I peeked up to be sure she was gone. “I don’t care about that. That’s not why I’m upset. It was a dick move on your part, yeah. But I’m upset and sad and angry because I don’t want to think about you dying. And I feel like everything I’m doing is... wrong. I should have asked you about this stuff a long time ago, so you didn’t have to go through planning it alone.”
“I wanted to go through it alone.” He looked down his straight, handsome nose at me, a spark of pride I hadn’t seen in him in a long while fighting its way back. “You know how much I like to control things. Do you honestly believe I would be comfortable co-planning my funeral?”
I laughed. I couldn’t help it.
“Darling, believe me. You have been more of a help to me than... well, I don’t know. I haven’t a bar to measure it by. But I do know that if I had gone through all of this by myself, if you hadn’t volunteered to come with me and entirely uproot your life to be by my side... I’m not sure I would have made it this far.”
Just when I thought I might start bawling again, he hooked a finger under my chin, tilting my face up. “We got through the induction chemotherapy. We’ll get through this next bit, as well. And in a year, we’re going to look back on this and be grateful for what an easy time I had of it.”
That was true. He’d had a very easy time, even if he’d been sick and miserable throughout. No infections, no hospitalizations, and remission within three months. There was no reason to believe the transplant process wouldn’t go just as well.
“Let’s go back outside. Let’s enjoy our cold burgers,” he suggested with a chuckle, and I smiled.
“I’m sorry. The stress is... getting to me,” I said, wiping my eyes.
“Well, I happen to know a very good method for eliminating stress,” he said with a lascivious arch of a brow.
“I’m sorry for eavesdropping,” Emma called loudly from around the corner. “I really am leaving this time. Believe me that was entirely its own punishment.”
And then I couldn’t stay sad. Because Emma was too damn funny.
When I’d emailed India Vaughn about my book idea, I’d expected her to respond by telling me to stick to my strengths and keep working on makeup videos. I was earning decent ad revenue from those, so I was fully prepared not to argue with her. When she emailed back two days later to ask to read what I already had written, I thought she was just being nice. When she emailed again to ask when I could take a phone call, I felt like I knew what was coming.
“Sophie!” she effused over the line, enthusiastic but clearly tired. It was seven in the evening where she was, and the beauty department almost always worked late. “How have you been? You’re sure it’s not too late?”
“Not at all. I don’t get regular sleep lately,” I laughed. It was eleven in London. Neil was in the den, waiting for me to come in and get up to some porn watching naughtiness with him. But India didn’t need to know that my lack of sleep was due to Neil trying to stock up on sex in anticipation of the difficult months ahead.
“I’m sure you don’t, poor thing.” She sighed. “I don’t like Neil Elwood, but I wouldn’t wish cancer on my very worst enemy.”
“It’s really awful.” There wasn’t much else to say on that subject. She’d already seen thirty-four pages of it.
“Well, since it is so late there, I won’t keep you long. I looked over those pages you sent me, and I think they are absolutely fantastic. But—”
Ah, there was the but.
“I didn’t want to send it on to anyone until I had your permission.”
Send it on to someone? Wait, what?
“You see, the thing is...” she paused. “Well, to put it bluntly, is Neil Elwood going to want this book to be published by an Elwood and Stern company?”
“Oh. I hadn’t thought about that.” I didn’t think it would ever wash with Valerie. She’d been justifying her hatred of me with the fact that I was some sneaky, office espionage sabotage wizard.
“It seems unlikely to me that he would allow you to publish a memoir that will make money for the competition,” India pointed out. “Even if you no longer work for Porteras.”
“Wait a second, slow down.” I laughed, feeling suddenly light headed. “I was sort of expecting this call to go differently.”
“Differently how?” she asked patiently.
“You know. Differently. Like, I thought you would tell me that I’m an okay writer, but I should stick to fashion. Now you’re offering to send it somewhere for me?” I hurried to add, “Not that I’m not extremely grateful to you. I’m just... not prepared. The book isn’t even finished yet.”