Total pages in book: 89
Estimated words: 86857 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 434(@200wpm)___ 347(@250wpm)___ 290(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 86857 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 434(@200wpm)___ 347(@250wpm)___ 290(@300wpm)
I can’t help my grin. “And if it were me experiencing what you’re experiencing, what would you do? WWJD?”
“I don’t know,” she whispers. “I’ve never known how to let you go. But you …” She rolls back toward me. All the laughter has died. Vanished smiles. “You let me go—”
“Josie—”
“Shh …” She presses her finger to my lips. “I know why you did it. The point is you did it. And you survived. I hope I don’t have to ever ask you to live without me, but you can.”
She’s so wrong. Maybe then, but not now. For seventeen years, I had hope, even if only a sliver. Living without her—truly without her—without even a sliver of hope, it would kill me.
“Are you going to catch a wild turkey for Thanksgiving?”
It takes a few seconds, but she grins. “Well, we know you’re not going to catch one. And you don’t catch them. They can actually run quite fast. I’d suggest a shotgun, muzzleloader, or if you’re feeling really confident, you can use a bow.”
This grin on my face feels good. I like our new conversation, and I like having a glimpse of my childhood friend again. So filled with facts about random things.
“Why do you have that smile on your face?”
“Because.” I peck at her lips.
“Because isn’t an answer. I just told you I feel like I have an incurable cancer and you’re grinning?”
“This is it, baby. All we have is now. This very moment. And in this very moment, you are with me. We are gloriously naked. And we’re discussing the best ways to hunt wild turkeys.”
“But in the next moment, I could—”
“Nope.” I kiss her again, biting her bottom lip and giving it a playful tug. “This moment. Not the one before, not the one after. Be present with me.”
“This moment,” she echoes.
I roll so she’s under me, so I’m nestled between her sexy legs. So I’m inside her. My eyes close while my lips press to her shoulder. “This one right here … it might be the very best moment.”
Josie kisses my ear and teases the nape of my neck.
Fuck cancer …
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Oncologists give cancer patients an idea, a possible timeline for the progression of their cancer. Odds of survival with treatment versus without treatment. Even the foremost experts in the field acknowledge there are so many variables that can change that timeline. Change everything.
I have no timeline. I’m not sure if it’s a blessing or a curse.
We celebrate Thanksgiving with my parents in Des Moines and make plans to spend Christmas with Becca and Reagan here in Chicago so he can have Reagan Christmas Eve at his house. Plans are good. I like plans.
I work.
Colten works.
We put a For Sale sign in my yard. It makes more sense for me to live with him since Reagan has a room there with a fantastic white cat mural.
The images continue to flesh out in my dreams. More voices. More everything. The cancer is spreading.
I give Colten his moments, the good ones. And I swallow the bad ones. I suffer in silence as much as possible.
Like cancer patients, I have my good days and my bad days.
Today is a flat-out awful day.
“She was a cancer patient,” Cornwell says as I glance at my tablet and my first case of the morning. “The dad said he found her dead in bed. Her oncologist isn’t as confident in that explanation.”
I nod, reading through notes from law enforcement at the scene.
“Dr. Watts?”
I glance up at Cornwell. “I can take her,” he says.
I shake my head, eyes narrowed. “Why?”
“She’s eleven. And she has no hair from chemo.”
My gaze returns to the tablet, but my eyes no longer follow the words. “So?”
“Josephine, look at me.”
Taking in a slow, controlled breath, I lift my gaze to his.
“It’s been months since your accident, and while you’re doing your job well, I’ve noticed you take a little longer to do it. You take a little longer to respond to questions from me. You take longer to write up your reports.”
“Is it a race? Is it affecting anyone else?”
“No, but I worry about you. Are you still in therapy?”
“No.”
“Do you think it might help?”
“Help what?”
He frowns.
I roll my eyes. “Fine. I’m still not sleeping well. It might be affecting my speed, but that’s it. And I can handle a cancer patient. Hair or no hair. Now, anything else?”
He inspects me for several seconds over his glasses before shaking his head.
Forty-five minutes later, I’m in full PPE, staring at the girl with no hair.
“Dr. Watts?”
I close my eyes.
“If you don’t hold still, I’m going to rip every lock of hair from your head.”
“It hurts!”
“Then you should have taken better care of yourself. I have to deal with your sister’s hair; I shouldn’t be bothered with yours as well. I feel like I have two daughters.”