The Speed of Light: A Novel(43)

“It might take a while to develop a rapport with the nurses.”

“How long?”

“It depends.” She narrows her eyes. “But honestly, if you feel uncomfortable at any point and decide to follow up with someone else, we’ll gladly refer you. Just say the word.”

I could hug her—I want to, but that might be a step too far in the doctor-patient relationship. Instead I beam my gratitude, and she turns back to my chart. “Now, anything else to update since last time? Anything new?”

The blush comes without warning. “Well, I mean, I don’t know if this is relevant, but . . . I met someone.”

Her eyebrows raise. “Oh, that’s wonderful!”

“Thanks.” My blush deepens. “He’s pretty great.”

“How long?”

“Almost five months now.”

Another sage nod. “Do we need to discuss any birth control changes?”

I giggle like a teenager—God, I’m a dork. “Uh, nope. Same old pill is working fine.”

She smiles. “I have to ask.” Then she clears her throat. “I also should ask, since it’s been five months: Does he know about your MS?”

My giddiness fades. “Um, yes.”

“Good. Does he have any questions?”

I blink. “Uh, I guess I don’t know. I mean, we haven’t really talked about it much. I did tell him, though.” A defensive edge creeps into my voice.

She leans forward. “That’s okay, Simone. There’s no right or wrong way to do any of this. I just thought I’d bring it up. If you two are getting serious, he might want to learn how best he can partner in your diagnosis long term. It might be something to discuss at some point.”

I bristle. The image of Connor partnering in my diagnosis is a hell of a buzzkill after the sexy scenes that flashed through my mind after the birth control question. I force a smile and nod, and Dr. Reynolds moves on to more mundane questions—how I’ve been sleeping, when I last performed a self–breast exam—but I’m fixated on her earlier words, now blending with Nikki’s in my mind.

Maybe I shouldn’t bury my head in the sand. Maybe I should talk to Connor.

But doubts swim through my mind. He and I talked, back when I told him I wasn’t starting treatment. That was enough.

Wasn’t it?

The truth is, I’m not sure I want to talk with him about it. The only time I’m not thinking about having MS is when I’m with him. And I don’t want to risk shattering this perfect distraction.





CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

May 25, seven months before

My doubts followed me home from the doctor’s appointment, stinging like a wound that wouldn’t scab over, and they continued to fester that evening and as I got ready for work the next morning.

And they continued earlier today, while I sat at my desk going through morning emails. The sting has only now finally faded to the background during our staff meeting as we sit around Stan’s conference table.

“Okay.” He claps his hands, then rests them on the faux-cherrywood table. “What do we have this week?”

I flip open my yellow-lined notebook and consult my list. “Let’s see. I’m finishing up the story about the alum who biked across the country to raise money for cancer research. That should be good for our next issue of the alumni magazine. For social, there’s a vocal-jazz camp for high school students on campus this week.”

Stan nods. “Were you thinking Facebook?”

“Yeah, a few pictures that their parents can like. But it also might be fun for Snapchat.”

“That is where the kids are these days, huh?” Stan chuckles. “Make sure you bring release forms.”

I jot down a note as he turns to Nikki, who launches into an update about the graduate-studies brochure, a seemingly never-ending project already on round seven of revisions. Poor Nik. But I’ve heard this story before, so as she speaks I let my eyes gaze out the window, let my mind wander, and let my doubts creep back in.

“Sounds like you need a plan.”

Stan’s voice catches me off guard, and I turn to him in surprise. “What?”

His brow furrows. “Oh, I was just saying to Nikki that it might help next time when working with difficult departments to discuss a plan up front.” He turns back to Nikki. “And I can help facilitate a meeting, if needed.”

They continue talking, but my mind is buzzing now. A plan. Of course.

I’ll make a plan of my own. I will pay attention to how my knee reacts to outdoor running and log my symptoms, as Dr. Reynolds suggested. I’ll also start researching different neurologists. My one-year follow-up MRI is this fall, and Dr. Reynolds’s office will send the results—and all my medical records—to whichever neurologist I choose to follow up with. So I really just need to make a decision before I get the MRI results. That means I have plenty of time, considering I don’t even need to think about getting the MRI scheduled until summer is over.

Come to think of it, end of summer would also be a great deadline to give myself to have a talk with Connor about my illness. If we’re getting serious, I should be able to talk to him—about my frustrations with my neurologist, my fears regarding my illness long term. End of summer will put us well past the six-month mark, which somehow seems like a big deal and is not at all a stalling tactic.