Chris waved her away. He was probably too distracted by the new game plan to bother rolling his eyes or sighing impatiently. Fine by her.
Behind the restroom’s locked door, Joanna rested her hands on the cold sink’s edge and stared at herself in the mirror. The conversation in the office—what she’d heard of it, anyway—banged around in her head, and the reality of the situation slowly sank in.
The treatment might work. It might not. If it didn’t, then Chris might have a few months, though Dr. Bowman had been cautious about giving him even that much hope.
If the treatment did work…
“…extended by upwards of one to two years…”
She closed her eyes and let her head fall forward, struggling to figure out what she should have felt. Or, for that matter, what she did feel.
She was numb. It was impossible to have any emotions at that point. She didn’t want Chris to die. She didn’t want him to suffer. And yet, if the drug worked and increased both his quality of life and its longevity…then what?
Do I have any right to even think about how this will affect me?
The thought made her cringe. Damn, but she needed to unload this on someone. Just…throw out all her emotions—right, wrong and everything in between—and get some help sorting them out.
But no one could hear what she was thinking and not believe she was a horrible human being and a terrible wife. Especially since everyone she’d ever spoken to about Chris and this hellish process had refused to hear or say an ill word about him. This was one of those things that would have to stay between her and a bottle of something strong. Jose Cuervo might not be able to offer much advice, but he wouldn’t judge her either.
She faced her reflection again and took a second to compose herself. Then she stepped out of the restroom and headed toward the waiting area to meet Chris.
“Oh, Mrs. McQuaid. There you are.”
Joanna turned around. “Yes?”
Dr. Bowman held out a business card. “This is a counselor who specializes in the spouses and family members of the terminally ill.” He inclined his head slightly. “I would urge you to call.”
She took the card. “Thank you.”
They held eye contact for a moment.
You’re not going to call, are you?
Absolutely not.
Joanna…
There isn’t a counselor alive I could talk to about this.
She slid the card into her purse. “I need to go. My husband’s waiting.”
He sighed as if he’d gotten the message from their unspoken conversation. He let it go, though, gave her a slight nod and disappeared back into his office.
Chris was indeed waiting, and his upraised eyebrow may as well have been a finger tapping on a watch.
She forced a smile. “Ready to go?”
“I was about to ask you the same thing.” Subtly snide, as always. Obviously he was feeling better.
On the way out of the building, Chris took her hand again. His grip was firm, his gait as fast as his condition allowed. She didn’t have to struggle to keep up with him now, not when his recent setback had slowed him down, but she still had the distinct feeling of being a dog on the end of a leash that the master kept jerking. Chris stopped just short of barking heel! at her—it was just understood that she’d stay with him.
He certainly wasn’t searching for contact or comfort this time. Whatever he and the doctor had discussed during Joanna’s distraction, he was confident in a way he hadn’t been when they’d headed into the office an hour ago. Confident to the point of arrogant fearlessness, radiating a quiet certainty that he had the situation under control and the cancer would submit upon contact with the new treatment. He had a plan.
And the woman on his arm?
Well, she’d keep walking just like the Rolex on his wrist would keep ticking.
Joanna didn’t dare let Chris see her sneaking the bottle of Cuervo into her workroom. He couldn’t have cared less if she wanted to get drunk, but he frowned on the empty calories that came from booze. And of course that thought made her feel better.
Alone in her workroom, she set the bottle on the table but didn’t open it. It may have been five o’clock somewhere, but it was still three in the afternoon here, and she hadn’t quite talked herself into diving in yet.
She sat back in her chair and looked around the room, trying not to give in to the siren’s call of the bottle she’d brought in here. It was only a matter of time, of course. She had every intention of drinking herself blind tonight. The no, I’m not going to do this right now was a ritual that never lasted very long.
She could always get some work done on the purse she’d been tooling for Kaylie’s Christmas gift. The intricate feathering on a pair of hawks would take her ages to finish, and it would keep her hands and mind busy for hours at a stretch.
But she knew damn well her concentration was shot today. She had neither the focus nor the patience to coax lines and curves out of a tough piece of leather.
Drinking, however, sounded pretty fucking appealing.
You’re going to turn into an alcoholic.
Joanna groaned. She was not an alcoholic. She wouldn’t be one. This was a temporary fix. Something to make her feel even less than she already did. Numb the nonexistent feelings. Once the trigger for those feelings was gone, she wouldn’t need the booze anymore.
“…extended by upwards of one to two years…”
Guilt and shame burned hotter than the tequila ever would. She didn’t want him to suffer. She didn’t want him to die.
She just didn’t want him here.
And she couldn’t leave.
Because he was dying.
Oh, fuck it…
She unscrewed the bottle and didn’t even bother looking for a glass.
Half an hour and a little too much tequila later, she heard a knock at the door.
“Fuck,” she muttered, and made a half-assed effort to put the cap back on the bottle. She braced herself, fully expecting a tirade from Chris about her “problem” and how it would affect her waistline. She glanced at the door, then at the bottle that was still about three-quarters full—she could throw it that far, couldn’t she?
