Before Us Read Online Jewel E. Ann

Categories Genre: Angst, Contemporary, Romance Tags Authors:
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Total pages in book: 110
Estimated words: 106798 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 534(@200wpm)___ 427(@250wpm)___ 356(@300wpm)
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She’s laughing.

Zach grins and shakes his head.

I’m ninety-nine percent certain she has no hair beneath that scarf on her head because she’s also missing her eyebrows. So they’re laughing at what I assume is cancer, and I play along and laugh a little—my perfected nervous laugh.

Hehehe … yeah. I’m back in the uncomfortable zone. Cancer humor might be an acquired taste.

“Sorry. Bad joke in front of a stranger,” Zach apologizes.

“No. I … I’m sure it’s important not to take things too seriously when you’re dealing with something out of your control,” I say, but what do I know? Maybe they do have control over it. Perhaps they’ve done all the experimental treatments, or they’re choosing to let her die at home with dignity in the middle of eighty billion plants. I really don’t know. And if I didn’t need the money, I’d hightail it out of here. I’d rather not be scrubbing the toilet while a woman dies in the same house. What would be the protocol? Keep cleaning? Slither out? Call an ambulance? Do you call ambulances for dead people?

Twenty-three-year-olds like myself don’t have enough life experience to deal with a stranger’s death. We barely know how to deal with the loss of our favorite characters on whatever show we’re bingeing during any given week. Well, I haven’t binged anything in a while. Homeless people don’t have Netflix.

“Smart girl.” Suzanne winks at me. “I beat this once, and now it’s back with a vengeance. My boobs are gone, but the cancer is back. Go figure.”

Yeah, I’m way out of my comfort zone, and yet my next words are, “I have epilepsy, so …” It’s out of my mouth, a dog off its leash and two blocks out of reach in a blink.

So? Where am I going with this? So what? Why tell them that? Is epilepsy the new cancer? My illness shouldn’t kill me if I take my medication and follow precautions, which I don’t do that well, but that’s on me. It’s not like Suzanne can pop a pill, avoid taking baths alone, and surround herself with shatterproof glass, and her cancer will stay in check.

“Oh, sorry. Have you dealt with it your whole life?” Suzanne actually acts interested, like I didn’t just imply I know what she’s going through because I’ve had a few seizures.

“I was diagnosed a year ago. It’s no big deal. Really. Except for the time I had a grand mal seizure and lost control of my bowels. And … I forgot to switch my emergency contact. The hospital called my ex-boyfriend, who was still listed as my emergency contact. Oh … he was also married with a child. Imagine getting called to the hospital for your ex-girlfriend … who had a seizure while in bed with another random guy she met on a dating app. The early twenties are brutal … even for an optimist.”

Silence.

Too much silence.

I overshared. A lot.

There’s never a rewind button when you need one.

Zach and Suzanne share a look—something between a grin and a grimace.

Why did I think my best way out of the cancer topic was to talk about epilepsy, swiping right to hook up, and wetting the bed?

Zach clears his throat. “Are you on medication for it?” Of course, he wants to know if he will have to deal with me seizing while he’s taking care of his sick wife.

Pinching the bridge of my nose, I stare at my feet. “I am,” I whisper past the suffocating embarrassment. “And I’m uh … sorry.” I glance up, nose crinkled. “That was more than you needed to know. I’m good. It’s a mild form of epilepsy, and I’m basically cured if I take my meds.”

IF I take my meds. IF I can afford them.

And what’s a “mild form” of epilepsy? They’re not calling me out, so I stick with it.

Suzanne’s grin works its way to her eyes. “If you can’t find a little humor in tragedy, life will kick your ass.”

I return a stiff nod.

“In the meantime, let’s talk about your outfit. It’s adorable.” Suzanne eyes my shirt and capris. “Girl after my own heart. Anthropologie?”

Glancing down, I run my hand over the bottom of the wrinkled top. “Uh … maybe.” I smile. “I’m not the original owner.” I bite my tongue for a second. “That sounds weird like I stole it. I didn’t steal it. I …” They don’t need to know I buy my clothes “gently used” because my bank account balance doesn’t support my expensive taste. I think the bedwetting confession is enough for today.

“I love Anthropologie,” Suzanne says as if I didn’t just verbally vomit my way through a shitty explanation as to where I buy my clothes. “I bet that’s where they’re originally from. I haven’t been there in forever. Zach isn’t much of a shopper.”


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