And she'd never once snapped at me, never acted irritated. I winced from the guilt, grimacing at what that must be leading her to think. And I vowed to do better.
Chapter 8
Mia
Adam was due to return home tonight. He'd only been gone three nights and four days. Not as long as some trips, but still. It never failed that we'd fall into a routine of normalcy, and just as quickly, he'd have to pick up and go away. Sometimes to the East Coast, but more often, lately, up to Silicon Valley. The pluses were that it was a short flight and still in the same time zone as me.
Of course, he'd squish two weeks' worth of work into that four-day stay in Northern California. He ran from meeting to meeting to facility tour to yet another meeting. And if he did catch a meal that wasn't filled with power lunch meetings or dinner networking, I was in class or lab or study group. We hardly found a moment to Skype or call, apart from the group emails to our wedding planner.
But as I'd told April, we always found a way to stay connected, in spite of how crazy things got.
So this week, we rocked it with text messages.
In some ways, it was like the old days, when we'd first met over chat on Dragon Epoch. I'd send him a text...sometimes about any old random thing. And he might respond immediately, or he might respond hours later.
A normal conversation that would take minutes at home over morning coffee or a wee spot of pillow talk could span a day or more.
Me: I've been thinking about pet names. When we're married, we should have pet names for each other.
Him: What? Really? Like Honey Boo?
Me: Not that one.
And his mobile phone, the instrument with which he conducted business constantly, the device that often distracted him in my presence, became the very vehicle he'd use across the miles to flirt with and tease me.
The irony was not lost on me.
Him: Wifey? Little woman?
Me: Only if you want me to remove your man parts. Painfully.
Him: Ouch. Okay... Your Majesty? Love Bug? Sweet Bumps?
Me: Sweet Bumps? For real?
Him: Okay, maybe not. But they -are-sweet. Your bumps, I mean.
Me: Definitely not Sweet Bumps.
To accept this man into my life, to love this man, was to take him in with his flaws and foibles as well as those qualities that made him the closest match to perfect for me. So, with no other choice, I turned my enemy--his phone--into my ally.
I sent him a headless shot of those very sweet bumps he'd been extolling.
He reprimanded me, as he usually did, whenever I sent him a naughty photo.
"Security lapses, blah blah. Not safe. Blah blah."
My fiance was a computer nerd. I'd take the risks because if I wasn't safe sending him dirty pictures, who was safe?
His answer--predictably--was no one.
He got back to the subject at hand a few hours later when I was in class.
Him: How about I call you Goddess?
Me: Getting warmer.
Him: What will you call me? I suggest Iron Man. I would answer to Iron Man.
Me: Hmmm...
Him: Or RoboCock.
My mouth was full of tea when that text chimed on my phone, hours later, during my study time. I almost sprayed the full contents of my mouth all over my phone screen and my open textbook.
Typical Adam. He'd probably sent that in the middle of some boring think tank meeting.
Me: Dude, No way am I calling you that.
Him: :( No?
Me: Nope...that one, you've got to earn.
Him: That's what our honeymoon is for.
A snappy answer to everything. No wonder we suited each other so well. Which reminded me of another ongoing object of conversation between us. The honeymoon.
Me: And we are going...where?
Him: It's still a surprise.
Me: You and your secrety secrets. You're sadistic.
Him: I definitely could be. I'm a billionaire with a troubled past. Isn't that the perfect recipe for sadistic?
I almost forgot to take his rolled-up t-shirt out of bed before he returned home. Every day, our housekeeper quietly made up the bed and tucked the shirt underneath my pillow. This made it all ready for cuddling purposes the following night. But damned if I was going to let Adam find it again. He didn't need any more ammunition to tease me with. He did perfectly fine without it.
That afternoon, when I got home from my virology module lab, I plopped down at my desk and stacked my notebooks on the corner. As I'd done every day since Adam had placed Glen Dempsey's large manila envelope there, I stared at it, wondering if this was the day I'd finally open it up and see what was inside. Would it hurt to look and see what kind of information my half-brother had gathered for me?
I wouldn't even have to read the personal letter, would I?
Fingers tapped against the sleek marble desktop. The chair squeaked as I fidgeted in it, speculating for the ten thousandth time about what was in there. What was I afraid of?
Ovary up, Mia. Time to be a big girl.
I sat up straight, snatched the envelope, and tore it open before I could fret for another second. The contents of the envelope made it fairly thick. I pulled them out and laid them in a neat stack beside my textbooks. I immediately took the letter, which lay at the top, and turned it facedown before poring over the rest of the stack in order.
It contained not only Glen's full medical chart, but also that of my father, Gerard. And there were also notes about my two half-sisters.
Under the law, Glen was free to share his own medical information with me. But how had he gotten Gerard's? I pondered that question only until I noticed Gerard's signature on the consent form for release of the medical chart. Glen's father--our father--must have finally consented to give it to me. What had changed his mind? When Mom had informed him of my cancer, he hadn't budged.
I frowned, scanning through the papers. For his age of sixty, Gerard was a fairly healthy man, with some history of diabetes and heart disease from his father's side of the family.
