Anything Between Us (Starving Artists Book 3)

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Anything Between Us (Starving Artists Book 3) Page 16

by Mila Ferrera


  The tiny voice whispers in my ear, giving voice to that hope: Maybe you could. There’s a good chance.

  It’s that hope that sent me back into the doctor’s office today while Nate waited with Dad. The same hope that made me ask to begin the process of genetic testing.

  It could be a beginning or an end, and I won’t know until I jump through all the hoops and get an answer. Hopefully, a good one.

  In the meantime, I’m going to follow Nate’s example. I’m going to let myself savor this, and him, and every second we share.

  Today’s the day.

  I’ve never felt like I wanted anything crazy out of life. My dreams have never run in the direction of rich and famous. Really, I only ever wanted to be able to make a living creating art. I wanted to be in love. And yeah, that included having kids someday. Grandkids. A fiftieth wedding anniversary. A long life, filled with experiences and people I loved.

  Until I was a senior in college, I thought all of that was a given. I was that naive.

  When my dad’s mind really started to go, he was only fifty-four, but even then, when we looked back, it was obvious it had started even earlier. He went from being a social butterfly to a social lame duck in the space of just a few years. Although my mom denies it, I’m pretty sure his insomnia, fogginess, and weird mood swings were part of what led her to decide that she was going to cut her losses and get the hell out, seeing as things hadn’t been that great between them for a while by then. She went from tolerating him (usually) to perpetual annoyance and contempt, and then she walked away.

  I’ve tried, but I’m not sure I’ll ever forgive her.

  Because he was so young, and because his mother had also developed dementia in her fifties, the doctors thought it made sense to do some genetic testing to see if there was an explanation: early-onset familial Alzheimer’s.

  It’s rare, they assured us. But sure enough, that’s what it was.

  It’s one gene. One fucking gene that turned my dad’s mind into a ticking time bomb. And it changed everything for me. I had just turned twenty-two. Ryan had started talking about getting hitched. I was about to graduate from college. My future had been so clear that I could almost see it, laid out in front of me like a tree-lined country road. Dad’s diagnosis was an earthquake, tossing the path, twisting it, collapsing it.

  For six years, I’ve lived with the understanding that my life was the day in front of me. The tasks I needed to complete, the parent I needed to take care of. It’s been easier to put my head down, to avoid thinking about the future that disappeared with my parents’ divorce, my dad’s diagnosis, and Ryan’s suicide.

  Now, in the space of a few months, Nate’s made me rethink that. He’s making me want more than what I have. He’s making me want that future again. I’m not sure if it’s good or not, but now I’m struggling to keep my head down and fighting not to think about how things might be if I were in love and had someone like him to share my life with.

  Stupid, I know. He’s young, and he’s only been out of the army for a few months. He’s only just beginning to think about how his life might unfurl. It’s so obvious to me that he’s going to be successful. He might be only twenty-three, but he has a seriousness and focus that a lot of guys my age don’t have yet. He’ll start college next semester, and then it’s off to the races. He doesn’t need anything or anyone slowing him down. He deserves happiness. And love.

  With someone who won’t lose her fucking mind in what should be the prime of life.

  I’ve got this voice in the back of my head, one that whispers hopeful little thoughts at occasionally inconvenient times, like right now: This might be a real thing. You could be that person.

  Now I can’t get rid of that thought. I wake up with it; I think it every time I see Nate, every time I hear his voice, every time he touches me. I fall asleep with those words humming in my mind.

  It was that thought that made me decide to get the test done, to ask Dad’s doctor for the referral. I went through the screening phone call with the genetic counselor and said all the right words. And today is the big appointment, the one where they put me through the ringer.

  They tell you to bring a support person, and as much as I wish Nate were here in this car with me instead of Aunt Cathy, I couldn’t bring myself to tell him what I’m doing. The last few weeks have been utterly perfect, and I couldn’t stand it if he thought of me as damaged goods, as that time bomb waiting to go off.

