He doesn't answer immediately. Instead, he looks at me in that infuriatingly observant way of his, like he's putting together a puzzle.
"You're exhausted,” he says.
I instinctively straighten. "I'm fine."
"That's not what I said. It's also not the truth."
I look away. "I didn't sleep very well."
"I can tell."
I take another sip of Coke. "You've become annoyingly perceptive."
"I've always been annoyingly perceptive."
"That's accurate."
A tiny smile flickers between us, the first easy one we've shared in days.
His expression softens. "Is it the chemo on Friday?"
I stare at the label on the bottle, not at all surprised that he remembered my treatment schedule. "Partly."
He nods once. "And partly not."
"No."
Another pause. "And Willow?"
I lean one hip against the bar. "I don't k