When I got to the bottom of the stack, I was stunned to see the results of full genetic testing on Glen--and that of his sisters--along with handwritten notes about what came from their mother and what from their father.
It was a massive amount of information that had probably taken him a great deal of time to collect, collate, and annotate. I knew Gerard's hadn't put this information was in my hands.
I was absorbing it all, tapping the stack of papers idly with the eraser tip of my pencil, when I heard the front door open and close downstairs. I set the papers down, laying them carefully so that I wouldn't lose my place. Then I sprang out of my chair.
Adam took the stairs at his normal breakneck speed, two at a time, and I met him in the hallway outside our bedroom. He dropped his luggage and pulled me into his arms.
"Sweet Bumps," he said after a long, lingering kiss.
I lost it, laughing. "Don't even start with me, Drake."
"I made you laugh, didn't I?" He scanned my face, as if taking in every inch for the very first time--from my forehead to my chin, from my left ear to my right. I pulled him into another fierce kiss. God. I'd missed him. "And she rewards me with another kiss. It's good to be the king."
"I thought you were Iron Man?"
"You can call me anything you want, just don't call me late to bed--or dinner."
I grinned--I couldn't help it. Adam had discovered the secret to keeping me head over heels in love--make me laugh every single day. "Speaking of which, Chef left dinner in the oven. You hungry?"
"Let's do it."
We caught up over plates of organic spaghetti squash in creamy pesto sauce with asparagus tips. I told him about the prep work I needed to do for my practicum the next day, and he told me about the latest drama with his IT department and its failing director, Alan. And all the crises he'd had to avert from four hundred miles away. "Are you going to fire him?" I asked, sipping from my glass
of sweet red wine.
He shrugged. "Alan has been with me since the beginning. Almost as long as Jordan. His life is a disaster, and that can happen to anyone. But I've decided to give him a timeline and some ultimatums. If he doesn't meet his deadlines, yes, he's gone."
"Isn't that up to the board of directors to decide, though? Can you make that type of decision without them?"
His features darkened, and he glanced away, taking his last bites and cleaning his plate. I frowned at him. Something was up. The way he clenched his jaw, the slight flush at his collar. He looked angry.
I pretended not to notice. I'd wheedle the truth out of him later, sure enough. "Well, I guess you could fire him. You fired Jordan, after all..."
"Did not. He quit when I refused to fire him."
"Meh. Jordan's a pain." I grinned. "Shoulda tried harder."
We both laughed.
"Guess what?" I asked, once my glass was empty.
His eyes were on the glass in my hand as he laid aside his fork and knife. "Hmm. Let's see...you want another glass of wine?"
"No."
"You are feeling super horny after that glass of wine?" His dark eyes danced with humor and, maybe, a little hope.
I stuck my tongue out at him. "You wish."
He smirked. "So what am I guessing, then?"
"I finally cracked open that envelope of Glen's."
He raised his eyebrows in surprise, and I recounted what was in it.
"And his letter? What did it say?"
"I haven't read it yet." I shook my head. "I was contemplating it when you walked in the door."
"Well, you should read it."
"Not now...you've been gone for four days."
He covered my hand with his, twining his larger fingers through mine. "It's not going to take you that long to read it. Aren't you the least bit curious about him?" He leaned toward me almost as if imploring me--as if my mom wasn't the only person sad that I had very little family. "Especially after looking at all the info he collected for you?"
I smiled. "Okay. You've finally talked some sense into me..."
We put our dishes away, and he followed me up the stairs and into my study. He plunked down on the couch under the window. I grabbed the letter off the desk and then plopped down beside him. He settled an arm along the back of the couch, and I leaned into his shoulder.
"You ready?" he asked.
"Yeah...give me a sec."
He rested his head against the cushion and stared up at the ceiling to allow me privacy while I read the letter. With not the steadiest of hands, I held it up and read.
Hi Mia,
This is probably the most awkward letter I've ever written, especially considering it should have started with the sentence: "I'm your brother. Nice to meet you via this letter." I'm not sure what is going through your mind right now, but I've had a chance to speak with your mother about you, so I think I can guess.
First, let me say, most importantly, that I am not my father. And I strongly feel that he has not done right by you, and this knowledge saddens me. But this note is not about him. I'd be glad to answer any questions you may have about him should you ever decide to meet with me in person. But he is not the reason I'm writing to you, beyond the fact that we are related to each other through him.
I have a sincere desire to meet you and a concern for your welfare. I know that you are in remission from cancer. I can't even imagine what going through that must have been like, but I can empathize, especially at your young age. I'm pained to learn of all the challenges you've had to overcome.
In the interest of keeping this brief, let me close with this... I would love to get to know you better, but I also realize that you may not be ready for this step in your life. That is completely understandable. You may reach out at any time you want to. Don't do it because your mom wants you to or because I'd like you to. Do it for yourself only.
I wish you nothing but happiness, great health, and success in all of your endeavors.
From your older brother,
Glen Dempsey
With a long sigh, I handed the letter to Adam, and he read it at his typical breakneck speed.
When he was done, he looked up, black eyes revealing nothing. "So what do you think?"
I shrugged. "First impression? He seems like a nice guy."