  I told him I was going to an appointment with Cathy today instead of the other way around. He kissed me and told me I was a good person. Even as guilt wrapped its barbwire around my heart, I still loved the way he looked at me. Like he really believed it.

  “They’re going to ask you a lot of personal questions,” Cathy is saying as I take the exit toward Ann Arbor. “They want to know if you have any psychological problems.”

  I chuckle. “I’m doomed, then.”

  She pats my arm. “They just want to make sure you’re stable, silly. The last thing they want is for the test results to drive someone over the edge. It’s happened before—that’s why they put this whole process in place, the counseling, the social worker, the support person.” She gestures at herself, smiling. “When I did this, Bob was my support. Except he was so nervous that I had to support him!”

  “That must have been stressful.”

  “Actually, it was nice to have something to focus on other than the possibility I might turn into my mother.” She sighs. “But oh, the relief. Sasha, the relief is worth all the suffering.”

  “Yeah, but that’s because you got a good result.”

  “I’m sure you will, too, honey. The odds are good.”

  “The odds are fifty-fifty, Cathy.”

  “I have a good feeling about this. You’ve been such an angel, caring for your dad. You deserve a happy future.” Her fingers squeeze my arm as she adds, “And a special man to share it with.”

  Good God, what is this idiotic smile on my face? I turn to the window to keep her from seeing it.

  “But even if you did have the gene, you can have a good life.”

  “Sure,” I murmur. “Of course.”

  “You can still have kids—you can do pre-implantation genetic testing to make sure you have a child without the gene! A pain, of course, but worth it.”

  “Mm-hmm.” It would also mean those children would get to watch their mother decline, just like I’m doing with my dad.

  “And then there’s all the research. Who knows—they might find a cure in the next ten years! Or a better treatment.”

  “Yep. Dad’s in at least two studies that I know of. They’re always asking if he’ll consent to having his DNA in another investigation.” Not that it’s doing him much good—but it is defraying some of the medical expenses, which I’m very grateful for. In fact, I’m doing the same thing—I’m getting this genetic testing for free instead of having to pay for it out of pocket, all because I agreed to let them use my DNA in a study of familial Alzheimer’s.

  “It’ll be like a cloud lifting,” Cathy says as I turn into the parking garage. “No matter what, you’ll be informed, and you’ll have a clearer idea of the future. You’ll be able to plan.”

  Her optimism carries me from the car to the medical center, through the front doors and up to the office suite. Six years ago, she was where I am, wondering if she was on the cusp of the disease herself, and now she knows she’s cleared for a long, happy future with Uncle Bob.

  So badly, I want that. I want to be able to lose the shadow that stalks every thought of the future, every daydream of life and love. And as I sit down for my battery of cognitive tests with the neuropsychologist, I can’t help but think about Nate yet again. I could be good for him. He’s definitely good for me. We might have something real. Something that could last.

  When my cloud lifts, I want to find out.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Nate

  Fallen leaves stream through the air and swirl up th
e sidewalk as I reach the stairs of the co-op. Even with the sun at its peak, there’s a nip in the air that always hits as we reach November. All I can think is how much things have changed in ways I didn’t believe were possible.

  In only ten weeks or so, I’ll be a college student. It’s official. I’ve just been to the registrar and signed up for the classes. For the first time since I separated from the army, and maybe since Sam died, I can envision a future for myself. And crazily, in that future, I don’t see myself being alone.

  I see myself being with Sasha.

  I know it’s too soon. I know it’s crazy. And there’s no fucking way I’d say this out loud to her because she’s actually sane and normal and I so do not want to blow this. But it’s there, that feeling. I can’t pretend it’s not.

