Parallel

by O'Roark, Elizabeth

  My words are meaningless to him. They don’t even seem to register. “I had a bad feeling about the guy from the moment we met him.”

  The nurse who saw me and Nick together this morning enters and Jeff rounds on her. “I want a new neurologist for my fiancée. Immediately.”

  I hate that he’s demanding things of her like she’s a servant. And I hate even more that he’s acting like his opinion is the one that matters here. “No,” I interject. “We don’t.”

  Her gaze volleys between the two of us. Great. She probably thinks we’re in some love triangle now. “I’ll tell Dr. Reilly you need to see him.”

  She walks out and I tug on Jeff’s hand. “Please stop this. Now. Nick hasn’t done anything wrong.”

  “So he’s Nick now, huh?” Jeff asks. “I didn’t realize the two of you were suddenly pals.”

  I groan, so appalled by his behavior I’m struggling to form words. “This is not about you! I’m the one with the brain tumor, so I’ll be the one who decides if I’m changing doctors. And you have no right to be making demands of the nurses on my behalf when I’m sitting right here, so don’t do it again.”

  We are glaring at each other when Nick walks through the door, freshly showered. I have a memory of a time like this, a time when he came to my bedside and I pressed my lips to his neck, breathing him in. Keep kissing me like that, he said, and I’m going to climb into bed with you.

  Except right now, there is nothing soft in his face. His sneer is barely restrained as he turns toward Jeff. “I understand you wanted to see me?”

  “Yeah,” says Jeff. “I want to know how the hell you managed to miss the fact that my fiancée had a serious brain tumor on her first scan.”

  “Jeff,” I hiss. “I already told you that’s not what happened.”

  But he’s not listening to me. Neither of them are, really. They’ve already squared off, reminding me of gorillas in some nature documentary, on the cusp of battle. Jeff is not a small guy by any stretch of the imagination, but Nick is bigger, and the set of his shoulders right now seems threatening, intentionally so. “I didn’t miss anything,” he says between his teeth. “Her tumor is behaving in a way we haven’t seen before.”

  “Well, I think a doctor with more experience might have noticed what you didn’t.”

  Nick smirks. “If Quinn wants a second opinion, she’s more than welcome to seek one out. But that’s her decision, or that of her family. And if I recall correctly, you’re not family.” He’s baiting Jeff, making a bad situation worse. I don’t understand why he’s doing it, but it’s working: Jeff’s temper is fraying. It’s there in his clenched fists, in the way he steps forward.

  “Then she must have failed to mention that we’re getting married in four weeks,” Jeff replies.

  Nick’s laugh is an angry bark. “I guess I keep forgetting because you’re never around.”

  Jeff takes another step toward him and I’m on my feet. “Okay, I think this conversation has gone on long enough,” I say, gripping the hospital gown as I step between them. “Thank you for coming in, Dr. Reilly.”

  Nick swallows, his whole body tense. He wants to refuse to leave, and for a moment, I really think he will. Finally, his jaw shifting in protest, he turns and walks from the room.

  “You’re fucking protecting him now?” Jeff demands.

  I explode. “I have a brain tumor, dammit!” I shout. “And all you’ve done since you found out is yell at my doctor and make a scene. For once, how about if we let something just be about me and not you?!”

  He gapes at me, shocked into silence for what is probably the first time ever. And then he sinks into the chair next to my bed, burying his head in his hands.

  “I’m sorry,” he says, his voice choked. “You’re right. I’m just…it’s a lot to take in.”

  I want to stay mad at him, but I can’t. This is my fault. Each time I grow closer to Nick, I’m pushing him away. He senses it even if there’s nothing specific he can point to. If he really understood the situation, he’d be a lot angrier than he’s been and I’d deserve every ounce of it—because even now I’m wishing it was Nick here instead of him.

  He drives me home once I’m discharged, attempting to malign Nick only once before I shut him down. He asks his mom to go keep mine company, and offers to stay home for the day, though I tell him it’s not necessary. The truth is I want him to go, and I wish he’d stayed gone in the first place.

