“I do.” He sat up and reached for his glasses on the nightstand. “Look, I’ll be having chemotherapy tomorrow, or I won’t. Either way, would you like to go out to dinner tonight? It is my birthday, after all.”
“Of course.” I smiled brightly. Please, please let this be about remission. Please don’t let him be disappointed today.
“It’s either very good news, or just good news,” Neil said quietly as we waited in the chairs in front of Dr. Grant’s desk. “He said it was nothing to worry about.”
I took Neil’s hand in mine and squeezed it.
The nurse had led us to Dr. Grant’s office and told us he would be in presently, just like every time we’d been in to see him. But today it felt like drawn out reality show bullshit.
“Mr. Elwood, Ms. Scaife,” the doctor said as he stepped into the room. We both rose to shake his hand over his desk. Then Dr. Grant sat down and turned to his computer.
“Dr. Grant, very good to see you again,” Neil said pleasantly, though his entire body was tensed as though he would leap up and push the doctor out of the way.
“And very good to see you again. You’re looking very well,” the doctor said approvingly. “Your platelet counts were very promising in your last test, which is why I wanted your... bone... marrow...”
His voice trailed off as he read the screen.
I thought I could hear a drumroll in the back of my head. I almost screamed to break the brief silence as Dr. Grant looked down his nose at the computer.
“They didn’t find any blast clusters...” Dr. Grant made a “huh” noise and turned back to us. He looked pleased. Yes. This was positive. Dr. Grant had no bedside manner, so he wasn’t putting on a show. “I think we’re in a good place to go forward with stem cell collection.”
The air went out of the room. I didn’t dare to hope. Neil didn’t, either, I could tell from his shocked expression. “Are you saying...”
“Happy birthday, Mr. Elwood,” Dr. Grant said with a satisfied smile. “You’re either in remission, or damned close.”
A uniformed sommelier popped the cork on a bottle of champagne with a professional flourish. I clapped politely and beamed at Neil. He looked like himself again, and better than he had in months. Than since New York, I realized, startled.
Neil was going to have his transplant. From all the stories I’d read online, and everything Josh had told me, Neil was having this whole cancer thing incredibly easy. Some people took cycle after cycle of chemotherapy just to get to the point that they could even begin discussing a transplant. So we weren’t just celebrating Neil’s birthday; we were celebrating a near miracle.
The sommelier poured champagne into my flute, then into Neil’s, and told us to enjoy.
Neil raised his glass. Tonight, he’d worn a dark blue jacket over a white shirt. He looked really great, even with a bald head; it was very Jason Statham on him. I’d almost forgotten what Neil looked like in anything other than a bathrobe. Seeing him wear normal clothing all day was a shock to the system.
“To the end of chemotherapy,” he said with a broad smile. “I am so, so happy to be done with it for now.”
That “for now” would be over sooner than either of us wanted, but it didn’t matter. His cancer wouldn’t stay in remission forever, and the transplant process was going to move fast. But we had a glorious month of no chemotherapy, no puking, no late night sweating through his clothes or searing body pain.
“And to your birthday,” I reminded him. “Forty-nine, practically out to pasture.”
“Jest all you like, I’m thrilled to be forty-nine. It means I’m still alive.” We clinked glasses together.
“To the hottest forty-nine year old I know,” I purred at him over the rim of my flute and took a sip.
He smiled fondly. “You look beyond beautiful tonight. Your dress has been noted.”
I smoothed down the front of the black chiffon dress he’d bought me in France. I was easily the least clothed person in the restaurant, but I didn’t care. I hadn’t worn it for the other diners.
The place Neil had chosen was super fancy. As in, there were no prices on the menu or any signage out front to declare it was a restaurant. Just a little brass plaque beside the door. The light was low and the tables were spaced perfectly for intimate conversation. It was incredibly romantic, and I was surprised at how much I had missed doing normal couple things together.
It would also give us a chance to catch up on stuff. I hadn’t been bothering him with all my problems and daily bullshit, unless it was somewhat positive. We’d had enough troubles. But I could at least let him know what was going on with me.