Don't Hold Back (Love Hurts 4)

She laughs, her eyes glowing. “I bet it felt really fucking good when you realised, though, right?”

She has me there. I’m counting down the minutes until I can pass out in my king-sized bed. “Are you hungry?” I ask.

She makes a face. “Not really, but I should eat something. What do you fancy?”

“We’re in Italy, so I think the only logical option is pizza,” I reply.

“Suits me.” She grins.

We make our way up and down the laneways of Rome, searching for a place to eat. It doesn’t take long until I have no idea where we are. Just as I’m about to pull out Google Maps, I spot a little pizza café.

“Over there,” I say, leading her across the road.

We sit down outside. It’s a cool night, and way too pretty not to make the most of being outside in the centre of Rome on a Sunday evening. People rush past us, on foot, in cars, and on bikes. It’s like everyone is in a hurry to be somewhere and we’re just sitting here taking it all in.

“It’s so different, isn’t it?”

I smile and glance at the row of lone diners, eating in the window of the café like they’re on display. “Totally.”

“I love watching people, wondering what they’re thinking. What their story is.” She points to a man getting out of a taxi, narrowing her eyes thoughtfully. “Like that guy. I bet he’s seeing his mistress up there.” She nods to the hotel across from him. I’m about to argue when he glances around him before disappearing into the hotel.

“How did you do that?” I chuckle.

She shrugs. “I’m good at reading people. When I was little, all I wanted to do was be a psychologist.” She thinks for a second. “Well, once I got the whole fighter pilot idea out of my head.”

“I can see you as a psychologist.” I grin. “And a fighter pilot, for that matter. What happened? Did you lose interest?”

“I got sick,” she replies.

“What is it that you have?” I ask. I’m hesitant to ask questions because I don’t know how she feels about talking about it; but the wannabe doctor in me needs to know.

“I was diagnosed with glioblastoma. It’s wrapped around my brain stem, which means it’s fast growing,” she says quietly.

I vaguely remember studying them in my neuroscience module last year. They’re very aggressive and hard to treat, with surgery often being the only option—when they are operable.

“What stage?” I ask.

She looks surprised. “Stage four, so not good.”

“Who is your surgeon?” I ask.

“Professor Daniel Martin.” She eyes me curiously. “What is this, Sale of the Century? Why all the interest?”

“My dad is a surgeon. I thought maybe I’d heard of him.” I’m slightly guarded in my response, as I always am when I’m talking about my father—the same man who I haven’t spoken to in weeks. Hell, he didn’t even call me on my birthday last year, so it’s no wonder I approach any subject involving him with caution. “And aren’t you a little young for Sale of the Century? Were you even, like, born then?” I tease.

“So, your dad. He’s a brain surgeon?” she asks with interest, ignoring my jibe.

“Heart,” I reply. “One of the best, so he keeps telling me.”

“You never wanted to follow in his footsteps?” she asks.

I smile wryly. “I like to avoid his footsteps as much as possible. Seriously though, medicine is something I’d love to do, but it’s not in the cards at the moment.”

Telling her about medical school means opening up to her on levels I’m not ready to, like how I ended up in this mess in the first place. I pick up the menu, hoping she takes the hint that the conversation is over. She does, and scans her own menu.

“Do you have many symptoms?” I ask her. I’m conflicted in not wanting to talk about me, but wanting to know more about her illness.

“I get loads of headaches. Sometimes I get blurry vision. I’ve had moments where I find myself unable to move, which is scary, but that’s never lasted more than a couple of hours.” She puts her menu down.