by L. V. Lewis
“You guys have a shitload of money,” Brody had said to Finn, George and Dylan. “And there are tons of realtors willing to sell you property all over LA.” And that settled the bickering.
The guys had temporarily moved into Brody’s condo when the newlyweds came back from their extended honeymoon. It had the requisite amount of bedrooms and was an immediate solution to keep the band housed until permanent arrangements were made. Dylan was now moving in with me, and George and Finn had found a house to share not far from Sky and had moved in a few days ago. They didn’t want to commute very far to the studio at her place.
Today we are moving the things Brody wants to have in their home in the hills, the few things Dylan has left that will come to my place, and Jacob is moving the few things he’s accumulated at my place into the condo. Brody’s thrown in the big pieces of furniture, so all Jacob has to do is accessorize in the manner he sees fit.
When Dylan leaves to get the movers to dispose of the box of broken vase, Jacob pulls me aside. “You notice that little cough he’s had the past week?”
“Dylan? Yeah. He says it’s nothing.”
“He’s been playing it off to you as nothing, but he’s a little weak, too. We should’ve been able to carry that vase out together, no problem.”
Fear strikes so deep within my soul, I can barely get my next words out. “You... you think that’s a sign the cancer’s come back?”
“Maybe. Maybe not. But I’d get it checked sooner than later,” Jacob says. I’m moving toward the door before he can finish the sentence. Jacob stops me with a hand on my shoulder. “Hold on now, Sweetie. You need to handle this with kid gloves. He’s probably afraid that’s what it is, too, so give the guy a break.”
Jacob is right. I do need to do this with a bit more finesse than I was about to. Yelling at my boyfriend that he needs to get his ass over to see his oncologist is not the manner in which to inspire confidence that he will actually go to see the doctor.
We vibe most of the time because we’re opposites in most things, but we’re both stubborn as hell when it comes to some things. For instance, I know that if I try to push Dylan to do something, he usually won’t do it. Just like me. It has to seem like it’s his idea, or he won’t budge.
“Okay, Dad,” I say. “I’ll mention it to him later, when we’re settled after the move.”
It takes the movers about an hour to load the truck, and we’re all off to our respective residences, leaving Jacob to christen his new place in whatever fashion he sees fit. I have a feeling that his welcome party is going to include the new “friend” he met at Robert Half who sounds suspiciously to me like a “work wife,” who just might be trying to be a real wife.
I don’t begrudge him dipping his toes into the dating scene again, because mom’s been gone a minute, but I do want him to be careful that he doesn’t add the stress of a relationship to his new sober life too soon. And I need to stay out of my dad’s business, because I have quite enough of my own business to attend to. Namely, my boyfriend’s health.
Dylan drives us back in my California, because his car doesn’t arrive until his other belongings are shipped from Seattle and Downers Grove next week. It’s going to be interesting trying to fit as much of his shit as we can in my condo, but we’ve decided we can combine what we don’t need right now in storage until we buy a house later on down the road.
I realize now that since we’re going to be cohabitating, I’m going to need to take on part of the role Lillian Castle had in Dylan’s life when he was first diagnosed. I’ve noticed quite a few times that he’s gotten so into writing a song, or practicing for our upcoming performances, that he’s forgotten to take his vitamin supplements.
He’s been off the meds for NHL for five months now, and he’s supposed to continue with his nutrition plan without fail. I’ve even changed my diet to correspond to his need to eat organic foods over processed foods and take-out. We get a box delivered weekly and all I have to do is follow the directions for preparation and we have a healthy organic meal together most nights and on the weekend when we’re home.
I take out one such meal when we get home and prepare it while Dylan’s unpacking his stuff which the movers delivered before they were off to Brody and Sky’s. I’ve already cleared some drawer and closet space for him, so it keeps him occupied almost until I’m done preparing dinner.
When we take our places at the dining room table, we have a delicious hot meal ready for consumption. It’s not one of Della’s homemade creations by any stretch of the imagination, but we know it’s real food that isn’t processed within an inch of its life.
