The Girlfriend (The Boss 2)

“You’re not giving it up. You’re just putting it on pause,” I said gently. I wound my arms around him and leaned my head against his back. “I know you want to be done with all of this. But you’re working toward something here. You want to be able to dance with your daughter at her wedding, right?”

“I’d rather dance with her at somebody else’s wedding,” he muttered.

“I’ll still be here when you un-pause.” I didn’t know if that was his concern, but I needed to reassure him, for my own sake. “Besides, after last night, I kind of need a few months off.”

He blushed, but his smile was one of pure, unabashed male ego.

“How about when you come home, we have a night where we just relax and watch TV and smoke dope?” Busting his stress was priority number one. He’d gotten through the induction phase without too much trouble, but I knew high dose was going to be a completely different ballpark.

“Just the two of us?” he asked hopefully. “Without Emma and horrible Michael?”

“If that’s what you want, I will tell them to scram and she can blame it all on me,” I promised.

“Mr. Elwood?” a voice asked through the curtain.

“Yes, come in, I’m all trussed up,” Neil grumbled, pulling back the blankets on the bed. As he climbed under the covers and got comfortable, the curtain rings jingled and in stepped the most adorable little redheaded nurse. She looked like a sexier, grown-up version of Strawberry Shortcake, with her glossy hair pulled back in a bun. A smattering of freckles dusted across her nose and cheeks, and she smiled a perfect, white-toothed smile at us as she entered.

I smirked at Neil and raised an eyebrow, silently daring him to continue with his complaints. He was insanely attracted to redheads, to the point of fetishization. This woman was like the embodiment of his horniest fantasies. His mood had to improve now.

“I’m Anna. I’ll be your nurse today. Probably all day, at least until seven,” she said, reaching out to shake Neil’s hand, then mine. She looked between the two of us. “Do you have any questions or concerns Dr. Grant didn’t address?”

“No, he was quite thorough.” Neil looked to me. “Sophie?”

“Um.” God, I hated asking these questions right in front of him, when he was the person who had to go through it, but I knew whatever I was imagining would be ten times worse than the reality. “I just want to know that he’s not going to be too miserable.”

“It’s going to be unpleasant,” Anna said gently. “But we’ll try our best to keep him comfortable. The most noticeable side effect today will be the nausea and possibly some abdominal discomfort. Did you have a mouth care routine for induction chemotherapy?”

“I did, but it wasn’t very effective. I still had horrible sores,” he noted bitterly. “I suppose I can expect more of the same?”

“It’s very likely, but those won’t develop for a few days. We’ll be pushing a lot of fluids, in the hopes of keeping you hydrated.” She went to the cupboard and took out the dreaded “hat,” a small bucket that slipped between the toilet bowl and seat to catch and measure urine.

When Neil had been ordered to use one at home during the last cycle of chemo, he’d reacted as though it were a gross invasion of privacy on the scale of having a reality television crew follow him day and night. He made a face now, but he didn’t argue.

I stayed with Neil while they hooked him onto the drugs, and I lay beside him in his bed, dozing with him, our fingers laced together.

“We’ve done this before,” he said sleepily. “Remember? The first time?”

“I do.” I squeezed his hand and opened one eye. The bag on the IV pole was about half empty. “And we got through that okay.”

Just a few minutes later, he stiffened beside me and managed to say, “I need,” before he had to close his mouth, retching.

I sat up and grabbed the basin from the table beside the bed, and held it for him while he vomited what appeared to be the contents of everyone in London’s breakfasts.

“Oh, you can’t be serious,” he groaned, grasping the bedrail to steady himself as he heaved again.

The only thing worse than puking is watching someone else puke and knowing you’re going to do the same. I was a naturally queasy person, anyway, and I hadn’t gotten any better since he’d started treatment. I closed my eyes and looked away, and hoped I didn’t accidentally move the basin. With my other hand, I groped for the call button.

“We have a barf situation,” I told the nurse who answered over the intercom. Then I reached over and rubbed Neil’s back while he hung his head, drooling and exhausted.