  I can only hope she feels the same. I can’t always tell. Sometimes, she’s right there with me, so present that nothing has ever seemed so real or profound. Other times, she seems like she’s in her own world, but she won’t ever tell me what’s on her mind. She brushes it off. Like she doesn’t believe I could help, maybe. Or that I won’t get it. I’ve let her in, and she keeps me out. I’m not sure how to get past it, but it’s gotten worse in the past week, and I think I need to bring it up … which means the first thing I have to get past is my fear that she’ll push me away for good if I do.

  I enter the building and walk past a classroom, where she’s teaching a bunch of preschoolers how to work with clay. I edge myself against the wall and allow myself the simple pleasure of watching her. Her black hair is pulled back in a knot, but as always, stubborn strands have worked their way loose to frame her face. She’s wearing cargo pants and a clay-smudged T-shirt with a flannel over it, but it doesn’t matter what she’s wearing—my hunger for her body is like a flame inside me, growing with every passing second.

  She’s kneeling next to a little boy as he shapes what appears to be a long-necked dinosaur with his allotment of clay. He’s got his tongue between his teeth as he pulls at his creation’s head, I assume to lengthen its neck. His eyes go wide in horror as the head comes off in his hands.

  Tears instantly form in his eyes, but Sasha murmurs encouragement and gently guides his hands as she shows him how to reattach the head and make the neck longer. In no time, the kid is smiling again, and so is she, and it takes some restraint not to stride in there and pull her into my arms.

  She gets to her feet, and that’s when she sees me. Her dark eyes brighten, and I feel it like a caress. I wave and force myself to head upstairs, letting her focus on her students.

  When I get to the studios, Daniel’s not there. We’re meeting today to talk about a schedule, because Mom’s back in chemo and we’re going to take turns helping Dad out. I’m trying to take as much as I can off of Daniel, who’s scrambling to finish more paintings for Emmanuelle while juggling a busy teaching schedule. As I approach his studio, my phone buzzes with a text.

  It’s Jen. Thanks for reaching out. I’m glad you’re feeling better.

  Seeing those words loosens something in my chest. Thanks for being so understanding, I reply.

  After I no-showed them in September, I realized I couldn’t cover it up anymore. I confessed that I wasn’t doing well and needed to get some treatment before I’d be able to come down and talk to them. And I don’t know why I didn’t just say that in the first place, because it cooled everything down. She told me to take the time I needed and that she was sorry for pushing me. But now, visiting her is important—it’s the last piece of my therapy. The final exposure task, Dr. Harper calls it. The most brutal, wrenching thing I have to do. But now that I’ve spent weeks going over and over what happened and dealing with the thoughts I was having about all of it, I actually think I can manage the visit. Probably. I hope.

  “Oh. Hi, Nate.” Nora’s voice echoes in the high-ceilinged room as she enters. “How have you been?”

  This feels a little awkward. The last time I talked to her was the night of Daniel’s party. She texted me a week or so later, but by that time, I was so wrapped up in Sasha that I realize now I didn’t even reply.

  “Hey, Nora,” I say, heading over to her studio stall, which is now set up with a large desk that occupies most of the space, while the card table has been relegated to a corner and is piled with books and boxes and tools and wire and scraps. Two bright lamps and a magnifying glass contraption preside over the desk, surrounded by various sets of shears, tiny pliers, a soldering iron, wire, beads, and works in progress. “I’m really good. Looks like you’ve settled in here.”

  She hops up on her stool, looking cute in pigtails, her red hair cascading from two little jeweled bobbles on either side of her head. “Mostly.” She shivers and rubs her arms. “When do they turn the heat on in this place?”

  I eye the thick, fuzzy sweater that practically swallows her. “You’re cold?”

  “You may recall that I hail from distinctly warmer climes,” she says dryly.

  “Oh yeah.” I remember her telling me she was from Nevada. I think. Or Utah?

  She gives me a rueful smile, as if she can read my mind. “How are things with Sasha?”

