Forever, page 5
For a split second, an image of him from the first time she saw him barged into her mind. He’d come for an interview at the Wolf Study Project, and as he’d appeared in the open doorway of her office, she’d stumbled over her words. He had been so tall, so broad, his face glowing with health, his dark hair so silky and thick, his eyes a fiery hazel. Now, he was like an older, hard-lived relation of that other man, a stranger who shared many of the features and all of the coloring, but none of the youth and vibrancy.
With every fiber of her being, she wanted to go back to the previous him. She wanted to feel his strong arms around her, and smell his clean, fresh scent, and know that, come nightfall, she could look forward to the two of them getting into bed and messing things up in a good way.
“I’m not leaving you,” she said roughly.
“You should.” He shook his head grimly. “You really need to.”
* * *
Incompatibility was a divergence in Robert Frost’s forest full of roads, wasn’t it.
Daniel was not a poetry guy, but everyone had read that little ditty about the yellow wood, the two roads, the pairing off. Back when he’d been in his old life, on the very rare occasion he’d thought about affinity between two people in a relationship, he’d always assumed that it applied to matters of personality, habits, and values. Like, introversion and extroversion. Geographic location, jobs, marriage priorities. Kids. Religion. Cap-on, cap-off shit when it came to Crest.
For example, when he’d met Lydia, his Plenty of Fish profile, if he’d had one, would have been a real party: Introvert with extensive weapons training; no-roots drifter working for a shadow arm of the U.S. government; never, ever interested in taking a wife. No future plans, other than an expectation that he’d be executed in his sleep at some point.
Lydia had been a surprise in most ways, and a shocker in a specific one, but there had never been any issues with them getting along. They had been of like mind, and very like body, at the beginning. Now, though, they had diverged, and he was taking the road less traveled—and yes, it was making all of the difference. Unfortunately, his one-laner was a kick in the ass that came with an early grave—and the reason there was no more traffic currently on it was because the chances of someone his age getting catastrophic cancer was a lottery win in the worst possible sense.
The urge to apologize to her again for getting sick was like his cough, a returning spasm in his throat that he knew wasn’t going to be eased for long. Still, he swallowed the syllables as best he could because he knew actions, not words, were what mattered when you were making amends, and his immune system was just not up to the task of curing him. And neither were all the drugs he’d been taking.
“I think you should speak to Gus again about Vita-12b,” Lydia said in a low voice. When he started to shake his head, she cut in, “If you can smoke, you can be more open-minded about it.”
Her eyes, those beautiful whiskey-colored eyes, stared across at him so intensely, he felt like she’d taken his shoulders in strong grips and was shaking him.
“It’s our last option, Daniel.”
“No, it isn’t.” He made an attempt at sitting up again, but his torso, wasted though it was, somehow weighed seven thousand pounds. “The last option is to let go.”
She gasped a little, and tried to hide the inhale with the back of her hand. When she recovered, she whispered, “Don’t say that.”
“The truth is what it is.” He eased even farther back into the cubbyhole he’d fallen into. The position twisted his spine and torqued his hips, but relieving the discomfort wasn’t worth the effort it would take to straighten himself out. “Whether we talk about it or not, I’m dying, and we need to face that.”
“But you could just try Vita—”
“You remember how much fun we had last night?” He glanced out the open doorway of the walk-in to the bed that had been made—no doubt by her, even though C.P. Phalen had all kinds of staff. “God, it was so fucking romantic, you holding me over a toilet as I threw up bile. Really great. Was it good for you? I know I saw tears in your eyes, and yeah, sure, they were from joy. On my end, I was tempted to quit in the middle, I really was, but I persevered for your pleasure because that’s the kind of man I am—”
“Daniel.”
He closed his eyes and cursed. “You know, I remember when you used to say my name in different ways. Now, it’s just that one way.”
“Will you please just talk to Gus one last time?”
Daniel looked down his body. He was wearing an old pair of his cargo pants, not that he needed all those pockets for anything. The waistband was very loose, a requirement given how much his stomach bothered him—and something his weight loss conveniently provided—and beneath the cinch of his belt around the bones of his hips, his thighs and calves no longer filled out anything of the legs. It was like he was wearing someone else’s bottoms, and really, wasn’t that the truth?
“You know—” He coughed a little, and then stayed quiet for a couple of seconds afterward just in case the spasms bloomed into another round of respiratory Pilates. “I can’t remember the last time I had a meal that didn’t taste like metal. Or slept through the night. Or wasn’t consciously aware of my body’s every twitch and jerk.”
“I know it’s been hard—”
“I’ve been stuck with needles, cut open, and stitched up. Filled with dyes and put in machines. Stared at and prodded by strangers. I’ve been wired thanks to steroids before the chemo and up for days, and then so tired that blinking was like sprinting a marathon. I’ve had more antibiotics than a Walgreens stocks during flu season and I’ve worshipped toilet bowls like it’s a new religion.” He lifted one of his hands and let it speak for itself when it came to the shaking. “You want to know why I smoke out in the woods? It’s like wandering through a museum of my old life, and I like the exhibits even if I no longer own the paintings. I’m just trying to reconnect with myself before I fucking die.”
