Mia stares at him with a cocky little grin. “I got her to get a tattoo. I’m sure I could get her in one of those. She just needs to be nice and sauced up first.”
Levi spins toward me, the shock evident on his face. “You got a tattoo?” he asks incredulously, his eyebrows pushing into his hairline.
I smile around the rim of my glass. See? People would never expect that from me, which makes me incredibly happy. This is how I want to live my life.
“I did,” I answer, matter of fact. “It was on my bucket list and I checked it off.”
“And,” Mia adds, “she didn’t even cry.”
“Nope. Not a tear.”
“I don’t believe you,” Levi says skeptically. “It’s not one of those fake tattoos, is it?”
“No,” I laugh. “It’s real. Want to see it?”
“Actually, yes, I do.”
“Okay, well—” I reach for the hem of my shirt and raise it slightly, pretending that I’m going to lift it over my head. Of course I’m not going to, but he doesn’t know that.
“Hell no!” Mia snaps. “I didn’t get to see the tattoo, but you’re going to show him?”
“Whoa . . .” Le
vi reaches for my hands and tugs them away from my shirt, all the while looking around to make sure no one else saw. “What are you doing?”
“I was going to show you my tattoo.”
“Not cool,” Mia mumbles under her breath. “Sisters before misters.”
“And you have to take your shirt off to do it?” Levi asks, completely ignoring Mia.
“Yup. Probably my bra too.” Levi’s eyes blaze hot with lust and I can’t help but smile. He’s always been a boob man, and that’s probably what he’s picturing right now. “Another time?” I ask sweetly, resting my hand on his arm. Something in him relaxes, I can almost see it. It’s like he has this wall up and I just knocked a few bricks off the top. His eyes dance with a playful familiarity as he watches me.
“Another time,” he says, his voice low and rough. He reaches for his beer that Tatum had placed on the bar earlier. “You ladies enjoy your evening. I’m going to go talk to some friends. Mia, it was a pleasure meeting you.” Levi flashes both of us one last smile and Mia looks at me with a twinkle in her eye.
“He’s fantastic. And I’m guessing by that goofy-ass grin on your face that whatever just happened here made your entire night.”
“It made my entire week,” I answer, thankful that Mia convinced me to come out tonight.
BAKING POWDER . . . BAKING POWDER . . . you’ve got to be around here somewhere. Aha! There you are. Pulling the box from the shelf, I measure out two teaspoons and pour the essential ingredient into the bowl along with the flour, shortening and salt. I stir in warm water and mix the dough until it’s nice and smooth, then cover the bowl and let it sit. But there’s no time for me to sit, because if I sit then I think. I’ve done a lot of thinking already and frankly, my brain hurts. There is only so much information one brain can or should process in one day and I’ve hit my limit . . . and then some.
Quickly, I move through the kitchen, pulling out more ingredients. The dough has to sit for twenty minutes, which is more than enough time to start making something else. I set the timer and get to work.
This is how I deal with things. I cook, or bake, it doesn’t really matter which as long as it involves me in a kitchen. And after the day I’ve had, I needed a big kitchen in a big way and mine at home wasn’t going to cut it. I spent nearly the entire afternoon at the treatment center with my doctor and a few dozen nurses, who instructed, poked, prodded and hauled me from room to room until they were certain I had every piece of knowledge I needed to proceed with my treatments. Dr. Hopkins was nice but overly cheery, and there were several times that I wanted to slap the smile right off of her face. Didn’t she know what I was going through? Didn’t she understand the storm that was raging inside of me while she spoke of labs, scans, tests, appointments, side effects and every other medical thing she could throw in there? Shouldn’t she have known that while she was talking about tissue, staging, blood cells, and hair loss, I was thinking about one thing and one thing only?
Surviving.
“Laney, I’ve spoken to your oncologist and your surgeon from California. I know that they’ve both talked with you in great detail about your diagnosis and the treatment plan that would ensue after your mastectomy, but I just want to start by recapping so that you and I are both on the same page.”
Dr. Hopkins is sitting in front of me with a file, which I assume is mine. It’s thick, and when she flips it open I see the words written in bold lettering at the top of the page.
Name: Laney Jacobs
Diagnosis: Stage III Invasive Ductal Carcinoma
My eyes linger on the page, but I’m not reading anything. There isn’t anything in that file that I haven’t already been told, and it all really boils down to one thing.
I have breast cancer.