She goes to the kitchen, and I’m having trouble getting my head straight. On the one hand, Melissa and I really did have our good times together. There were a lot of things that I wasn’t willing to live with anymore, the affair with her boss first and foremost on that list, but there’s a lot to miss.
She comes back with two shot glasses and a smile. “I know you’re not sold on it yet, but I really think this is going to be the best thing for both of us,” she says, pouring the drinks.
I don’t know, maybe she’s right. Maybe we both just lost sight of what made us work in the first place, and maybe that’s something we can fix.
I just wish Grace would return my phone calls.
Chapter Nineteen
Swan Song
Grace
Back in the chemo suite for the last day of getting pumped with liquid death: this is my bargaining chip.
The one thing that people love more than a deal that brings in a lot of money is a deal that gives them a lot of good press and makes them look like a Good Samaritan while still making some money. That’s my hope, anyway, even though I have no reason to believe in the veracity of the theory.
The truth is that the biggest bankroll will win 99 out of 100 times. The other time, someone’s got their feet to the fire.
The doctor comes in and checks my bag. It’s about empty, but he tells me it’ll be a few more minutes.
My phone rings, and I’m slow to answer it. Right now, everything’s kind of slowed down.
“This is Grace Miller,” I answer.
“Did I get this address right?” Andrew asks. “I’m out in front of a hospital.”
“Yeah,” I tell him. “My assistant Margaret should be waiting for you in the main lobby.”
“Why are we
meeting in a hospital?”
“I had a previous engagement that I couldn’t get out of.”
He knows I’m sick, so he must know what I’m planning to do. Still, he comes up to the room. When he walks in, his face tightens as he tries to override any natural reaction he may have and replace it with a smile.
“Grace,” he says, “it’s good to finally meet you face-to-face.”
“It’s good to meet you, too,” I tell him, extending the hand at the end of the arm with the needle sticking out of it.
Gingerly, Andrew shakes my hand. “I’ve got to tell you,” he says, “right now, the boss is thinking of going with one of your competitors.”
“I’m sure he is,” I tell him. “I forget, your last name is Evans, isn’t it?”
“Yeah,” he says, looking around at the other patients in their own recliners in the chemo suite. “Look, I don’t want to be the bearer of bad news, but-”
“Andrew,” I tell him, “you and I have a bit of history, don’t we?”
“I guess.”
“You guess,” I scoff. “We’ve been talking for almost a year.”
“Yeah, but to be honest with you, I never really thought you’d make an offer. Speaking of which,” he says, “what is it?”
“I’m sorry, what is what?” I ask, playing the only card I have.
“What is your offer?” he asks, looking at the silver bag of chemo hooked to the other end of the tube, supplying my bloodstream with the drug.