Lydia seemed to collapse into herself. But then she rallied with a refrain that made him want to scream: “C.P. Phalen said it might cure you.”
“She’s not a doctor.” He tried to mediate the harshness in his voice. “Gus, who is one, tells me they don’t know what it’s going to do to me.”
“You could just try it—”
“Lydia,” he cut in. “You have no idea what this has been like. I don’t doubt being on the sidelines sucks, but you haven’t lost your faculties—”
“Oh, no, you’re right. I’m just losing the man I love by inches. It’s a goddamn cakewalk for me.”
He looked away. Looked back. “How much time did Gus give me? Six months? Nine?”
When she didn’t meet his eyes, he swallowed a sickening feeling. “Less?” he choked out. “How much? Jesus Christ, Lydia, of all the things to keep from me—”
“A month. Two, tops.”
Daniel closed his eyes again. He’d had a feeling they’d get to this point eventually, their roads going left and right, hers toward more intervention, his solidly to no mas.
“I’m done with the treatments,” he said. “I’ve rolled plenty of dice and only managed to waste what good quality of life I might have had.” He pointed to himself—and pointed out what seemed like their only thing in common. “On my end, I’m losing the woman I love by inches, and I just want a chance to reconnect with you. Vita-12b is a novel agent, unproven outside of lab slides and computer models, and I am not willing to squander what little well-being I have on a hypothetical. I’m just not going to do it—and this choice feels like the only thing I have control over.”
There was a long silence. Then she exhaled and all-four’d her way over to him. When she took hold of him and eased him into her lap, he mostly kept the groaning to himself, and as he stretched out on the black carpeting, he did what he could to get comfortable, dragging his arms and legs into a position that ached less.
This was just so absurd, he thought. There was a bed probably fifteen feet away. But that was too far for him.
His eyes watered, but he refused to let things devolve further with the misty shit. “I would do anything to change this. For you. For us. Anything.”
“Then talk to Gus,” she said hoarsely. “One last time. If you get weaker, you may not even be a candidate anymore and then there’s no going back. Please—and afterward, I promise, I’ll never bring it up again.”
As a wave of exhaustion crashed into the shores of what little energy he had, Daniel kept the cursing to himself—but then looked over at her blue suitcase.
When all this was over, she was going to have to go on without him. And her memories of him and how this ended were the final gift he could give her.
“All right,” he said. “I’ll talk to Gus.”
The tension that eased out of her gave him a surge of strength, a shot of resolve.
“Thank you.” With a gentle hand, she stroked his back. “Thank you…”
Memories of the beginning of them returned, and he smiled. “Remember when we used to joke I had no sense of humor?”
She sniffled, and then laughed a little. “I was the one who said you had one. You were the guy who thought you had a congenital comic deficit.”
“Spoken like a true biologist.” Daniel gathered her hand in his own, her trembling stopping as their palms and fingers merged. “Well, I can’t think of anything unfunnier than this.”
“Is that a joke,” she said roughly.
A bad one, he thought to himself.
Then he recalled how she had once laughed. “Knock, knock.”
Another sniffle, and then she wiped under her eyes with her free hand. “Who’s there.”
“Boo.”
“Boo who?”
Daniel eased over onto his side and squeezed her hand. Looking into her glowing whiskey eyes, he said sincerely, “Don’t cry. I’ll always love you… even when I’m gone.”
As her tears intensified, she took a shuddering breath. “You were supposed to do a punch line that fell flat. Not one that leveled me.”
“Well, as cheesy goes, it’s just north of a dad joke.” He coughed and tried to hide the sound by talking through the grab of his throat. “But I do love you, Lydia Susi. And I always will. Even if my body gives out, that’s the eternity I’m going to give you, ’kay?”
His beautiful wolven nodded and then pressed her lips to his. Which was what you did when you had loads of words to communicate… and no voice with which to say them.
“I love you, too,” she choked out.
FIVE
IN THE CENTER core of her mansion, in a study that doubled as a bulletproof panic room that was capable of withstanding a chemical weapons attack as well as one involving conventional bombs, C.P. Phalen hung up her secured landline, but kept her hand on the receiver. Feeling as though she should do something, anything, she released her hold and turned her leather chair around to the floor-to-ceiling, reinforced glass wall behind her desk. Nothing to see, given the hour.
Not like she would have been able to focus on much, anyway—
“Hello. Anybody home?”
With a jerk, she twisted back around and grabbed the front of her throat. “Jesus!”
“I’m not trespassing.” Gus St. Claire thumbed over his shoulder. “Your door was open, and I’ve just said your name three times in a row. My next move was to start singing—a travesty you’ve saved us both from enduring.”
C.P. blinked. And in spite of the fact that her head of research and development was speaking English to her, she had to sift through the four languages she was fluent in to figure out which one to reply with.
Gus put his hands on his hips. “So you’ve been told the results, huh. And about how he’s not changing his mind about the trial.”
As her eyes shot to the phone, Gus went over to the bar that was set up underneath her favorite orange-and-yellow Mark Rothko.