He tilted his head, watching me while also indicating in his subtle way that he agreed with my conclusion.
"And it seems like he really wants to meet me."
"Yeah. Are you going to?"
I shrugged. "I guess I have decide if I really want to. Maybe?"
Adam nodded and handed the letter to me.
I skimmed it again. "I could email him for now...to thank him for the files and the trouble he took to get all that together. Thanks to that, I probably know more about my father's medical background than most people who grew up knowing their father."
"Yes, the biological sperm donor is no longer a mystery." Then his voice died out into a long pause. He cleared his throat and shifted on the couch to face me. "Did you...did you find any cancer history on his side?"
He asked the question so quietly. So calmly. With a practiced nonchalance that I knew was his typical mask behind which he hid a certain level of anxiety--in particular, about this subject.
"No cancer that I could see."
He nodded, face still blank. "Anything else to worry about?"
"Only the same things that afflict much of the American population. Diabetes. Heart disease, all that fun stuff."
He frowned briefly before getting up and moving to the folder on the desk. "Mind if I have a look?"
"It's fascinating reading," I said drily.
He shrugged self-consciously. "I'll have it back to you shortly."
I wondered what he was going to do with it--beside commit it to his photographic memory. As I sat down at my laptop to compose a quick email to Glen, I thought about Adam's sober behavior when it came to my health history.
Of course, it made sense. Sometimes when we referred to that dark year--the year I'd gotten cancer and then barely survived cancer's even lovelier cure--it was in hushed tones. And we almost never discussed the terrible loss we'd endured in order to get that far.
It had taken its toll on both of us. And in some ways, we had our own form of post-traumatic stress disorder from it. Thus, the regular but thinly disguised breast exams in the shower and the subtle but not-so-subtle questions about how I was feeling. The fact that his assistant had been instructed to make my doctor's appointments on the first day a follow-up appointment was due. Thanks to Maggie, I never missed an appointment.
As usual, Adam was taking control or grasping to the illusion that he had some modicum of it where this issue was concerned. But we both knew damn well that we didn't have control. We could be diligent and vigilant. But there were no guarantees. And the heavy, sick feeling in the pit of my stomach told me that my health issues had caused this uneasiness in him. But when you loved someone, you took all of their baggage on. And some of my baggage was health related. So be it. In sickness and in health...
I gazed out the door where Adam had disappeared with the papers. And I opened my laptop and composed an email response to Glenn Dempsey.
***
"Is there such a thing as a Groomzilla?" I asked the young women sitting at the table with me--April, Jenna, Alex, and Kat. We had met at a nearby hotel for Sunday brunch to discuss the details of my bridal shower that they insisted on organizing for me. The girls had all dressed in Sunday best, far outshining the bride, who hadn't read the memo and showed up in jeans, a sweater, and heels instead. My bad.
"Yeah. Groomzillas are the opposite of Bridezillas," Alex said. "My big brother was like that when he got married--a typical big Mexican Catholic wedding. Groomzillas act chill and don't want to hear anything about the details of the wedding and then veto things days before and make it all about them."
I frowned. "Oh." I pushed tropical fruit sprinkled with
shredded coconut around on the plate in front of me. That definitely didn't sound like whatever it was Adam had. In the days since he'd returned from his trip, I'd been privy to a flurry of emails that were cc'd to me. They whizzed back and forth between Adam and our wedding planner as they worked out the most minute details.
I read most of the emails when I could keep up. Seriously, when did he have the time for them? I'd fallen behind on reading the news and then all had grown silent. I'd assumed that meant they'd finalized those details and we were all set--until I overheard Adam on the phone talking to her and referring to the most recent emails, emails which I'd most definitely not seen. With no small amount of shock, I realized then that I'd been kicked off the email loop and Adam only consulted me on things he couldn't do without me. Like deciding on the dude of honor's outfit, for example.
"Your hubby-to-be has a type A personality," April pointed out, sipping from her tall, skinny mimosa glass.
"No shit, Sherlock," snorted Kat as she signaled for the waitress to bring her third mimosa. "Calling Adam a type A is like saying water is wet."
April shrugged. "I mean that it's natural that he'd take this over. Think of it like he's the CEO of your wedding. And you're the chairman of the board of directors."
I raised my brow, feeling a woozy from my one and only Bloody Mary. "So that makes me the boss, right?"
April grinned widely. "Of course. He probably realizes you've got a lot going on with your big medical board test and wants to make it easier on you. Consider yourself lucky. Jordan won't even say the M-word in my presence. Not that he has to worry about me jumping on it. That boy. Sometimes..." She shook her head.
"Sometimes you want to punch him in the face?" I laughed. "Me, too." April's smile faltered, and she studied my empty cocktail glass. I pointed to it, following her lead. "Totally the alcohol talking. I don't really want to punch Jordan in the face." Most of the time, anyway.
"Don't hurt his face, Mia. It's too pretty." Her smile returned.
A few minutes later, I excused myself to go to the bathroom and caught April's eye with a nod.
"When you're finished in there, we are totally going to talk about the bridal shower," Jenna said. "Totally. Soon as the mimosas wear off."
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