I suck in a breath. “Wow, that sounds like a great opportunity.”
Nikki nods, her eyes boring into mine. “Yes, we’re thinking this could be a great long-term move for us. We’re also thinking this might be my chance to try to get a job in set design, or a costume shop, even if I have to start at the bottom, you know? And you—you could look for a job, too. Theaters have marketing departments. Somebody has to write their press releases, right? We could still work together.”
I set my cup down on the small wooden coffee table between our chairs. “I don’t know, Nik . . . I’m not sure I can take that kind of leap anymore.”
Nikki’s eyes narrow. “Is this about your illness?”
Her words twist like a knife. “I’m just saying I can’t give up a stable job with good health insurance.” I swallow. “And I can’t forever be your third wheel. Claudia doesn’t deserve that, and neither do you.”
She leans back as if I’ve struck her. “Neither of us think that. You know we don’t.”
My voice softens. “I know. I just . . . I don’t want to hold you back.”
She shakes her head in exasperation. “Hold me back? Dude, I’m trying to tell you that I’m ready to move forward.”
“What do you mean?”
She sets her cup down, runs her hands through her hair, blows out a breath. “I’ve been meaning to talk to you about something.”
My eyes widen. “What’s wrong?”
Nikki rolls her eyes. “Nothing’s wrong. But . . . do you remember that pact we made in college?”
I wrinkle my nose. “I tried pot brownies at your Halloween party a few years ago, remember? It made me so paranoid—please don’t make me do that again.”
Her mouth twitches into a smile. “Not that one.”
My eyebrows shoot up. “Oh God. We need to hide a body? Who?”
Nikki sighs, pinching the bridge of her nose. “Look, remember junior year? You’d finally broken up with that asshole who thought he was so smart.”
“Ugh, Chad.” Then my eyes bulge. “You killed Chad?”
“Jesus Christ, Simone, nobody is dead.” Nikki rubs her face before shooting me an exasperated look. “We got drunk that night and promised each other we would always be honest about the people we were dating—especially whenever we got serious about someone.”
I nod. “Oh yeah. I remember.”
“Like, if we got to the point where we wanted to . . . you know, marry someone, we would make sure the other one approved.” She stops then, staring at me expectantly.
There’s a beat of nodding, processing—then I gasp, beautiful realization washing over me, and I throw my arms around her neck. “Nikki!” It all makes sense—moving to Minneapolis for a better job opportunity is what you do when you settle down and get married. “Oh my God oh my God oh my God, you’re going to marry Claudia!”
She pulls back, chuckling at the raised eyebrows of a group of students passing us. “Shh, yes, I mean, I want to. I’ve been saving up money.”
I cover my mouth with my hands, then pull them back and shake them as my eyes start to well up. My Nikki—independent, carefree Nikki—is saving money to propose.
“Don’t do that shit,” Nikki chastises, but she’s wiping her eyes, too. “So? I mean, it’s going to be months before I can afford a ring, so please do not say anything. But . . . do I have your blessing or what?”
I level her with a look. “Are you kidding me? You know I love Claudia.”
“I know, I just . . . want to be sure.”
There’s a vulnerability in her eyes that she usually doesn’t let peek through, and I lean forward to take her hand. “Well, let me be absolutely clear: you ask that girl to marry you, or I will ask her myself.”
Nikki bursts out laughing and we’re hugging again; all is right with the world. But a wave of sadness, hot and quick, washes over me, scalding me with reality. Everything is changing. There’s a bright, beautiful future ahead for Nikki and Claudia.
But what does my future hold?
I don’t have an answer. The pain in my chest pulses, but I push it back, shove it down, hug my best friend tighter—because she is positively glowing with happiness. And in this moment I vow that no matter what the future holds for me, I will do everything in my power to make sure she gets the happily ever after she deserves.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
We’re on our way back to the office, discussing everything from dresses to DJs, when Nikki’s phone buzzes. “Well, that’s typical.”
“What?” I ask.
“Stan. He’s not going to make it to the blood drive. Called to a last-minute meeting with the president.”