  It takes work to keep the stupid grin off my face—the one that probably makes me look like my older brother every time he starts to talk about Stella. “Good. She’s downstairs teaching right now. Look—” I rub the back of my head, wishing I were better at this kind of thing. “—I’m sorry about that night—”

  She holds up her hands. “Please, don’t. No hard feelings, right?” Rolling her eyes, she says, “I’m kind of used to being runner-up. And you guys are cute together.”

  “Thanks.”

  She arches an eyebrow. “The holidays are coming up.”

  “Oh, yeah …”

  “If you happen to be in need of a fun piece of jewelry for the lady in your life, I can hook you up.” She sweeps her hand across her workstation, accidentally knocking over the magnifying glass thing. “I love doing custom designs,” she says as she rights it.

  I hadn’t even started to think about the holidays, but the thought of spending them with Sasha stirs an excitement inside me that I haven’t felt since I was a kid, when Christmas was still magic instead of salty ham and tinsel in the mess hall with a bunch of other homesick soldiers. “Yeah,” I say. “That’s a great idea. How much lead time do you need?”

  “Depends on what you want. I get a lot of holiday orders through my Etsy shop, but I’d bump you to the front of the queue. Maybe two weeks? You want to get together to discuss what you—?” She presses her lips together as Sasha walks in wearing a brilliant smile that fades a little when she sees me in Nora’s stall.

  “Hey, guys,” she says. “What’s up?”

  “We were talking about how freaking cold it is in here,” Nora says.

  Sasha laughs and gestures at the enormous windows at the front of the building. “Just wait for January. Buy your long johns now and be glad your space isn’t right up against these drafty things. I swear, on my throwing days, sometimes frostbite seems like a real possibility.”

  “What about a space heater?” I ask.

  “If each of us had one, it would overload the system. We have one that we pass around to whoever seems most likely to keel over from hypothermia on any given day.”

  Nora slumps. “This is going to be a long winter.”

  Sasha gives her a kindly smile. “I’ve got a whole box of hats and fingerless gloves in my stall—feel free to borrow anything you need.”

  As the two of them talk, my phone buzzes with another text from Jen. If you’re really sure, I’ve checked with his parents. Thursday is good.

  I let out a deep breath. Am I really sure? I jam my phone back in my pocket and look up to see that Sasha’s at my side, wearing a concerned expression. “Is everything okay?” she asks quietly.

  I’ve never been around someone who was this aware of me, and it’s both unnerving and awesome. “I’m okay,” I say. “It was Jen.”

  She t
akes my hand as we walk back to her studio stall. “When are you going?”

  “Thursday, I think.”

  “That’s perfect. I’ll let Cathy know.”

  “Huh? Why?”

  She puts her hand on my cheek, filling my nose with the scent of earth and a faint mineral tang, the smell of Sasha at work. “Because I’m going with you.”

  I look out the window, toward the river. “You don’t have to. I might be … I don’t know. I mean, it definitely won’t be like last time. You don’t have to worry about that.” I’m so far from that place right now that it’s like I’m on a different planet.

  “I’m not worried that it’ll be like last time,” she says, guiding my face back to hers. “But I want to be there for you. If you want my company, that is.”

  “I always want your company.”

  She grins, but it looks strained, like she’s trying really hard. “Then it’s settled.”

  “Are you okay?”

  “Of course I am,” she says briskly, turning to organize her space for her afternoon’s work. “When are you meeting Daniel?”

  Something inside me cracks, just a hairline fracture, but enough to hurt. I’m not imagining this—she’s brushing me off. But I can hear Daniel on the stairs, and now’s not the time. “He’s here.” I wrap my arm around her waist and kiss her on the temple. “Later?”

  “Definitely,” she murmurs, sliding her hand along my side, letting it linger on my hip like a promise.

  I let her touch drive away the uneasiness because everything else is so perfect. Shoving off my worry for another day, I leave her alone to work.

  Sasha offers to drive, but I need to have a little more control today, so we take my car. “So, what’s helpful?” she asks me as we set out. “Do you want me to distract you? Leave you alone?”

 

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