Chapter 4: Terms

"I do," I said.

Gavin did not move.

A nurse walked between us with a cart, and the wheels squeaked on the tile.

"Say it properly," he said.

I looked at the sign above his head.

"I have a tumor in my pancreas. It's inoperable. They gave me less than three months."

He took a breath, but it did not seem to reach his chest.

"When?"

"Two days ago."

"The day before the hospital."

"Yes."

"The day before I stood in that corridor," Gavin said slowly, "and told you to let her keep one room."

I said nothing.

He put his hand over his mouth, then took it away.

"Is that why you signed everything over?"

"It's part of why."

"Is that why you hammered the wall?"

"No," I said. "That was just anger."

For the first time in three years, he almost smiled, and it was the worst thing I had seen all week.

"Outside," he said. "Not here."

We walked to the parking garage.

He did not touch me, and I was grateful, and I was sorry.

His car sat on the third level.

He leaned against the driver's door and stared at a concrete pillar.

"I said something unforgivable to you," Gavin said.

"You said what you believed."

"That's worse."

"Yes," I agreed.

He turned to face me.

Under the gray light, I saw how tired he was. He had been up since the clinic's call and had slept little the night before that.

"I want a second opinion," he said. "My friend runs the cancer center at Mercy General. I'll call him now."

"No."

"Cassandra."

"I've had a first opinion and a scan and a very kind doctor. I don't want a second one."

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