jaw dropped, along with my heart—and my stomach, too. Things were happening in slow motion. I was in a dream, underwater. Adam was firing questions at the doctor as quickly as the doctor could answer and I was sinking deeper into myself. Their conversation echoed in the distance. I blinked, trying to fight back the shock, the anger, the helplessness. Now wouldn’t be a good time to puke up my guts.

While they talked, I slid off the examination table and made a beeline for the sink, huddling over it, pathetically clutching the white crepe paper “gown” to myself while my stomach upended itself.

When I finally straightened after rinsing my mouth out, I almost fell over from the head rush. Hands reached out to steady my shoulders. I leaned up against a solid body supporting me from behind. His arms slid around me and it felt painful and sweet. I leaned against him, relaxing, calming. But inside things were tender, prickly. His touch simultaneously hurt and comforted me.

“You okay?” he whispered.

I couldn’t speak. I didn’t trust myself to. I shrugged.

“The doctor’s gone. You can get dressed if you want. Did you have any more questions for him? He said we can sit in his office if you did…”

I shook my head. He slowly released his hold on me. I almost wanted to cry from the loss of his arms around me. I’d missed him so badly. And now he was back—but under these circumstances it was hardly a thing to celebrate. There was that ache that wouldn’t go away—that ache I felt every single day since we’d broken up.

I swallowed the emotion rising in my throat. He was tense. I could feel it in every muscle as he hovered near me. He was preparing to do battle. And he was anticipating that it would be epic. He wasn’t wrong.

I turned from the sink, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand, and went to grab my funny padded bra and shirt.

“Can you turn your back, please?” I said. My voice was raspy, hoarse. He watched me with his unreadable eyes. It was a ridiculous request, really. He’d seen my naked body hundreds of times before—touched it almost as often. God, how he’d touched it. My cheeks heated at the memory and I looked away.

He turned around, snatching up his tablet and typing furiously into it. Likely he was looking up some of the terms the doctor had used.

I pulled off the paper covering my torso and glanced down at my breasts. The right one was perfect, untouched. The left one had an angry red scar slicing into it and a scoop-shaped divot taken out of it. I shot a look at his back. Maybe he’d find the disfigurement disgusting. He’d never been shy about expressing his appreciation of my breasts before. I slipped on my bra and hooked it. It wasn’t a sexy bra—those little lacy things I used to love wearing when I had the money to splurge on one. This was more of an old lady’s bra. Sturdy, supportive. Functional.

Thanks to cancer treatment, I was slowly but surely being robbed of my youth, between scars on my body, hormone therapy and the dreaded chemo-beast, which loomed near, like one of those giant dragons scrawled across the edges of antique maps. Soon I’d be as shriveled as and even balder than my grandma.

As the child of a surviving cancer patient, I knew what I was in for with chemo. I’d seen my mom go through it all. The thought made my gut twist in dread. Maybe the pregnancy was my unconscious way of engaging in the ultimate procrastination where that was concerned. Knowing what I knew, I probably would have jumped off a balcony and broken both my legs to delay the inevitable.