Total pages in book: 108
Estimated words: 103109 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 516(@200wpm)___ 412(@250wpm)___ 344(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 103109 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 516(@200wpm)___ 412(@250wpm)___ 344(@300wpm)
I step away from his touch and pull in a long breath. “I’m sorry I lied to you about George and I seeing other people. I was too much of a coward to admit the truth.”
He flashes me that crooked smile and takes a step closer. “Does that mean you’ll give me a chance?”
If only it were that simple. I bite my bottom lip and study his beautiful face—the blue-green eyes, the hard lines of his jaw, the faint stubble he hasn’t shaved away today. I have no business pursuing a relationship with anyone until I figure out what’s next for me, whether that’s in Jackson Harbor or somewhere else entirely. “I think we should only be allowed to touch when we’re in Paris. I tend to lose my mind when we do it stateside.”
Hurt flashes in his eyes. “Shayleigh, what happened in Chicago—”
I put my fingers to his mouth before he can say more. “Don’t say it was a mistake.”
Gently, he takes my hand from his mouth and squeezes my fingers in his. “The only mistake I’ve ever made with you was not trying harder to choose you and my daughter both.”
I melt. “You’re not making this no-touching thing easy, East.”
“I have no intentions of making it easy for you.”
“I just broke up with a married man, I’m about to defend my dissertation, and I have to decide where I want to live next year—assuming I even get a job. You and me? We can’t happen right now. I’ll be your friend, though.”
He searches my face, and the tenderness in his eyes makes me want to yank him to my side of the line I just drew in the sand. “I’ll take it.”
Shay
September 22nd, seven years ago
“How’s Dad today?” I ask in a whisper, quietly shutting the door behind me.
Mom bows her head. It’s brief, but the quick movement speaks volumes. She’s steeling herself to share bad news. “He wants to talk to you.”
I put my purse on the foyer table. “He’s awake?”
“Yes. Go on in.”
But I don’t want to. I already know. I can hear it in her voice.
The grief isn’t new. We’ve all been grieving on and off for four years as we rode this roller-coaster cancer buckled us into without our permission. But what I hear today is different. A resignation. A . . . lack of hope.
My throat clogs with a sob and my eyes burn, but I lift my chin, swallow back my tears, and pull back my shoulders. I can’t fix this, but I can be strong for them both. It’s the only thing I have to offer.
Death has a smell, the scent of decay and rot, and it’s shoved up my nose when I step into my parents’ bedroom. Dad’s hospital bed is raised so he’s sitting up, and his frail hands are wrapped around a cup of water.
“Hi, Daddy.”
His hands shake as he sets the water on the bedside table. “Shayleigh.” Even his voice is weak. This disease has stolen everything from him—his career, his strength, his pride. But not his family. Fuck cancer. Never us. “Come here.”
I’m not sure how my legs get me from the doorway to the chair beside the bed. With every step, I think they might collapse. But I make it, each step steadier than I feel, and lower myself into the chair, taking his hand. “Hard night?” I ask. It’s a space-filler question. There’s no point to it when every night for months has been terrible. And every day.
I ask it for myself. Because I need a few more breaths in a world where no one has confirmed what I’ve suspected for weeks now—that there’s no fighting this, that treatments will only make him sicker, and that it’s time to let go.
“Not terrible,” he says.
I laugh for his benefit. “You liar.”
He wraps his fingers around my hand. My dad used to be so strong. These hands picked me up hundreds of times. They gripped my knees when he carried me around on his shoulders, showed me how to hold a baseball bat, checked my forehead for fever, and turned the pages of my favorite bedtime stories. “We’ve talked to the doctors.”
I nod. Because I know. Because I’m hoping he won’t make me hear the words if I can just show him that I get it. I know what comes next, and my chest aches until it’s an effort to breathe through it.
“I want you to know that I would suffer for years if it meant I’d win this fight. I’d do it for you kids. If I had any chance of winning, I’d do it just so I could come to your wedding and walk you down the aisle. I’d do it just so I could watch you become a mom.”
Tears rolls down my cheeks. I try to be unshakable, to be strong for him, but I can’t. “I don’t want you to hurt,” I whisper. “Don’t worry about me.”