Chapter 1
Meredith's POV:
The day I picked up my pathology results, my husband, Vincent Hale, was teaching Bridget Sutton how to log her medication in our shared health app. We'd set it up for the two of us after we got married. Now he'd even renamed it Bridget's Recovery Log.
I scrolled back through all 400 entries. He'd noted that Bridget couldn't drink ice water and recorded her medication times down to the minute. The upper endoscopy report I'd uploaded a month earlier still had a red "unread" badge.
That evening, Vincent brought Bridget home from the ER after an allergic reaction and poured her water into my cup. He used my pathology report as a coaster for her medicine box. Bridget glanced at the words on the page and shifted uneasily.
"Is Meredith sick?"
"She's always been healthy. All she ever does is act like her stomach hurts." Vincent's face hardened as he pressed the cup into her hands. "Your drug allergy nearly killed you. Don't worry about her."
I watched the water tremble in the cup. When Vincent had a bleeding ulcer three years ago, I'd checked his water with a thermometer every day and waited until it cooled to 104 degrees before handing it to him. In our house, warm water was how we said I care. He'd promised that one day it would be his turn to take care of me.
Now he was soothing another woman's stomach with water at the very temperature I'd so carefully measured for him.
The words suspected malignancy on my pathology report weren't a final diagnosis. Yet, strangely, I wasn't afraid. What scared me more than dying was a long life in which even my pain always came second.
*****
Vincent set the cup on the coffee table. Water splashed onto my pathology report.
"Are you seriously going to sulk right now?"
"I'm not sulking."
I bent down and reached for the paper beneath the medicine box. Vincent frowned and caught my wrist. "Bridget just recovered. Can't you pick up a piece of paper without making a scene?"
"It's my test report," I said.
"Oh, spare me the test reports." He released my wrist, his voice as dismissive as ever. "It's a minor stomach problem. Do you have to bring it up every day?"
Bridget sat on the edge of the sofa, sipping water from the porcelain cup with my initials on it. "Vincent, don't blame Meredith." She looked up, her eyes glassy. "I'm sorry for being so sickly and bothering you both this late."
His voice softened the moment he turned to her. "How is that your fault? You didn't choose to get sick."
Then he looked back at me with a small, soothing smile. "Come on, Meredith." He stepped closer and ruffled my hair as he always did. "I know I've been neglecting you with everything going on with Bridget. How about sushi tomorrow?"
He did this every time he hurt me. He'd ruffle my hair, then offer some tiny promise.
"No," I said quietly.
His hand stopped in midair. He looked surprised. "What did you say?"
"I can't eat anything cold or raw."
I pulled out the report. One corner was soaked, and part of the text had blurred.
Bridget put down the cup. "Are you still upset about the app, Meredith?"
Vincent raised an eyebrow. "What about the app?"
"Don't you remember, Vincent? In the car, you said the reminders were useful. Since you'd already put so much in there, you just went ahead and renamed it." She looked down, seemingly ashamed. "I didn't know it was something private between you and Meredith."
"It's just an app for keeping notes. What difference does it make who uses it?" Vincent turned to me as though that settled everything. "Since when have you been so petty, Meredith? We set it up to track our health, didn't we? I've known Bridget since she was a little girl. She's like a sister to me, and she has no one to look after her. What's wrong with keeping track for her?"
"We set it up to keep track of trying for a baby." I met his eyes.
For a second, neither of them spoke. Vincent pinched the bridge of his nose, impatient now. "Another month or two won't make a difference. We've been trying for five years with no luck. Relaxing might actually help you get pregnant. Besides, Bridget's sick. Is it that hard to see who needs me more?"
"Yes. She's sick."
I looked down at my phone. A 401st entry had just appeared. It was a reminder Vincent had set.
7 fluid ounces of water before bed, at 104 degrees.
Beneath those 400 entries of painstaking care sat the upper endoscopy report I'd uploaded a month earlier. I couldn't look at that red badge.
"Get some rest," I told Bridget.
I folded the report and put it in my bag. When Vincent saw that I wasn't arguing anymore, his expression eased. He came over and put his arm around my shoulders. "That's my girl. Once this deal with Sutton Group is wrapped up, I'll take some vacation time. We'll focus on trying for a baby."
His body was warm against mine. I felt cold all over.
