Chapter Fourteen
Petra rushed into her doctor’s office. Her day was busy and she almost missed her routine checkup.
The appointment was one she’d scheduled weeks earlier, squeezed into her calendar between two client calls and a site visit in Ankara. It was meant to be uneventful—a quick check-in, a scan, a nod from the doctor, and then back to her day. She arrived with the detachment of someone used to managing schedules, not emotions. Her bag was still slung over one shoulder as she settled into the exam room, legs crossed neatly, answering questions she’d answered before. Family history. Menstrual cycle. Any new symptoms?
“No,” she said. “Nothing out of the ordinary.”
The ceiling tiles above her were pale, almost featureless, the kind designed to go unnoticed. She stared at them anyway, her eyes unfocused, letting her mind wander toward her inbox.
But then the rhythm shifted.
The doctor paused longer than necessary. Something in her posture—not alarm, but tension—made Petra’s spine straighten a little in the chair. A moment later, the woman excused herself without explanation, returning not with reassurance, but with a tablet and a more careful tone.
Cysts. Irregular.
Not alarming yet. But not to be ignored either.
Petra blinked once, trying to track the words as they arrived out of order. She heard phrases that didn’t land cleanly—“inconclusive mass,” “further imaging,” “oncologist review,” “probably benign”—and yet none of it stayed in place long enough to build meaning.
She asked one question. Forgot the answer almost immediately.
By the time she left the office, the sun outside felt too bright. Her phone was in her hand before she realized she’d reached for it, but no part of her knew who she meant to call. Her mind wasn’t spiraling, not yet—but it had narrowed. All the usual context, the weight of work, the movement of Istanbul around her, had gone flat. Background noise.
Her phone buzzed. It was Matt. She just stared at the screen until it went to voicemail. She just put her phone back in her pocket.
Petra simply did not know what to do, what to say, and certainly was not ready to pretend everything was ok.
Instead, she called someone she trusted. Not a friend, not exactly. A longtime professional contact, someone she’d referred clients to over the years—discreet, direct, the kind of woman who understood that information was power and panic was a liability.
The recommendation came quickly.
Boston.
Brigham and Women’s Hospital.
A specialist who didn’t guess, who didn’t over-reassure. Someone who ran a tight, data-driven practice and didn’t use the word “probably” unless she meant it.
Petra booked a Zoom consultation first, hoping to buy a few days of clarity.
She didn’t get them.
What she got instead was confirmation that this wasn’t something to delay. The specialist’s voice was calm but firm. She explained the possibilities and the importance this is not ignored.
“This is something that needs immediate response. Imaging is essential. In-person. Soon.” She said with a sense of urgency.
She booked a flight within the hour.
At the airport, sitting alone at the gate with a bottle of water untouched in her lap, Petra finally played the voicemail Matt had left the day before. His voice was low, steady. Just checking in. It was the first thing that gave her calm since she heard the news. Surprised that his voice steadied her more than she expected.
She called him back before boarding. Part of her wanted to just have a normal conversation and not share her burden. He picked up on the first ring. She broke down crying.
She told him what little she knew. That there were cysts. That she was flying to Boston. That she didn’t know anything else yet.
Matt didn’t interrupt. Didn’t fill the silence with platitudes or questions. He listened, and when she stopped speaking, he simply said, “I’ll meet you there.”
No drama. No need for interpretation. Just logistics. It wasn’t framed as support. Or comfort. Or even love.
But it was all three.
Matt booked the next flight out of Richmond without overthinking it. He didn’t ask himself whether he was stepping into something heavier than either of them had planned for. It didn’t matter. Petra needed someone. That was enough.
Boston met them with chill wind and movement. The city never paused, but Petra felt oddly outside of it—an observer, not a participant. Matt stayed grounded in what she couldn’t carry. He handled transportation. Booked the hotel. Ordered food she could say yes or no to without explanation. He didn’t hover. He didn’t ask how she was feeling. He just stayed close enough for her to know she wasn’t doing this alone.
When Petra went in for her first appointment, Matt waited in the hospital lounge, elbows on his knees, and worry on his face. He just sat still. Watching the hallway. Breathing slow.
His phone vibrated. Matt was about to hit ignore, but decided not to.
Carissa.
His stomach tightened up and his worry changed to dread. He knew this would not be a routine call.
Matt walked into a private area and just hit talk. What came out next was not what he needed at this moment.
Petra was still in the exam room. Matt was now standing in the middle of two storms.