I wince. “That can’t be good.”
She shakes her head. “I got copied on an email from Chet the other day—God, he was pissed. Apparently Stan told them we were organizing a promotional video, so they got a bunch of students together, and no videographer showed up.”
My eyes widen. “I didn’t know anything about that. Did you?”
She laughs. “Stan tried to blame it on the company he contracted with, but I’d bet money that he never actually scheduled it. He and Chet went back and forth for about five more emails, pointing fingers. Chet was like, ‘Is this even a good use of campus resources, if budgets are so tight?’”
“Yikes.” I grimace. “You think that’s what this meeting is about?”
She shakes her head. “Who knows? Could be that he screwed something else up.”
My brow furrows, remembering the tense phone calls he took during the residence hall tour. “Does it seem like he’s making more mistakes than usual lately? Like, is something going on with him at home?”
“Maybe . . . I have heard more angsty, dramatic sighs than usual coming from his office lately.” I shoot Nikki a look and she chuckles. “Look, I know you like Stan—and it’s not that I don’t like him—but at some point he needs to actually be held accountable for his mistakes.”
I sigh. “I know. But, I mean, we both agree that Stan is better than Chet, right? Chet kind of gives me the creeps.”
“Ugh, yes, he’s a sexist prick. But I say they are both equal when it comes to being entitled old white guys.”
I laugh. “Well, either way, this means we need to go to the blood drive now. Somebody needs to take some pictures for Facebook.”
Nikki groans. “Fine, but they are not sticking a fucking needle in my arm.”
I smirk. “Don’t worry, I’ll protect you.”
The squeak of the glossy wooden floor greets us as we step into the auxiliary gym, which today is set up with tables and chairs, white curtained partitions, and big red donation signs. At least two dozen students and staff members sit waiting in the folding chairs.
“Not a bad crowd, this soon after winter break,” I say.
“Poor fools,” Nikki grumbles.
I chuckle, then snap an overall shot with my phone and tweet out a reminder about the event: #StudentsSavingLives.
We make our way closer, and the woman at the registration desk looks up with a smile. “Are you two going to donate blood today?”
Nikki raises her camera and keeps clicking, walking away as if she hasn’t heard the question. Clever. I turn back toward the woman’s expectant face, and you know what—why not? “Sure. I haven’t donated in a while—been meaning to set up an appointment.”
“Excellent.” She signs me in, then points me to the waiting area, which has already dwindled—they’re moving folks along.
“Bunch of bloodsuckers.” I jump at the creepy whisper in my ear, then elbow Nikki. One traumatic experience getting an IV put in when her appendix burst and now she nearly drives a stake through the heart of anyone coming near her with a needle. “I’m out. Can’t stand this shit.”
As Nikki walks away, an unfamiliar burn nags at my chest, an ugly thought forming unbidden. Like anybody loves needles. Some of us don’t have a choice.
I put a hand to my mouth as if I’ve said it out loud. To my rig
ht, a white curtain whooshes open. A woman in dark-blue scrubs leans her head out. “Next.”
I jump up and step around the curtain, and the woman smiles up at me, her round face a friendly beacon in this packed room. “Welcome.” She nudges her trendy, black-framed glasses into place. “Have a seat.”
I smile, my shoulders relaxing as I sit in the chair opposite her. She’s young, with a purple-tipped cropped cut, and she oozes friendliness. “Have you donated with us before?”
“Yes. I’m Simone Archer.”
“Thanks for coming in today, Simone.” She keeps her smile but doesn’t look up from the laptop as she clicks away at the keyboard. “Ah, here you are—yes, it’s been long enough since your last donation. Your registration should be a breeze, then. As long as there are no changes since last time?”
Her words fly as fast as her fingers on the keyboard. I blink, registering. “Uh, what?”
She turns to me, still smiling, and I notice her name tag says Lucy. “Medically, I mean. No changes?”
My stomach drops. “Well, actually, no. I mean, yes, there’s one change, but it probably doesn’t matter.” I clear my throat. “I was diagnosed with multiple sclerosis last month.”
