"I think it happened once."
My laugh breaks up the tension in my shoulders, but it's short lived. By the time I turn onto the freeway, it's back.
Dean is good at distracting me, but there's nothing distracting enough to block this from my mind.
It's a routine test.
It's going to be okay.
It's not a big deal.
I repeat the words over and over, but they do nothing to make it to my brain.
Still. I need to focus enough to drive to the damn hospital. It would be the worst kind of irony if I died in a car crash on the way to a test that's going to tell me I'm perfectly healthy.
I don't believe in much, not anymore, but I do believe in the universe's love of irony.
"You are kidding, right?" I ask.
"What do you think?"
"I'm never sure with you."
"Yeah. I told them I have a cold. That I don't want to spread it."
"Oh."
"I can call back and confess the truth."
"No. I don't want anyone to know—"
"That we're fucking?"
"That I was ever sick. People look at me differently. With pity in their eyes."
"I can see that."
"I hate it." Traffic is light. Blue sky and two-story houses whiz by the windows. Picture perfect Southern California. "I hate when people tell me I must be so strong or brave to make it through that. Like it's a character fault to have a terminal illness. My mom was strong. I wasn't. I was lucky."
"Not sure I agree with that, sunshine."
"Huh?" My eyes go to him. There's pride in his expression. It's weird, but not bad. Not even a little bad.
"It takes strength to get through that."
"Maybe."
"And it was fucking brave, telling me."
My eyes go back to the road. "I told you because I was scared. Not in spite of it."
"You have a higher opinion of me than I do."
"Maybe." The tall buildings of Century City whiz by the windows. Glass and steel against the blue sky. "You haven't looked at me with pity once."
"I don't pity you."
"I know." My fingers curl into the steering wheel. "That may not mean a lot to you, but it means a hell of a lot to me."