18
WHITLEY
The next morning, I woke in a big, comfy bed. Gavin’s bed. I rolled over and found the other side of the California king empty. The shower was running in the next room. The man showered more than anyone else I knew.
I sank back down into the plush mattress and tugged the comforter up to my chin. I was in one of Gavin’s oversize T-shirts. Nothing had happened. I’d fallen asleep in his bed, and nothing had happened. Well, I’d cried a lot, and he’d held me, stroking my hair, without complaint. I didn’t know what to make of that.
Or the conversation we’d had last night.
Or my dad’s diagnosis.
It was the first time that I’d ever been furious that I had chosen plastic surgery instead of something more helpful … like oncology. I could have been curing cancer this entire time. Not
