The Year I Stopped Being His novel Chapter 344

Finishing wiping his collar, Garrison looked up to find Vanessa staring out the window. Holding her coffee cup, her eyes were fixed on the ginkgo trees beyond the patio, her expression a picture of complete nonchalance.

"Lawrence is very worried about you," she said, her voice dropping into its most affectionate register. "When I briefed him on your situation last time, he said to tell you not to push yourself too hard. Health comes first."

"Thank him for me," Garrison replied.

Vanessa set her cup down and turned to face him, casually pivoting the conversation as if the thought had just struck her. "By the way, Garrison, how old is Archie now?"

"Ten."

"Time flies," Vanessa smiled. "I have a ten-year-old daughter, too. Kids these days only really talk to kids their own age. With us parents, they clam right up. If there's ever a chance... we should introduce them. It's good for them to have friends their own age."

Garrison gave a curt nod. "Sure."

They chatted for a while longer.

Vanessa inquired about the financial state of The Haven Medical Center, and Garrison fed her the same practiced line—"Not turning a profit, but not bleeding money either." She just smiled and didn't pry further.

Glancing at her watch, she announced she had an afternoon meeting and needed to go.

They both stood up and walked toward the entrance of the coffee shop. The evening sun filtered through the sycamore leaves, casting warm, dappled patterns on the cobblestone path.

Standing in front of him, Vanessa tilted her head up, suddenly stepped half a pace forward, and wrapped her arms lightly around him.

The hug was brief and airy, exactly how an old friend would say goodbye. Completely normal.

She patted his back twice, let go, and took a step back. Looking up into his face, the ache in her eyes wasn't entirely faked—or at least, not all of it.

"Make sure you eat," she said softly. "If you hit a wall, call me."

The corner of Garrison's mouth twitched upward. "I know."

She turned and headed for the parking lot, her ankle boots clicking sharply against the stone path.

She had no idea what those metrics specifically entailed. All she knew was that she spent every day getting her blood drawn, undergoing scans, lying or sitting in front of a dizzying array of machines, and swallowing a mountain of unpronounceable pills.

She had asked Garrison when the actual treatment would start, and he always gave the same answer: soon.

When she pressed for an exact timeline, he replied: Whenever you stop trying to secretly order spicy buffalo wings on delivery apps. Out of spite, Sloane pulled the covers over her head, utterly refusing to speak to him.

That afternoon, Garrison came in for his regular rounds.

When he pushed the door open, Sloane was lying on her side, facing the window, the blankets pulled up to her shoulders, her breathing slow and even.

The curtains were only half-drawn, and the afternoon sunlight slanted across her face, casting long shadows from her eyelashes.

Garrison softened his footsteps.

He picked up the nursing chart from the nightstand, flipped through a few pages, then used the digital thermometer to check her temperature. After that, he wrapped the blood pressure cuff around her wrist and pressed the button. The cuff whirred quietly as it inflated. Keeping his eyes locked on the monitor, he failed to notice Sloane's eyelids fluttering ever so slightly.