Chapter Seventy-Eight

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It takes a minute for his words to sink in.

Complications?

What does he mean by 'complications'? What kind of complications? I should be verbalizing all that to him, but instead, I try to assess his face, searching for any subtle cues or changes his expression might give away on the seriousness of the matter, but he remains as stoic and unreadable as ever. I can't even tell if I should be worried or not.

It actually baffles me how he can so easily go right back to being cold and distant without any hesitation. It's as if he didn't just hold me and try to comfort me. The way he looks now, he may as well have just sat in complete apathy and watched me break down in silence without doing a single thing or uttering a damn word until I was done unravelling and making a complete fool of myself in front of him and then resumed as if nothing happened. To be honest, that's actually the kind of reaction I would have expected from him. Not what he did...

I really want to be angry at him, that he can be so easily removed and detached emotionally, but I know I have no right or reason to be. In fact, I think I might actually be jealous of his ability. If our situation wasn't so...well, complicated, I might have asked him to teach me his ways. And speaking of complicated, my thoughts come back to the situation at hand.

For some reason, my eyes remain fixated on Frost's fingers for a moment, and I notice how he flexes them in their interlocked position. It seems almost like a quirk or a nervous habit. For my sake, I'm hoping it's not the latter.

"Like I mentioned before," he continues, bringing my attention back to his face "part of the tumor is lodged in and around your diaphragm. That's why we didn't try to remove it during your endoscopic ultrasound. Normally, we'd do what we call a fresh frozen sample in almost all instances of biopsy in minimally to moderately invasive procedures like endoscopy and we can also typically remove tumors, even large, advanced ones that are intertwined with nerve endings and blood vessels. Unfortunately, the way your tumor's positioned really complicates matters and going the standard route was out of the question."

I frown at the way he says 'your tumor'. Like it's a fucking Christmas present that I relentlessly asked for or some shit. As if it belongs with me. As if it belongs to me. But I decide it's not worth bringing up and fighting with him over. So instead, I say, "So, what exactly are my options if the standard route isn't going to work?"

"Direct abdominal surgery," is his immediate response. "We'll have to go in and remove the tumor from your stomach directly. Obviously, that'll be more invasive, put you at a higher risk for infection, and will require more downtime than an endoscopy since we're going to be opening you up."

I visibly cringe at the thought of incisions being made on my belly and my insides being exposed. I suck in another shuddery breath and exhale with equal difficulty.

"But the risk here isn't just for infection," he continues. "Ramona, I'm bringing this up because I know you mentioned you're a vocalist."

My forehead furrows in both question and confusion. "What does that have to do with anything?"

"There's a very high chance that the segment of your diaphragm where the tumor is located won't function the same after surgery. It will most likely suffer a huge loss in elasticity, especially around the lining since a lot of the cells there will have to be removed along with the tumor. For an everyday person, that wouldn't be an issue, but for you—"

"I won't be able to sing a high note. Or even hold a moderate one for long," I say, completing his sentence without even realizing it.

He nods in concurrence, but his expression is still neutral. "Yes," he says. "And because it's already causing the false hiccups now, which really is just breathing interruptions, if you tried to carry on with your current singing routine and put the kind of stress you're putting on your diaphragm now, you could easily trigger other ailments like heart arrhythmia or a whole other set of respiratory problems. It's something I'd strongly advise against. So having said all that—"

"Wait, wait, wait," I interrupt again, holding up my hand in a halting gesture as a nervous, disbelieving smile spreads my lips. I shake my head slowly, trying to wrap my scrambled brain around what I'm hearing. "So basically...you're telling me...," I struggle with voicing the words that are roaring in my head, trying desperately to form a coherent sentence even though I feel anything but coherent right now. I can't believe I'm even having this conversation. "You're telling me that you can remove the tumor, but essentially, doing so will fuck up any and all chances I have at ever singing at a professional level? That I'd have to give up my dreams if I go through with this surgery? Is that what you're saying?"

He exhales audibly. "That's precisely what I'm saying. Those really are your only two options at this point: have the tumor removed and eliminate any chances of it becoming cancerous in the future and consider a different career, or risk having cancer while maintaining your current ability to sing. As you can imagine, I strongly recommend the former. And I recommend you get it done as soon as possible."

I'm unable to say anything for several moments. I'm shaking now, every inch of my body visibly trembling and quivering. I don't know which I'm more scared of. The thought of dying from cancer, or the thought of never being able to sing again. It's a lose-lose situation. Singing is my life, so if I give that up, wouldn't that still be considered dying as well?

Abruptly, a non-amused snort escapes me out of nowhere, the solitary sound dripping heavily with cynicism and more than a tad bit of suppressed bitterness. "I just realized...this is the most you've ever said to me since I met you," I say, finally able to form words again as my gaze lowers to my balled fists.

It's such a random statement, and frankly, I'm not even sure where it's coming from. I have no idea why I decided to mention it out of the blue, especially now of all times. But I continue, anyway. "You're usually really quiet for the most part—more quiet than most people I know—and I constantly find myself wondering what you're thinking whenever I'm around you, but now..." I trail off, unable to finish my sentence and unsure of what the hell it is I'm even trying to say. I'm not making any sense. Not even to myself...

What the hell is wrong with me? This man just told me that I have to choose between staying alive and the one thing I still have left in the world and I'm here talking about how much or how little he's ever said to me? Holy flying cows.

It's official. I've gone completely fucking nuts. But I suppose life-altering dilemmas can do that to a person.

I sigh deeply, breathing out in frustration that I wish I could take out on something or even someone. But I know I can't. It's no one's fault I'm in this situation. And as twisted as it is, Frost is pretty much my only ally in all this as far as I can see.

On one hand, the thought is pretty damn depressing. The only person who I could potentially lean on during one of the most trying periods in my life is the guy who wants me to whore myself out to him. But on the other hand, the fact that he's still practically a stranger makes it...better, somehow. I don't feel like I have to pretend around him. I don't have to always act like nothing's wrong because I don't want him to worry about me or get stressed or sick from knowing about my condition.

He's not like Gran, or Trixie, or even Drake. He may be the most beautiful and intriguing human being I've ever met and I may be crazy attracted to him, but he's not important to me like they are. And he never will be.

I take the deepest breath in history before I speak again as I look him squarely in his icy eyes, not feeling intimidated by them for the first time.

"I don't want the surgery."

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