“Conor, look at me.”
“Skin cancer.”
For a moment, I heard nothing except the bathroom fan.
Then the questions came.
“When did they find it? What did they remove? Are you okay? When do
you go back?”
“Stop. Cynthia, just stop.”
I stopped.
I heard nothing except the bathroom fan.
Conor rubbed his forehead.
“This is why I didn’t tell you.”
“Because I ask questions?”
“Because you turn fear into a plan before anyone’s allowed to feel it.”
That hurt because it wasn’t completely wrong.
But neither was what he’d done.
“This is why I didn’t tell you.”
“How long have you known?”
He looked away.
“Conor.”
“A couple of months.”
I stared at him.
“Months?”
“A couple of months.”
“I was going to
tell you when I knew more.”
“And until then, you decided I wasn’t part of it.”
His face tightened.
