Lovely Trigger (Tristan & Danika #3)(14)

I didn’t have a clue what to say to that, so we shared an awkward silence for a good two minutes before I came out with, “I had no idea—“

“Well, now you do, so what are you going to do about it?”  Her tone was animated, but there was something so off about the entire thing, like she wasn’t at all surprised.  How many times had Milton pulled this on her?  I wondered feeling a little disconnected from the entire thing.

Finally, Milton came on the line, his tone an apology, an apology for me, which I heard quickly set Belinda off on the other end.

“Danika, I can explain.”

I rolled my eyes, feeling more stupid than hurt.  He’d only said four words, but all of the pieces of him clicked into place with those words, the way he shaped each syllable like he’d said it a thousand times, the perfect inflection in his cajoling tone as he launched the beginning salvo that led to the lies.

I heard the liar in him, the line he was about to tell.  I had his number now.  There was no undoing it.  “Don’t bother.  Just erase me from your contact list, please.”

It said a lot that my mind focused mostly on Tristan and the fact that he’d been right about Milton.  If I had listened to him, I’d have saved myself that embarrassment.

That pissed me off more than any other part of the entire sordid thing.

CHAPTER FIVE

FOUR YEARS AFTER THE ACCIDENT

I’d been on only a few casual dates in the last year, when I met Andrew at a showing.

He was a photographer, an artist, but the least temperamental one I’d ever met.  We hit it off from our very first conversation.  We felt like very old friends, right off the bat.

He was very sweet and also very good on paper.  The genuine attraction thing was obviously a pitfall for me, so I was quite satisfied with this.

Good on paper seemed to be the safest bet I could hope for.

He was gently persistent, but he always respected my boundaries.

He loved my sense of humor, and I really did love to make him laugh.  It was a great foundation for a meaningful relationship.  A serious one.

I let it get serious.  Andrew was good at making things easier than they should be, and he even made that part easy.

We lived about forty minutes apart, and after just six months together, he wanted to move in together, citing that it would let us see each other so much more often, because driving in L.A. really was a bitch.

I put him off, explaining how important it was for me not to rush into things.

He respected that, of course.  It was a talent of his, to know just how much to push, and when to back off completely.

I didn’t have the heart to tell him that I didn’t necessarily want to see him every single day.

I knew I should have felt bad about that.  I felt bad about not feeling bad.  The man adored me.

The first time we made love, I locked myself in the bathroom afterward and sobbed like a baby for three hours, the first time I’d cried in years.  I tried not to dwell on the why of it.

He was even understanding about that.  He let me have my space and cry it out on my own.

Tristan would have broken down the door, my traitorous mind told me.  He would have made it better.

Tristan was too self-involved to ever see your pain, my sensible side told me.

This was the side of myself that had gotten me out of that relationship intact.

Well, intact enough.  It was hard to pretend I was okay when the very idea of ha**ng s*x with my boyfriend again made me hysterical.

Andrew was very understanding.  I hadn’t told him much, but he knew that I’d suffered through some trauma in my life and assured me that he had no problem waiting however long it took for me to be ready.

He really was the nicest man.  I tried to show him how much I appreciated him.

I cooked him involved and extravagant dinners.  He considered himself a foodie.

I bought him thoughtful gifts, because he was a thoughtful man.

I always had my eye out for new music he’d like.  He was a bit of a hipster, always looking for something obscure.

I did everything I could with my free time to show him I cared about him, everything that didn’t involve sleeping with him again and tried not to focus on the fact that my boyfriend was far more a friend to me than he’d ever be a lover.

It was in the early fall that Bev went in for a routine exam, and her doctor discovered a hard knot in the side of her left breast.

After a short series of tests, she was diagnosed with malignant breast carcinoma.

Within days, she was forced to undergo a double mastectomy.

The cancer was aggressive, and it was treated aggressively.  After a short respite where she recovered from the mastectomy, she began six grueling rounds of chemotherapy, to be followed by five weeks of radiation.

I made it to every single treatment.  I drove, flew, worked in the airport, and in the clinic lobby.  Whatever it took, I was by her side, keeping her company, showing my support.

I thought I was strong, but Bev showed me what strength was as she fought for her very life.

She clutched my hand with her weakened one, her bald head completely smooth, her body emaciated, but her smile as bright as it’d ever been.

A fresh wave of toxic chemicals coursed through her bloodstream, making her sick, but God willing, saving her life.