Total pages in book: 123
Estimated words: 117601 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 588(@200wpm)___ 470(@250wpm)___ 392(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 117601 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 588(@200wpm)___ 470(@250wpm)___ 392(@300wpm)
Proportions. Dom’s got them in spades. I now understand why he is in a choir and a book club and does CrossFit and goes to the movies twice a week. He knows better than anyone how fragile life is.
“Don’t expect the world to be fair. It’s a lost battle. What you’re doing is amazing. The way you help those kids . . . I mean, I don’t know why anyone would put themselves through this, but I’m glad the world has Doms in it,” I say.
He finishes the burger in three bites before washing it down with the milkshake. The color is back to his cheeks. He still looks sad, but not sickly anymore.
“Yeah, well, I didn’t really have a choice.” He grimaces.
“What do you mean?”
He grabs the wrappers and disposes of them in a nearby trash can. It gives me time to admire his body in the scrubs. I know I shouldn’t. I know it’s not the time. But I can’t help but feel a pang of desire when I think about what’s under his uniform. Then he’s back next to me, ready to tell his story.
“When I was five years old, I was diagnosed with acute lymphoblastic leukemia. The most common blood cancer among children.”
I feel like he’s punched me in the gut. I actually fold over a little. Dom, beautiful and big and tall and sturdy Dom, had leukemia? How could it be?
“I’m sorry,” I say dumbly. Humbly. What else can you say in this situation?
He nods. “It was actually a pretty by-the-book case. A story with a happy ending, as you can guess. I got chemotherapy right away. Went into induction. Four weeks later, I started going into remission. We weren’t out of the woods for a few years, though. It was a whole process. The interim maintenance, the checkups, the wait for the results to come back each time. Sleepless nights. Hearing my parents cry in their room when they thought I was asleep. Knowing my baby brother was sitting there, waiting for someone to throw him a crumb of attention because everyone was too busy taking care of me. It was . . . I don’t think there’s even a word for what it was.”
“I can imagine. No child should go through this.” My hand is on his arm again, and I realize clichés exist because they’re true. No child should go through this.
“The one thing I remember more than anything else was the nurses. The doctors. The people around me,” Dom continues. “I felt like they truly cared. They would call my mom after hours to see how I was doing. They would give me gifts, and tell me stories, and play with me. And the few people on staff who weren’t so nice stood out too. So I decided being a nurse was what I wanted to do pretty early on. I wanted to make a difference. I wanted the next Dom to know I had their back. That’s why I chose the oncology department.”
We talk about his childhood a little more. How it was overshadowed by the constant reminder of his mortality. How his brother was discarded at their grandparents’ house, sometimes for weeks at a time. How Dom is still guilt ridden about what he put his family through. Then Dom takes a deep breath and says, “And what brought you to 7-Eleven at two in the morning, young lady? I’m assuming your night has been as shitty as mine.”
“Not anymore.” I let out a soft chuckle.
He poured his heart out to me. Now I owe him at least a fraction of my truth.
“Family stuff.” I wave my hand. “My dad wanted me to come home to San Francisco for Thanksgiving. I dodged it.”
“Why?”
Deciding I don’t want to tell Dom too much, I explain: “I can’t look at my family again after I broke it into a million pieces.”
“So I’m not the only one with a guilt trip. Interesting. How did you break your family into a million pieces?” he asks patiently. I get the feeling that he truly wants to know. That I’m the center of his attention.
It feels new . . . and not unwelcome.
I wiggle my toes in my boots, frowning at them. “I . . . my mom died.”
Silence engulfs us from all angles. Finally, Dom says, “I’m so sorry, Lynne. How is it your fault, though?”
“It is. Trust me. It’s a long story, but it is.” I’m not exaggerating. It’s not me being melodramatic. I really did cause it. And I know Dad and Renn think so too. It’s something I’ll have to live with for the rest of my life.
“Let me get this straight.” He rubs at his jaw. “You think you caused your mom’s death, yet you’re not in prison, so I’m going to go ahead and assume it was an accident. Your solution is to deny the rest of your family a daughter and a sister too?”