“Oh, my God, Phalen,” he said over his shoulder, “I would love a fucking drink. Thank you. You’re a great hostess, anybody ever tell you that?”
With a theatrical show, he spooned some ice cubes into a squat glass and doused the collection with enough Herradura Suprema to put out a good-sized fire. He drank at least half of the tequila on his way to sit in the chair on the opposite side of her desk, but no problem. He had the prescience to bring the bottle with him.
Setting down the fountainhead of his refills, he crossed his legs ankle to knee.
Swirl. Swirl. Swirl—siiiiiiiiiip. “Ahhhhh. Top-shelf as always. Hats off to you, Phalen. You’ve got excellent taste.”
C.P. Phalen cleared her throat. Then…
“Not much to say, huh.” Gus took another long drink. “Don’t blame you. Yes, testing Vita-12b in vivo is our next step, but I’m not going to force Daniel to do it. Ethically, I am his treating physician and that relationship has to come before—hello?”
She tried to focus as Gus waved a hand in her direction. “I’m sorry.”
“Look, we’ll find our patient. It’s just not going to be Daniel.”
“Not him.” C.P. nodded. “You’re right.”
Tilting to the side, he poured himself another healthy serving. “I told you last week, I still think we should reach out to some national programs. MD Anderson. Mayo. Cleveland Clinic. Everyone knows me and there are ways of being discreet—”
“No,” she said as she snapped to attention. “It will get out. Those patients are registered into systems that track, you know that.”
“Then what are you suggesting. All this work has been for nothing?”
She watched him finish what was in his glass, and then pour a second refill. “Are you driving home?”
Gus raised his glass. “I’d tell you my Tesla will do that for me, but that’s a bad joke, isn’t it.”
“You can’t drive drunk.”
“Who said I’m leaving? And no, I will not perform any official duties in the lab. My plan is to take this bottle with me when I go—and you’re going to let me have it because you give me anything I want around here. I’m going to go to my office and finish it while I play Call of Duty until I pass out. I’ll be sober by tomorrow morning—and yes, I even have a change of clothes down there. Ya welcome.”
“Thank you.”
As his brows dropped down over his dark eyes, Gus shifted forward in his seat. “Phalen.”
As her eyes shot back to him, she wasn’t aware of having looked away. “What.”
“When we started this—when you hired me for this job—I was in charge of the labs and the science. You provided the money and the privacy. We both agreed that we’d take it all the way, and you told me that the runway to patient trials was clear. So here we are. We’re at the runway and you’re putting up roadblocks. For a woman who’s dodging the FDA, I’m surprised you’re trying to play neat and tidy all of a sudden. I can get us the clinical partners, and you know better than anybody that money buys silence—plus if you’re worried about adverse outcomes, I will personally ensure the safety of the subjects.”
C.P. rubbed the back of her neck. “I need a little more time. I’ll get you your patient one—”
“And what about after that? Patient two? Three? Ten?” His stare glowed with all kinds of no-bullshit. “Even if Daniel volunteered, we need others.”
Glancing down to the floor, she pictured the lab. All those scientists, doctors, researchers.
“Goddamn it, Phalen… you didn’t actually believe we’d get here, did you. What the hell did you think I’ve been doing in that facility of yours?” He knocked his glass on her desk to get her attention. “This is my life’s work. I’m not going to give up…”
Gus’s voice drifted off. And then he collapsed back in the chair with such force, he splashed some tequila on the carpet. “You’re selling us, aren’t you.”
C.P. shook her head. And then said remotely, “I do have three international partners who are interested. One of them could, in theory, take Vita and pipeline it through their R&D using our data. European approval for clinical trials could occur, and then we could leverage that to get through the US barriers—”
“You’re fucking selling her.” He held up his palm before she could respond. “And of course you’ve had conversations already. I know your reputation. It’s about money for you, not the science.”
“First of all, how about you not put words in my mouth. Secondly, how’d you like a bona fide clinical trial? There are your patients—as well as a pathway to FDA approval. Unless you thought we were going to sell her on the black market? The ultimate end game cannot be covert.”
Gus frowned and looked at his glass as if it were a crystal ball. She knew what he was thinking.
“You’re going to have to give her up at some point.” C.P. shrugged. “You’ve grown her up well, but she’s going to have to go on her own.”
Staring across her desk, the lack of clutter on the slick, shiny surface made the lacquered piano-black top seem like it was a portal she could fall into, a black void ready to swallow her.
“You’re going to have to let her go,” she repeated.
There was only the slightest catch to her voice, and she was proud of that. Funny how for all her own life’s work, all the money, all the businesses, all the political maneuvering, this one moment of composure, in front of this particular man, seemed like a culmination she had been working toward.
When Gus finally looked at her again, the expression on his face was remote. And then his lids lowered a little.
At first, she thought he was going to get aggressive. But then his eyes went on a wander, traveling down to the top of her silk blouse.
As a flush of heat went through her, C.P. brought a hand to the mother-of-pearl button. Which was ridiculous. Like she expected the fastenings to spontaneously flip open?