  I keep my final dress fitting appointment that afternoon as scheduled. The gown is a sleeveless Monique Lhuillier with a plunging neckline and a sheer, hand embroidered overlay, so gorgeous even Caroline approved when she saw it. “Your fiancé will die when he sees you walk down the aisle,” says the seamstress. But when I look in the mirror it’s not Jeff’s face I picture at the altar.

  Which makes me wonder, for the first time, if I should be going through with this wedding at all.

  * * *

  When I’m done I meet Trevor and Caroline out for a drink. I guess I’ll have to tell them about the tumor eventually, but I’m going to put it off as long as I can. I don’t want to be treated like someone who is dying. I want our nights out to continue involving margaritas and wince-inducing tales of Trevor’s hook-ups, not chai latte at Starbucks and solemn conversations about my health.

  By the time we arrive, the bar is loud and crowded, full of twenty-two-year-old Hill staffers in khakis, drunk off their asses and pushing each other off barstools. This, oddly enough, makes me smile. I’m still a part of things here. The land of the living hasn’t written me off just yet.

  Trevor, naturally, is hyper-focused on the events that took place in our office. “You should have seen her doctor,” he tells Caroline breathlessly. “It was so hot. He flipped the fuck out—came in demanding to know where she was. And then he didn’t even wait for the medic team. By the time they got in the door with that stretcher thingy, he’d already picked her up and was carrying her out, like a bride over the threshold.”

  Butterflies beat tiny wings inside my stomach, and I take a quick, sharp breath, waiting for them to settle. Nick carried me? I had no idea. But I shouldn’t be thrilled by it, regardless. “I’m glad you’ve found a way to romanticize my collapse. I’m sure Nick’s girlfriend would love it too.”

  “Wait,” Caroline says, holding up her hand. “Isn’t Nick the name of the mystery guy you dreamed about in London? The one you’d never met?”

  I groan, wishing I’d never mentioned it. “Yeah. I know it’s bizarre.”

  “What mystery guy?” Trevor asks.

  I slump in my chair while Caroline’s eyes light up. “Quinn started having dreams about this guy in London…a doctor named Nick…before she met him.”

  Trevor gapes at us. “I can’t believe you didn’t tell me about the dream thing sooner. It’s like a fucking Nicholas Sparks novel happening before my eyes! I’m going to look him up online.”

  I point a finger at him. “This is exactly why I didn’t tell you sooner…because telling you anything like this is going to wind up with the three of us scaling his apartment complex drunk, and I’m too old for that shit.”

  “Do you know what apartment complex he’s in?” asks Trevor, completely ignoring the important part of what I just said. “Because honestly, with just the bare minimum of upper body strength, you can…”

  “Trevor, I love you, but we’re not stalking him, and we’re definitely not trying to climb up another balcony. You nearly fell to your death last time.”

  Trevor ignores me, holding out his phone. “I found him.”

  Caroline leans over his shoulder. “Oh my God, Quinn. He was a swimmer? You know that’s my kryptonite.”

  Trevor looks her over. “Precious, anything with a package is your kryptonite. And believe me, this guy has a package. I could tell just by the way he carried himself.”

  I roll my eyes. “You could not just tell.”

  “I’ve seen a lot of dicks, honey, so yes, I can, but I’ll prove i
t. Let me find a photo of him in a Speedo.”

  The two of them comb through photos while I pretend this isn’t happening. “That one,” whispers Caroline, sounding like the lead detective on a police procedural. “Zoom in.”

  “Oh, Lord,” says Trevor. “Quinn, you need to lock that down.”

  Caroline grins at me. “You really do.”

  I huff in exasperation. “I’m engaged, morons! And you’re both in the wedding. I’m not sure why I need to keep reminding you.”

  “Just look at the photo,” Caroline urges, snatching Trevor’s phone from his hand and waving it in my face.

  I fold my arms across my chest and close my eyes. “I’m absolutely not going to look at a picture of my doctor in a Speedo.” In part, because I’ve already seen those photos.