Dylan tucks in immediately, and it seems like a good sign that his appetite is okay, but I now notice that nagging little cough my dad mentioned when it becomes a little jag after he swallows a few bites of food.
“Are you okay?” I lead with concern, because I don’t want shit to go sideways before I can get him to agree to get himself checked out.
He takes a sip of water and clears his throat. “Yeah. This is delicious by the way.” He tips his fork toward me as if in a toast and takes another bite.
“These meals have been a lifesaver for my non-cooking ass,” I say.
“It’s a good thing we’ve evolved to more healthy and convenient ways to feed ourselves,” he says.
“Besides takeout?” I tease.
“There’s a whole list of organic restaurants my new nutritionist gave me. We can order takeout from them sometimes.”
“Good idea,” I say with a frown. “Because I might get tired of being Ms. Suzy homemaker with a quickness.”
Brody grins. “There’s my Queen of Prickly.”
My frown morphs into a smile. “I don’t mind doing it sometimes, but we’re self-professed lovers of room service and daily maids. If we don’t make a plan, this condo is going to look like a pig sty between the two of us.”
“Not gonna let that happen,” Dylan says after swallowing another bite. “Della is going to hire someone for us.”
I perk up. “Really, babe? Wow, you must really love me. You’re hiring someone to come in and do the shit I don’t want to do before we get to the point where I don’t want to do it.” Someone must have listened intently to Sky and Brody’s vows. I walk around the table and give him a hug, so I can touch his skin without him complaining that I’m hovering like his mom. A hug allows me to check his temperature without him knowing that’s what I’m doing. “Thanks, babe.”
He’s a bit warm, but not sure if it’s because he’s been exerting himself with all the moving and unpacking or if he’s truly coming down with something. Or if the NHL has come back. My heart rate ratchets up just thinking that might be the cause for his symptoms. He had a baseline PET scan when Dr. Naples took him on as a patient, and everything was clear, but that was five and a half months ago.
Dylan puckers for a kiss, and I drop one on him, and he continues, “I was going to surprise you for Valentine’s Day, but that’s a month from now, and by the time your birthday rolls around again, I could be in the dog house.”
I slap him on the arm and go back around to my plate of half-eaten food. “Talking about things that can put you in the dog house will get you there faster than you doing something to actually get there.”
He laughs. “What?” He shakes his head. “My girlfriend, the enigma.” He dives back into his food.
We watch a movie together on Netflix until we’re making out on the couch. Finally we abandon the half-watched movie and retire to our bedroom.
I’m usually more into our foreplay to the tune of being a multi-orgasm girl, but my concern for him outweighs my enjoyment tonight, and Dylan picks up on it when I have my lone underwhelming orgasm just before his.
“You gonna tell me what’s wrong?” He asks, his hand moving lazily across my breasts when our breathing normalizes.
He covers his mouth with his hand and coughs.
“That’s what’s wrong,” I say. I turn to face him, and
snuggle up against his body.
“I’ve been reading up on NHL and I know that you’re supposed to get checked out when you have even the appearance of a sneeze or sniffle. This cough is worrying,” I say.
He rolls his eyes. “Are you serious, right now?”
As he moves to pull away and sit up, I reach out and pull him closer to me, so we are eye to eye.
“I love you so much, it would literally devastate me to lose you if an aggressive strain of NHL were to take your life simply because we didn’t do what’s required to get ahead of it.”
“I don’t like being a fucking hypochondriac or some shit. Going to the doctor for things that can be solved with a couple of Tylenol, or an over the counter cough medicine.”
“That’s the case for most people, but you’re not most people.
Dylan flops onto his back and lays there, blowing out a breath of frustration that ends in another coughing jag. I want to be angry with him for being so stubborn about this, but I’m unable to go there knowing what can happen if I don’t nag the shit out of him about this now and get it settled once and for all.
“Look at me, Babe,” I say softly. I’m still lying on my side, my eyes boring a hole into his stubborn head. He rolls to his side, mirroring my pose and looks into my eyes. I don’t usually operate from a place of vulnerability, so I know he gets that I’m serious when unshed tears form in my eyes to match the clog in my throat.