Shock flashes across her face, then a glimmer of confusion, and it’s like I read her mind. But you look fine. Lucy recovers quickly, though, and gives me a sympathetic smile. “I’m sorry to hear that.”
“Thanks.” I tuck my hair behind my ear, fiddle with my necklace.
She leans in, lowers her voice. “Do you drink diet pop?”
My shoulders tense. “Um, no, I don’t. Why?”
She lowers her chin, her look pointed. “My cousin read online that the effects of drinking too much aspartame can mimic MS. Might want to check into that.”
I slouch forward. Oh God, she’s one of those.
Hot, churning liquid boils within my chest, and I want to flip out a sarcastic Well, I think I’ll stick with the actual medical science of neurology, thank you very much.
But Lucy is still smiling. She’s nice, dammit—she’s trying to help. Plus, I’m at work, so I need to at least be polite and professional. I force a smile. “Hmm, okay, thanks. But I suppose that’s not really something that matters anyway? It’s not like I’m contagious or anything.” My laugh falls flat and her smile fades.
“Honestly, I don’t know . . . this is my first week on the job.” She turns back to her computer and squints at the screen. Her eyes flick to mine, and I catch a hint of guilt. “Just a second, okay, Simone? I’m going to check with my coworker real quick.”
Lucy walks into the next booth, and I wait, heat creeping into my face and neck. My fingers squeeze around my necklace until they hurt as Lucy and her coworker begin to talk, their voices too low for me to catch their conversation. Finally, Lucy returns. She sighs as she sits back down and doesn’t meet my eyes as she thrusts a pamphlet forward. “I’m sorry, but you can’t donate today.”
I blink. “Do I need to get a doctor’s note or something?”
She shakes her head, meeting my eyes now. “We just . . . we aren’t sure, honestly. My coworker hasn’t had anyone come in with MS before, and our supervisor is out today.” She holds the pamphlet out a little closer to me. “But this has an 800 number you can call, and they can tell you whether it’s a permanent deferral.”
My throat catches. “A what?”
“That’s what it’s called when you can’t donate anymore.”
I blink. “Like . . . ever?”
Lucy nods, and it occurs to me that I should say something, acknowledge that I understand, but all I can do is stand in bewildered silence until her eyes finally flit to the seats behind me. “So.” She clears her throat. “Uh, thanks for coming in, though.”
I nod at last, plaster a smile on my face, then stand and stumble back through the curtain. My eyes are on the floor as I walk toward the door, because now it feels like everyone is looking at me, wondering what’s wrong with me, with my blood.
Permanent deferral?
The words, so confusing and so final, make my stomach hurt. I rush out the door and bump straight into our campus police officer. “Oh, I’m sorry.”
“No worries, Archer.” I look up into Officer Gemma Jackson’s kind brown eyes. “Hey, thanks again for sending out that notice about the active shooter training.”
I force a smile. “Of course. The session is coming up soon, right?” I’ve completed the online portion—at Stan’s urging—learning about the devastatingly morbid scenarios of what other colleges have done wrong in the past. But to complete the training, I need to attend the live session, as terrifying as the whole topic is.
“No, unfortunately we had to reschedule.” Officer Jackson smooths her crisp uniform, eyes darting to the side before resting on me again. “Between you and me, I had some trouble coordinating with the Admissions Office. I get the feeling it isn’t exactly Chet’s top priority.”
I smile sympathetically. “I’m sorry.”
“Anyway, we’ll reschedule it during the summer—people aren’t as busy with students gone.”
I exhale, nodding. “I’ll be there.”
She looks past me, then into the blood-donation area, and sighs. “Guess I’d better get in there and get this over with.”
I wince at the reminder, but she’s already walking away, her confident walk the opposite of my own weak steps. As I push through the exit doors and walk back across campus to the Administration building, the frosty winter wonderland looks somehow garish now, and I’m chilled by the time I reach my office door.