  “Mmm,” Trevor says, licking his lips. “You know what I’d love? A photo of him in tighty-whities. Damp tighty-whities. My birthday falls right before Christmas. Get one for me. It could be a combination gift.”

  “I’m not sure how familiar you are with modern medicine, Trevor, but in this country, we don’t routinely spend time with our physicians whilst dressed in wet tighty-whities.”

  He pouts. “I feel like you’re not even trying.”

  19

  QUINN

  On Friday morning, I arrive at my office but don’t go inside. Instead I scan the street for Nick, who’s meeting me here for the trip to New Jersey. He offered to pick me up at home, but it seemed too intimate, somehow. I struggle to ignore the voice in my head insisting that the way we’re meeting, on the surface, looks a lot like cheating.

  I spy him in a Jeep, idling on the sidewalk with the top down, and my heart does this dorky little skip at the sight of him.

  “Hi, stranger,” I say, leaning my head in the window. “You wouldn’t happen to feel like driving me to New Jersey, would you?”

  He smiles at me just the way I remember from some other time, sheepish and cocky at once.

  “Sure, pretty girl in a dress. Climb in, and I’ll drive you anywhere you want.”

  I open the door and hoist myself in. “You’d make a terrible abductor.”

  “I am an excellent abductor, I’ll have you know.”

  “You didn’t even offer me candy. Candy is the lynchpin to a successful abduction.”

  He grins and reaches into the back, behind the passenger seat, and places a box of Hot Tamales in my lap. I stare at it. “This is my favorite candy.”

  His smile falters a little. “Lucky guess.” Yes, a lucky guess…like knowing my favorite pasta and being so certain I was an architect when we first met. He doesn’t see a past with me the way I do, but that knowledge exists somewhere inside him anyway.

  “You’re sure you want to do this?” he asks. “We could just play hooky instead.”

  For a single moment I allow myself to consider it. What would playing hooky with Nick consist of? A thousand possibilities occur to me and all of them appeal. I exhale. “As off-putting as I found Grosbaum’s excitement about my inoperable tumor, I do feel like I have to check this out.”

  I plug the address into the GPS while he maneuvers through the crowded back streets of Georgetown to get us to Canal Road. I’ve felt vaguely guilty about the fact that I’m doing this without telling Jeff, but he’s traveling again and it’s a sunny day—not a cloud in the sky—so I decide I’m just going to give in to the experience. I may not even be around next summer, so if I want to have one perfect day with Nick—a day that actually happened—this is my shot.

  “Does Jeff know you’re doing this?” he asks.

  I glance at him, wondering if it’s an accusation. “No. Did you tell Meg?”

  His eyes remain on the road. “She’s at a conference.”

  I guess that’s a no. “I hope it wasn’t a big deal taking off work?”

  He shakes his head. “I don’t see patients on Fridays anyway, so I just got someone to cover my morning rounds. What about you?”

  I shrug. “I hate my boss and she hates me, but it’s hard to say too much when your employee tells you she has a brain tumor.”

  His jaw flexes. “Why the hell are you still there? How exactly is it too complicated for you to get your architecture degree? Because it seems kind of simple to me.”

  I let my head fall back against the seat and close my eyes. It’s hard to argue on behalf of something I’m not certain of myself. “From a financial standpoint, it doesn’t make sense. I’d be thirty or thirty-one when I finished, and to do what I actually want to do, I’d need a master’s degree. Which means four or five years during which I’m not producing an income.”

  “I get it,” he says. “It’s intimidating enough to take money out for student loans without losing your income in addition to it, but long-term you’ll earn it back.”

  I suck my lip in between my teeth. “Actually, I inherited some money from my dad. Enough to cover school, at least undergrad.” I could explain why our living expenses are such a concern, but I don’t want to throw Jeff under the bus. Nick already seems to think very little of him and telling him about Jeff’s job history won’t improve that. “But we have a mortgage that requires both our incomes. And Jeff really wants to use the inheritance on a down payment for a bigger place, which is probably the smarter thing to do.”