“You are part of the vast number of people who have had cancer and is now in remission. If we want you to stay that way, you’re going to have to act like a fucking hypochondriac. That would be preferable to me than to have you going in for several more rounds of chemotherapy, which I understand makes you wish you were fucking dead sometimes, as opposed to you actually being fucking dead.” I poke his chest with my finger. “I will not lose the father of my future fucking children to cancer like my dad lost my mom. I will not lose you, too.”
I’m literally shaking when I finish that soliloquy and Dylan is looking at me as if I’ve lost my goddamn mind. I know I probably look crazy because I’m sobbing now, one of those grandiose ugly cries, where tears and snot are running together, meeting at the corners of my mouth to form a river of salt.
Dylan sighs and pulls me into his arms. He holds me until I’m no longer full-on crying, but sniffling like a child.
“So, I’m the father to your ‘future fucking children,’ huh?”
That strikes me as funny and I laugh in the middle of my sniffling, and he laughs with me. When we’ve both calmed down I venture a serious discussion about our future.
“You said they froze some of your sperm for that purpose, right?”
“Yes, I made a deposit in a Chicago sperm bank before I began chemo.”
“Well, I hope it’s a pretty big deposit, because unlike Sky, I’m serious about six children.”
Dylan gasps and that takes him into another coughing fit, and I pinch my lips together in an effort not to laugh. When he recovers he says, “Aren’t we supposed to talk about that or something?”
“Talk about what?”
“How many children we’re going to have. We’re rock stars, Alyssa. Rock stars only have that many children if they’ve got different mothers.”
I whack him in his chest this time. “No other chick is going to be taking any deposits in your name out of that sperm bank, and they damn sure better not be trying to ride my joystick, even if it is shooting blanks.”
Dylan really cracks up at that one, and I smile, because no one but us could get such a fucking ridiculous sense of humor out of such serious subject matter.
He kisses me so soundly, I threaten tears again, but I will them away. I hold on to this man who has my heart, regardless of the trials and tribulations we may go through together in life.
“I’ll call Dr. Naples’ office first thing Monday morning,” he says.
We’re waiting in Dr. Naples’ waiting room with several other patients in varying stages and with different types of cancer, from newly diagnosed, to those in the throes of treatment, to those who are recovering and we only know this by virtue of the type of doctor he is. Because most of them look normal, except those who’ve lost hair, or weight, or both.
Since Saturday night, I’ve only mentioned to Sky and my dad that Dylan and I were going in for an appointment today after going to Cedars Sinai to have a PET Scan on Tuesday. Of course the scan technician wouldn’t tell us a damn thing, so we’ve been waiting since Tuesday to get the verdict, and it’s now Thursday. It’s the shit like this—this stressful as fuck waiting that takes weeks off your goddamn life.
There’s a teenage girl sitting across from us who keeps looking at Dylan and me. Hard. And I’m this close to asking her what the fuck she’s staring at when she speaks.
“Are you Alyssa Lawrence?”
“Y-yes,” I say, practically stammering because she’s taken me so off guard, I forgot we’re kind of famous. The serious predicament we’re in is a great equalizer.
“Then you must be Dylan Castle,” she says to Dylan.
He grins. “In the flesh—or what’s left of him.”
I feign elbowing him in the side. “That’s not an affirmation, Babe. That’s a…what is the opposite of an affirmation?”
“Nullification. Renunciation,” Dylan says.
“Negation,” the girls says. “Repudiation.” She laughs. “I go to a therapist, too. I have leukemia.”
Her mother gives her a look. “It’s okay, Mom. This is Alyssa, who used to open Skylar’s concerts, but is now the front woman for The Savages.” She touches her chest. “I’m a Skygirl. And that’s Dylan Castle, the drummer for The Savages.”
We stand and shake hands with her and her mother, and learn that they are Eloise and Annabeth Rancik. Dylan whispers to Annabeth, “I had Non-Hodgkin’s Lymphoma, but I’ve been in remission for eight months.”