“Come in,” she called out, but didn’t get up.
The door opened, and she almost threw the bottle at him just for the hell of it—whoa, maybe I’ve had too much already—but it wasn’t Chris.
“Hey.” David stepped into her workroom. “I, um. Is this a bad time?”
Joanna glanced at the bottle in her hand, then shook her head. “Not really. What’s up?”
He shut the door behind him. “I just came to see how you were doing. I was supposed to talk to Chris about a few things, but he’s asleep.”
Lucky bastard…
David cleared his throat. His eyes darted toward the bottle. “How did his appointment go today?”
Joanna sighed and unscrewed the cap again. “Awesome.”
David grimaced and waited until she’d taken a deep swallow of tequila before he spoke again. “So, what happened?”
With anyone else, she’d have hesitated to divulge medical details, but David was the exception. Half the time, Chris told David things before he got around to telling her.
“Well, the cancer has advanced.” She chewed her lip. “And there’s a new treatment on the table.”
“A new treatment?” He folded his arms loosely across his chest and shifted his weight. “What kind of new treatment?”
“A stem cell transplant combined with chemo and some new experimental drug.” She rubbed her temples. “The doctor thinks it’s promising. It might not work, but if it does, it could buy him some time. Maybe even another year or two, and with a decent quality of life.”
David’s eyes flicked toward the bottle. Then back to her. “But that�
�s…that’s good news, right?”
It might’ve been the tequila, or she might’ve just reached her goddamned breaking point, but Joanna lost it. The tears came, and there was no stopping them, so she pushed the bottle away and leaned over, cradling her face in her hands.
“Hey, easy.” David appeared beside her, a gentle arm around her shoulders. “What’s wrong?”
“I’m a terrible person.”
“What? Why?” He pulled her closer. “Joanna, you’re not a terrible person.”
“For God’s sake.” She drew back enough to meet his eyes. “The first thing I thought when the doctor said they could extend his life by a year or two was ‘Oh God, I can’t take another year or two.’” Fresh tears spilled down her cheeks, and she covered her face with her hands again. “I don’t want him to die, David, but I…I want this to be over. I can’t keep being his wife. But I can’t leave either. I’m a terrible—”
“No, you’re not.” He touched her shoulder. “You’re exhausted. Anyone would be in your position.”
“It’s more than that. I was exhausted before he was diagnosed the first time.” She wiped her eyes shakily and looked in his. “No one ever tells you how to lose someone you don’t want to be with.”
David blinked, and she cringed, expecting him to put her in her place. Instead, he squeezed her shoulder and softly said, “How do you handle the death of someone you were planning to divorce?”
“Yeah.” She pinched the bridge of her nose. “You can’t speak ill of the dead, you can’t speak ill of the dying, but to hell with the living who can’t seem to catch a goddamned break.”
He said nothing. He just gestured for her to get up, and when she did, wrapped his arms around her and let her lean on him. And, God, she hadn’t realized how much she’d needed exactly that—just a shoulder. A set of comforting arms, a shoulder that wasn’t cold and someone who’d let her let it out. The fact that it was David offering her what she needed should have blown her mind, but she was too grateful for it right then to care about their rocky past. And lately, he’d been so good to her, so to hell with the past.
“I should’ve left when he wasn’t sick.”
“But where would you have gone?” He pulled back to meet her gaze. “You were smart to stay and get your ducks in a row so you could support yourself.”
“And look where that got me.” She sank back into the chair, stealing a glance at the tequila bottle, but resisting the urge to grab it. “I just don’t know what to do now. Like it or not, I’m in for the long haul. And I’m…”
“Exhausted.”
She nodded, avoiding David’s eyes. “Under any other circumstances, my two choices would be to sort things out with him or leave. And quite frankly, I can’t ask Chris to spare the energy for either of those things. He can’t cope with any more stress. He shouldn’t have to.” She sighed, rubbing her hand over her face. “All I can do now is sit back, smile and pretend our marriage is okay.”
He blew out a breath. “I’m sorry. I can’t imagine it’s an easy position to be in.”
“It isn’t. And before you or anyone else suggest it, I don’t want his money. I don’t want this house or all the pretty shit or the parties. All I want is to feel like someone loves me as something other than a goddamned decoration.” She snatched the bottle and took another deep swig, grimacing when it burned its way down. “You know, maybe someone who holds my hand in public because he wants to, not because he wants people to know he owns me.”
“I know. He’s…not been the best husband.”
She laughed bitterly. “To say the least.” Her shoulders sank, and she stared at the bottle for a moment. Then she shoved it aside. “Don’t get me wrong. I haven’t been the best wife. I’ve…I’ve definitely contributed to this.” She met David’s eyes. “I don’t give up on marriage easily. I tried. I really did. I tried to fix it, roll with it, make it work, pretend it was working…”
“You did. Why he couldn’t see that…I don’t know.”
“And anyone I talk to is just going to tell me to suck it up and stick it out. But…Jesus, David.” She swiped at her eyes and sniffed. “I just can’t anymore. I have nothing left. But don’t you dare try to tell me I’m not being fair to him or I don’t care about him. If I didn’t, I’d be long gone and the divorce papers would be delivered right to his bed.”