  His nostrils flare. “Do you want a bigger place? Or wait, let me rephrase that: do you want a bigger place more than you want the degree?”

  No.

  The answer reverberates in my chest. Would I like a bigger place, one with hardwood floors and a new kitchen and a bathroom big enough for both of us? Sure. But I don’t hunger for it the way I do that degree. It doesn’t make my heart beat hard at the thought. When I think of getting a new place, I feel more resigned than anything else. “Probably not,” I say quietly. “But if I only have a few years to live, does it really matter whether I got the degree I wanted?”

  “It’s possible you’ll have more than a few years, but that’s really a question only you can answer: does it matter?”

  My gaze turns toward the window, at the dense wall of trees outside, almost close enough to touch. Does it matter? The practical part of me says no. But there’s another voice inside me, something wild and hopeful. And it says fuck it. I want this. I want that life I’ve been dreaming about, even if it will amount to nothing. Even if it can’t include Nick.

  “You were already at Georgetown and I assume you had good grades,” he says, as if he can hear my internal argument. “Why not check and see if they won’t let you just slide into classes this fall? And if that fails, I know a few people we could talk to.”

  I’m like a shaken bottle of seltzer, bubbling up inside but not quite stable. I can’t believe we’re discussing this—not as a hypothetical, not as a someday it’s possible, but as something that really could happen. Jeff will not be pleased, but for the first time in my life, I sort of don’t care. “I’ll think about it.”

  “I know it’s none of my business, but you’re my best patient. I want you to be happy.”

  I laugh. “Best?”

  His smile lifts high on one side. “Okay, the only patient who held my hand when we met and told me we were married.”

  Argh. I’m never going to live that down. I cover my face. “You weren’t supposed to mention that! It’s so humiliating.”

  His hand brushes mine, back to back, a quick but intentional sweep. “It’s not humiliating. It’s eerie, since you were so accurate. And cute. Maybe the only time eerie and cute have been combined together. But speaking of bizarre things you seem to know, did you have any more dreams last night? I’m still waiting to hear what retirement community we end up in.”

  I laugh. “That might be too boring for me to remember when I wake up. No, last night, it was just us walking around some campus I’ve never been to. And the bad dream…the one in the hospital. I had it again.”

  “I can’t get my head around that one,” Nick finally says. “That I’m in it. Maybe y
ou saw something that’s going to happen in the future.”

  It’s occurred to me too, but it just doesn’t add up. “You and I are together in that dream, but in real life, you’re with someone and I’m about to get married, so it can’t be the future.”

  “No one’s married to anyone just yet,” he replies quietly, and my heart begins that odd, fluttering rhythm. Half terror and half excitement. I shouldn’t be in this car, I shouldn’t even be entertaining the idea of cancelling the wedding. But I also can’t deny that when Nick suggests it, I feel…set free. And I think maybe I haven’t felt that way in a very long time.

  * * *

  We pull into Princeton just after eleven. Dr. Grosbaum’s house, with its crooked shutters and the abundance of dying plants in the front yard, does not inspire optimism.

  “You sure you want to do this?” Nick asks.

  I square my shoulders. “Yeah.”

  He reaches out, his hand brushing my cheekbone, resting there for a single beat. “Hey,” he says. “It’s going to be okay.”

  I feel a sudden burst of love for him in this moment, warm as the sun. I love that he came here, even though he thinks this is a wild goose chase. I love that he’s willing to support me, just for me, when it will cause him nothing but trouble. “Thank you for doing this.”

  His fingers trail away, a hair’s breadth from my mouth—I kind of wished they’d stayed—and he smiles. “Even if this doesn’t amount to much, I’m glad I got this time with you.”

  We walk to the door together. I knock, and after a few breathless moments we hear shuffling coming from inside the house. The door opens and Dr. Grosbaum appears—looking far older than I’d have expected for a man of his age. Though he’s probably in his early sixties, he could easily pass for seventy-five. It’s less about age, I think, than that he’s so grave and unkempt. His white hair is in desperate need of a trim, and he’s wearing clothing that should have been donated long ago. This trip just became even less promising, if possible.