From her desk, Nikki calls, “How’d it go?” and I slump across the office. She takes one look at me and leans back in her chair, hands folded behind her head. “Wow, did they take all your blood?”
“They didn’t take any.” I plop into a cushy brown chair next to her desk. “MS might be cause for a permanent deferral.”
Her brow furrows. “Might be?”
“They didn’t even know. Just gave me an 800 number to call.”
“Well, then, let’s call it.” I scowl at her dogged positivity, but she snatches the pamphlet from my hand and is dialing the number before I can stop her. “Hi there, I’m Simone Archer and I have MS. Can I donate blood?”
She winks at me, and I let out an exasperated sigh. “Look, just forget it, okay? Hang up.”
“Shh,” she scolds. “I’m on hold.”
I growl as I push up from the chair. I pace in front of her desk for what seems like forever before Nikki sits up straight. “Yes. Mm-hmm. Ah, that’s great. No—” She glances up at me, and I stop in front of her desk. “I’ll, uh, I’ll call you back. Thanks.”
She ends the call and sets the phone down, then folds her arms, leaning back in her chair. “Well, it took a while before they found someone who knew the answer, but you can totally donate.”
I blink. “I can?”
She lifts her chin triumphantly. “Yep. So . . . do you want to go back over there?” I frown, and she chuckles. “I figured. But, good news, right?”
I say nothing as I sink back down in the chair in front of her desk.
Nikki sighs. “So, this isn’t good news?”
I grasp for the right words to describe the shock of it, the embarrassment at being turned away—and underneath it all, an unexpected shame, as if it’s all my fault. I take a shuddering breath. “I just wasn’t expecting it. And now I’m wondering how many more areas of my life MS is going to unexpectedly pop up in. Between the support group and now this, it’s like . . . like I just don’t feel like me anymore.” Nikki says nothing, waits, and I scowl with frustration. “God, I’m sorry, I know I’m being dramatic, but I just want to feel like I’m in control of my life again. I want to decide to do something and just do it, you know?”
Nikki’s brow furrows in thought. “So do it. Think of something you can do—some goal that’s in your control and you can set for yourself—and accomplish it.”
“Yeah.” I nod thought
fully, but the truth is, my mind is absolutely blank. Anything in my control seems so small and insignificant—like eating healthier, one of the generic recommendations from the neurologist’s office. Big deal. And yet picking something too grand and unattainable would be setting myself up for failure.
There has to be something. My eyes scan the office—the Warhol painting on the wall behind Nikki’s desk, the shelves with design and photo books. They finally land on the picture of Nikki and Claudia, arms around each other’s shoulders, medals hanging from their necks, standing at the finish line of a half marathon they ran together last fall.
The words blurt out. “I want to run a race.”
Nikki snorts, and I look up, glaring. “Sorry,” she says quickly. “It’s just . . . that doesn’t seem like you.”
I shrug. “It’s something I’ve always admired other people for doing but always thought was out of reach.”
She rubs the back of her neck. “You sure that’s a good idea? With your legs and everything? I mean, maybe you should check with your neurologist.”
I wave my hand dismissively. “They’re the ones who told me to try and have healthier habits. If I’m supposed to exercise, why not try to run a race?” Honestly, I’m not sure if the neurologist’s office would approve—and I’m not sure I could take it if they didn’t. Nikki’s still eyeing me, though, so I sigh. “If my legs start bothering me, I’ll stop.”
She nods slowly, as if allowing her mind to wrap itself around the idea. “A short race, right? Like a 5K?”
I have to bite back a chuckle—to a nonrunner, a 5K is anything but short. But it is the shortest possible race, and my mind is made up. My nod is confident.
Nikki nods back, cementing our plan. “Okay, then. You want to run a race, you’ll run a race. I’m thinking the Turkey Day 5K on Thanksgiving weekend—it’s the last local run this year, so we’ll have plenty of time to train.”
I scoff. “Gee, thanks for the vote of confidence.”
She holds up a hand. “Hey, it’s important to take things slow. But don’t worry—I am going to train with you. Starting today. You’re coming to the gym with me after work.”
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