Doctor-Patient Confidentiality: New Adult Enemies-to-Lovers Romance

Chapter Seventy-One

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I walk into my apartment, feeling my shoulders slump of their own accord as I step over the threshold, my arms limp and strangely heavy, as though I have the world's largest bowling balls stuck on each of my fingertips. My bag's strap digs almost painfully into my skin through my coat, feeling heavier than I ever remember it being even though there's not a whole lot in it. I am inexplicably tired, worn out, exhausted, drained, and just plain out of it. It's almost numbing, actually; to feel so tired and empty that you start to not even feel anything after a while.

I close the door behind me, turning the lock with a blank stare on my face, my body on autopilot, just going through the motions. I absently shrug my bag off my shoulder, the long strap sliding off my arm and falling to the floor with a sharp thud, echoing through the apartment. My keys follow suit, hitting the ground with an obnoxious jingle, laying carelessly beside the equally abandoned bag. But I don't care about them right now, even though they are the objects that give me access to every material thing I own on this Earth.

I also don't care that my hair is a complete mess because I couldn't even bring myself to brush it this morning, or that my nose is stuffy from the crap weather, or that my shoulder still hurts from the strap biting into it.

I slip my boots off with just my feet, something I have come to do with ease after many years of practice, so I don't even think about it now. One minute they're on, and the next, they're off. But I don't move forward after that. I don't move at all. I don't bother to switch the lights on. It's extremely rare for me to be home so early, so much that I almost forgot what my apartment looks like during the day. It's almost five, and the sun is setting, leaving only its reddish-purple remnants behind as it departs from the skyline, its rays slowly dwindling to give way for the fast approaching darkness of winter. A few stubborn rays make it through my blinders, deflecting their way through the window and scattering haphazardly throughout the living room, illuminating random spots and spaces on the walls, ceiling, and floor.

For some unknown stretch of time, I just stand there, looking at my apartment. It's as if I'm seeing it for the first time, or seeing it through a new pair of eyes; eyes that aren't tired or worn out or swollen and puffy from crying and chronic stress. My eyes scan the small, cramped space from behind my glasses, slowly roaming over everything, taking their time to observe the place I've called home for the last two years in a way that they haven't before.

The first thing they land on are the walls. They're your typical generic white apartment walls, but when I look more closely, they seem more beige and even cream from certain angles. I've never noticed that before. Then again, I've never really taken the time to, either. My eyes travel to the partition that separates the kitchen from the rest of the living space. It looks like it's made of granite, but it's not. Just some cheap look-a-like material, but I don't care that it's not the real thing. It's still nice to look at, especially when the apartment is tidy—which it clearly hasn't been in an eternity—but then again, that's another thing I can't be bothered to care about right now. There are music books on the makeshift dining table and couch, dated vinyl records in a box in one of the corners collecting lint and dust, and random score sheets scattered over the counter and floor. My eyes move to the little plastic piano decoration thingy I thought was cute once upon a time, the tiny ornament sitting awkwardly on our little television that's hardly ever on because neither I or Allison are hardly ever home for long periods of time, unless it's to sleep or study. My eyes roam some more, spotting some other random items—mostly mundane and boring stuff that I'd never really paid attention to before—and a few prized possessions which I absolutely love, even though they probably look like a step above junk to most people.

I continue to stare blankly at everything; everything I own, everything I don't, everything I've bought and used and touched and smelled and sat in and walked on and eaten out of. All these seemingly mundane and trivial things that have helped me in one way or another time and time again. And I realize with a heavy sense of morbidity that I may never see them again. Any of them.

I idly think back to when I first moved into the apartment. I'd been so happy, so excited to finally have a place I could call my own for the very first time in my life. But just as soon as my excitement surfaced, a dampening melancholy took its place as I stood in the very spot I stand in now, thinking of how I'd always imagined that my mom and dad would have been there for this small but significant milestone in my life. That they would have been right there with me through everything the way other parents are with their college kids, offering their guidance and moral support as I took on new responsibilities and made those decisions that come with living independently. That it would have been my dad and I who rented a U-haul truck and gone to Home Depot for paint and other home furnishing supplies instead of me trying to move everything I owned in my busted Polo across town several times. That my mother and I would have gone decor and furniture shopping at the little antique stores she loved to frequent instead of me trying to move a couch from across a dumpster that someone decided they no longer wanted. I'd always imagined that they'd be right there with me during all those moments. That we'd create and share those memories. Together. As a family. But that didn't happen. None of it did. I was alone. I had to do all those things by myself, and I had to be okay with that. Still, when it was said and done, none of it felt all that good. Not a single minute of my move was special the way I had always pictured it would be as a teenager and well into my freshman year...and even up until right before my mother lost her life to cancer.

I feel the sudden burn of unshed tears, hot and stinging behind my glasses as I recall glimpses of my past. And as if on cue, my mind reluctantly drifts back to yesterday, picking up from when Trixie had interrupted.

I sat for almost another hour in a recovery room, unsure of what I was waiting for, but one of the nurses kept telling me Frost wanted me to stay at the center and wait. So I did, just thinking it was part of the procedure. But then when he finally came into the room, he had this...this look on his face, and I knew right then that something was wrong. I just didn't know how wrong until he finally confirmed my horrible gut feeling.

My hand instinctively goes to my stomach, my fingers spreading themselves over as much of my abdomen as they can cover, feeling lightly toned flesh beneath the barrier of my cotton T-shirt as my eyes drift closed again. Frost's image fills my mind instantly, and my whole body goes rigid just as quickly, remembering his voice as he looked me in the eyes, its usual edgy depth somewhat strained when that single, shattering word fell from his lips.

Tumor.

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