“You’re not being unfair.” David touched her shoulder. “You’re allowed to be unhappy, you know.”
She nodded and wiped her eyes again. “I just want someone, somewhere to admit the cancer didn’t turn my husband into a fucking saint. He walked all over everyone—you, me, employees, everyone—and drove all of us crazy, but now…” She gripped the tequila bottle in a chokehold. “You know, maybe I could cope with all this if I didn’t know that the minute we lay him in the ground, I won’t be allowed to acknowledge a single emotion I’ve had for the last fifteen years. I won’t ever be able to resent him for anything.” Bringing the bottle up to her lips, she snarled, “Not even for knocking up his fucking PA.”
“Wait, what?”
“He was fucking her right in our bed, for God’s sake! As if I wouldn’t catch on and—”
“Joanna.” Something in his voice made her stop. Deep crevices formed between his eyebrows. “What did you just say?”
“I said he was fucking his—” Joanna froze. She lowered the bottle and clapped her other hand over her mouth, staring at him with wide eyes. “Oh God.”
David’s eyes were huge, his expression teetering between shock and barely contained rage. “Only one of Chris’s assistants has ever been pregnant that I know about.”
“I am so sorry,” she murmured, her hand muffling her voice. “David, I’m—”
“Jesus Christ.” He threw up his hands. “For fuck’s sake, Joanna. It’s bad enough you’re throwing all these accusations around about Chris.” He stabbed a finger at her. “You leave my daughter out of this.”
She lowered her hand but not her gaze. “David, I’m sorry. I didn’t…” She swallowed, breaking eye contact. “I didn’t mean to let that slip.”
“Let it slip?” He laughed bitterly and shook his head. “You’re fucking delusional. I don’t know what you think you saw, but for all the problems we had, Alexandra was not a cheater. And that little girl is my daughter.”
“David, I—”
“I was actually starting to feel bad for you, but you really are nothing more than a vindictive, spoiled bitch.”
“David, just listen to—”
But he was gone, and he slammed the door so hard, the whole workroom shook.
“Oh God.” Joanna slumped back against the chair, staring at the closed door. This was why she drank alone—less opportunity to say something stupid. Something that might hurt somebody. Chris didn’t even know Joanna knew about the affair with Alexandra. And she’d sworn she’d never let it out. Not to Chris. Definitely not to David. Because there was a child involved, and she didn’t deserve to get hurt. And neither did David. Not even when Joanna had still thought he was an asshole.
But a few too many drinks, a desperately needed chance to vent, and…
Shit. What did I just do?
Chapter Thirteen
There is no way in hell this kid isn’t mine.
Tiffany was curled against David’s side on her bed, a stuffed tiger tucked under her arm while he read her fifth bedtime story for the evening. After a playdate this morning, an afternoon at the movie theater and her first-ever trip to a video arcade, she should have been wiped out and sound asleep, but every time he finished a book, she wanted another one. And, well, there were worse ways to be an indulgent parent than reading a few extra stories to her. Especially since she was starting to pick up the words on her own. It wouldn’t be long before she could read them herself, and she’d probably be like he was as a kid—staying up late, readin
g under the covers with a flashlight.
Yep, she’s definitely my kid.
How else could he explain the fact that a long, busy day like today hadn’t knocked her out? Or that she was already obsessed with books? Like insomniac bookworm father, like insomniac bookworm daughter.
Joanna had been drunk. God knew what other bullshit she would have been spewing if she’d had a few more shots before David had walked in. Even if Alexandra had been unfaithful—and David couldn’t believe she was—there was no way in hell this kid wasn’t his.
After the seventh story, Tiffany’s eyes were finally starting to get heavy.
“One more?” she asked sleepily, right before she yawned.
“I think it’s time for you to go to sleep.” He carefully freed himself and got up. “Especially if you want to go biking tomorrow.”
“But I’m…” Another yawn. “Not tired.”
“You may not be, but your old dad’s gotta drive tomorrow.” He made himself yawn and made it as dramatic as possible, which brought a giggle out of her. “I need to get some sleep, and so do you.”
“Okay.” Insomniac or not, she had never made a big fuss about bedtime. Though for all he knew, she already had a flashlight and some chapter books under her pillow, and was just waiting for him to go away so she could read them.
The thought made him chuckle as he tucked her in.
“Love you, Daddy.”
“Love you too, sweetheart.” He kissed her forehead, then turned off the light, checked to make sure her nightlight was on and stepped out.
Though it was still relatively early, he was exhausted. It wasn’t just the long, high-energy day with his daughter. He and Chris had been balls-to-the-wall working through proposals for next year’s product release, not to mention the slow, steady process of shifting Chris’s responsibilities to David. And, of course, he hadn’t slept for shit the last few nights since his conversation with Joanna.
So he turned in early, leaving both bedroom doors ajar. Sometimes Tiffany slept through the night, sometimes she didn’t. Either way, he made damn sure he’d hear if there was anything wrong in the bedroom across the hall.
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