Page 73 of Fortunate Misfortune
Once on the couch, I open Cade’s text thread and start typing.
Me
What is considered a date?
I don’t have to wait long for an answer.
Cade (sexiest man alive)
The only person who can answer that is the woman who spent hours shopping and planning to celebrate you tonight. Have fun, Kent :)
I’m about to ask him what he knows when glass shatters in the kitchen.
I turn down the volume and stand up. “Eddie?”
A pause. “No biggie, but there’s marinara sauce everywhere.”
Locking my phone, I grin. “Too much dancing. Not enough paying attention,” I yell back, heading to the closet for a towel.
Tonight’s going to be special.
“You seriously didn’t eat pizza for that long after your diagnosis?” I ask, squeezing a dollop of ranch onto my plate.
“Nope. I was terrified of my favorite foods. I ate chicken and broccoli every day for breakfast, lunch, and dinner for three months. Bex was terrified I was never going to move past it.”
Mallory’s whole grain, high fiber dough is perfect. It was created for her recipe development project, and I’m always down to be a guinea pig. My pizza is half pepperoni, bacon, sausage, and spinach and halfBBQ chicken, while hers is filled with bell peppers, spinach, mushrooms, tomatoes, ricotta, grilled chicken, and bacon.
I was in charge of the jicama fries this time.
“What made you open up your food choices?”
She stares at a bubble of cheese. “Honestly, I missed going out with friends and eating tacos and Thai food. The fun feeling of dirtying a million dishes to make a meal in my own kitchen.” Mallory pauses and the table creaks. “Are you taking notes?”
I look up to find her halfway over the table, staring at what I’ve been typing as she talks. A list of foods she likes, dislikes, and how they affect her blood sugar. There will always be things I don’t know, but I want to remember everything she goes out of her way to tell me.
“Yes,” I admit. “I don’t want to forget anything you say.”
The look on her face is one of surprise. “You’re something else, Gray.” Before I can ask what she means, she stands and picks up my empty plate. “Come on. We’ve got work to do.”
After the dishes are done, leftovers are stored away, and the mountain of extra dough is stuffed in the freezer, I take a seat at the dining table while Mallory digs through her backpack for the sheets of paper that contain my hopes and dreams.
My personal statement.
With a sigh, she sits beside me and sets the papers down.
I cover my eyes. “How bad is it?”
She doesn’t answer me, which makes me worry even more. I take a quick peek through my fingers, but my hands fall away from my face when I reach for the papers. Mallory still doesn’t speak as I flip through each page, but now I’m sure something is very wrong. There isn’t a speck of color on them. Each sheet is as clean as it was when she printed it.
“Why are the pages blank? No highlighter, or notes, or suggestions. Not even your random thoughts! Did you not have time to read it? Didit suck so badly that you just...” I’m starting to feel sick. “I knew you hated it.”
Mallory lets out a laugh. “Breathe, Gray. There are no notes because it’s perfect, and you know I don’t throw that word around lightly. It’s authentic and raw and beautiful. Exactly what the judges need to see. It’s clear that researching MS is your dream.”
The sweetness of her praise sours almost immediately. Working as a biostatistician is all I want to do, and it’s being ripped away by my father and his stupid expectations.
After the meet, I received a text from him. It wasn’t like the ones I’ve been getting from friends, old coaches, and teammates. Nope.
“Finally.”