Annabeth pulls Dylan in for a hug. “We cancer patients have to stick together.”
“You’ve got that right.” Dylan reaches into his back pocket and pulls out a couple of backstage passes and gives them to Mrs. Rancik. “We’re opening up our tour in Oakland at the Golden State Warriors stadium next month. You guys should come as our guests.”
Annabeth is beside herself with joy. “Oh my God! Wait till my friends hear this.”
Mrs. Rancik thanks us, her eyes shiny with tears. “We’ll be there. Thank you. Thank you so much.”
Annabeth is doing a happy dance and I grab her hand and whisper to her. “Shh. We only have the two passes with us, and we don’t want to cause a riot in Dr. Naples’ office.”
“Oh right,” Annabeth says. She launches herself into my arms. “Thank you, Alyssa. Thank you Dylan.” She says over my shoulder.
At that moment, a nurse comes out the door of the hallway leading to the examination rooms. “Mr. Castle!”
“That’s us,” Dylan says, and the Ranciks let us go, but a few other heads perk up when we stride quickly toward the door.
“Is this Mrs. Castle?” The nurse says.
“Of course,” Dylan says without breaking his stride, and the nurse ushers us into the examination room. When she’s finished taking his vitals, she tells us that the doctor will be in shortly and leave us.
“You’re a bad boy,” I say. “You told her I was Mrs. Castle.”
“You will be. She didn’t ask if you were now, or if you were going to be my ‘future fucking Mrs. Castle.’” He laughs at his not so veiled reference to my meltdown on Saturday.
I grimace. “I am never going to live that down, am I?”
“Probably not,” he quips. Dylan sits on the edge of the exam table, and pulls me between his knees. Cupping my face with his hands, he kisses me. A sweet kiss with just a hint of heat. “Because the truth of it is, you are going to be my ‘future fucking Mrs. Castle’ who’s having at least two of my ‘future fucking babies.’”
“I like the sound of that,” I say. As proposals go, this one is dis
mal as fuck in an oncologist’s office, but this is our reality, so I’ll take it. And if he’s okay, I’ll razz the hell out of him about it later. If he’s not okay…well, I won’t even entertain that fucking idea.
Dr. Naples comes into the room followed by a nurse, his face buried in a chart, presumably Dylan’s. He clears his throat. “Mr. Castle, have I caught you at a bad time?” He grins at his own attempt at a joke. I move away and sit on the lone chair in the room.
The doctor extends a hand to Dylan and they shake. “HIPAA requires me to ask. Is this young lady a family member, or someone you trust to hear what we may discuss today concerning your medical condition?”
“My fiancée, Dr. Naples, and yes, she can most definitely hear whatever we discuss concerning my medical condition.”
“Ms. Singleton,” he addresses the nurse. “Will you make sure we get a medical release signed by Mr. Castle for Ms…”
“Lawrence,” Dylan supplies.
“Right away Dr. Naples,” she says and disappears momentarily from the room.
Dr. Naples takes a seat on his stool and examines Dylan’s lymph nodes on his neck, checks his sinuses via his ophthalmoscope and his throat with a tongue depressor. He also listens to Dylan’s breathing and his heartbeat with a stethoscope. I’m not aware I’m clenching my fists until the doctor clears his throat again and gives us his verdict. “Your PET scan was negative Dylan. It seems you’re having an allergic reaction from some of the unique flora in California. You’ve allowed the post nasal drip to manifest into a cough which is now something bordering on bronchitis. With a round of antibiotics and a prescription for some allergy meds you should be good to go.”
“Thank you, Dr. Naples.” Dylan says, his shoulders sagging with relief.
“Let me be clear,” Dr. Naples says. “You were right to come see me even though this wasn’t a recurrence of the NHL. I want you to come and see me if you do anything as benign as stubbing your toe, or if your sinuses begin to produce an excess of mucous. We’ll treat any and every symptom so we can rule out the lymphoma and keep you in remission as long as we possibly can. Okay?”