The Man Ban - Nicola Marsh Page 0,77
thinking of throwing a small engagement party at your place, just family and close friends, and I can’t expect you to do all the preparation, not when you’re still recovering.”
At last, some of her old fire sparked in her eyes. “An engagement party?”
“Yes, if you’re okay with us having it at your place?”
She sat up straighter. “Of course. There’ll be lots to plan—”
“Leave it all to me. You focus on getting better, and that means having a home nurse to help speed up your recovery.”
If she guessed his underhanded blackmail, she didn’t call him out on it. “I suppose you’re right. I do want to be able to enjoy my only grandson’s engagement, especially if it’s at my house.”
“Good, that’s settled.”
“Manish?”
“Yes?”
“I’m . . . not feeling myself.”
Her admission out of the blue shocked him, but he was pleased she’d finally chosen to confide in him. “What do you mean?”
Her lips twitched, like she was trying to form the words but wasn’t sure how. “I’m scared of dying.”
His heart fractured, a tiny piece splintering off. He’d never seen Izzy so vulnerable, but facing up to her mortality and the prospect that the endocarditis could be life ending was a common response to serious illness.
“I’m angry and frustrated at lying here feeling so damn helpless, and I’m worrying about how I’ll cope if my health deteriorates . . .” She shook her head, her mouth pursed with regret. “And I feel guilty. Have I done something to contribute to this? Should I not have eaten all those gulab jamuns when the doctor warned me sugar isn’t good for my health? Or cooked with ghee that made my cholesterol shoot through the roof?”
She pressed a hand over her heart. “And the craziest of them all, I don’t feel like me anymore. I feel like I’m defined by this stupid heart condition, and I want my old life back.”
“I’m sorry you feel that way, but everything you’ve said is a common emotional response to dealing with a serious illness.”
She waved him away. “You’ve got your doctor voice on. Please don’t patronize me.”
“I’m not.” He scooted his chair closer to the bed and grasped her hand. “Everything you’ve described is perfectly normal.” He lowered his voice. “Trust me, I’m a doctor.”
Amusement flickered in her eyes. “Will I ever snap out of this?”
“Of course, but it may take time.” He squeezed her hand. “But I won’t lie to you. You may always feel resentful, a bit of ‘why me?’ On the upside, you’ll have me to snap you out of any funk.”
“And don’t forget I have a wedding to look forward to.”
The old Izzy was back, focused on one thing and one thing only: seeing him married.
“Exactly,” he said, not having the heart to tell her they hadn’t even discussed a date.
Proposing to Harper had been impulsive, but it had been the right thing to do. It gave Izzy a reason to fight, a reason to live.
Plenty of time to get the rest planned.
55
Harper arrived on Manny’s doorstep with groceries in one hand and an overnight bag in the other.
This was it.
The first time she’d stay over at his place.
The first time she’d reveal her vitiligo to him.
The last time she’d have to hide her true self.
She’d been a jittery mess all day, swerving between wanting to cook him a three-course meal and lead into her revelation, or jumping him as soon as he opened the door and doing it with the lights on.
She’d finally settled on whipping up homemade pizzas with store-bought dough, sauce, roasted vegetables, and pesto, with extravagant macadamia and honey nougat ice cream for dessert. Less time in the kitchen, more time feasting on each other.
Another thing she’d dithered on all day: her choice of outfit. The patches on her body had diminished considerably in size since she’d started UV treatment, but the ones around her eyes were still stark, considering she’d had a one in a billion reaction to the tacrolimus ointment and her white patches had turned dark brown.
She resembled a panda without concealer and foundation, and the thought of Manny seeing the real her set an aviary of butterflies loose in her stomach.
But she had to do this. They’d been engaged for two weeks, fourteen long days in which she’d barely seen him. But his gran was home now, and they were throwing a small party tomorrow to celebrate, and she wanted there to be no secrets between them before that.
With her hands full she kicked the door twice,