by Lila Felix
Chapter Twenty-One
Bridger
Despite the constant gnawing in my gut, I didn’t call or text Tate for the rest of the weekend. It killed me to hand her over to the man I’d seen before, carrying her to his truck—brother or not. I didn’t want to let her go. The only person who should be tucking her into bed at night was me.
It was selfish to feel that way. I knew that. I wanted to be selfish with Tate.
Keep her all to myself and let her sickness just float away around us.
I would take it from her if I could. I would take her place if I could, endure the treatments and the needles and everything that plagued her.
If only life were fair, she wouldn’t be sick in the first place.
I laid in bed, listening to West get ready for church. After the recent revelations, I was more than ready to get back to that ritual.
I had to go to church to pray for my girl.
West hated telling me. Not one joke was cracked. Not one perverted comment left his mouth.
He hated telling me almost as much as I loathed hearing it.
Tate deserved everything life could offer. She deserved the right to live that life—a long and happy life. She deserved to grow old and watch as her red hair slowly turned gray. She deserved grandchildren and porches.
And I wanted to be on that porch right next to her, my chair rocking in time with hers—with her frail, wrinkled hand tangled in mine.
Mostly, I was angry. I was angry at the world and angry at God for giving such a creature such a plague. I was angry at cancer itself.
Tate needed my prayers. That was the only reason I was still lying there, debating to church or not to church at all.
Not that I necessarily needed to be in a church to pray, but it always seemed to be more significant when I was. Churches, to me, were like portals. The closer you were to the portal, the more easily you were heard.
Which didn’t speak too wisely of our baptismal make-out session.
Or the way I’d thought about having a repeat session.
Every day.
“We’re gonna be late. Get up.” Even West’s demeanor had changed to a more melancholy version of himself since letting me in on his secret. He hadn’t told a soul and had been carrying around Tate’s condition for months. I didn’t even think Tate knew that West was aware.
“I’m up.” My tone matched his. Slipping into the bathroom, I showered and brushed my teeth. I picked out a blue button down shirt and some black slacks. I’d noticed West was wearing a tie, and not wanting him to outdo me, I picked out a black tie with blue stripes, courtesy of Cami.
“Do we have time for coffee?” I prompted West. I hadn’t gotten much sleep the night before. The truth of the matter was, I no longer knew how to treat Tate. I knew how to love her, but the love in me wanted to scoop her up and take her far away from everything until she was better.
West said this was her last week of treatment—the information gotten from his secret source. I had to make sure to be extra careful with her this week. She’d be sick and nauseated.
That was my problem. How was I supposed to take care of her properly and pretend I didn’t know she was sick at the same time?
It felt like the ultimate betrayal. Like I was the biggest hypocrite on the face of the planet.
How could I pretend not to know her secret?
How could I pretend not to care?
The guilt, above all, was eating me from the inside out.
I was no better than Jesse.
My phone began to vibrate as soon as I put it in my pocket. I held a finger up to West. “It’s Stock.”
“Hello?”
“Hey, I wanted to tell you something. Why aren’t you at church?”
I laughed. “If you thought I was at church, why did you call? Anyway, why aren’t you at church?”
“Cami was feeling a little dizzy today. I called to leave you a message. I wasn’t even going to tell you, actually.”
“What’s up?” Stock always told it straight. And the fact that he wasn’t now was kind of scaring me.
“That place—the movie set or whatever. They want you to make all the chain mail and jewelry for that new movie—the Viking one. Sent you a big check for the travel expenses and everything.”
“Holy shit! Are you serious?”
“Yeah. They want you over there in February.”
My excitement slowly fizzled away. Everything had changed since Stockton had sent in my designs and recommendation for me—everything. Now I wasn’t so sure. Hell, I wasn’t sure at all. What if I went all the way to Holland and Tate got sick again?
I’d rather give up on smithing altogether than to leave her here to fight this battle alone.
“I need to think about it, Stock.”
“Let me know, soon. These people don’t wait.”
“Okay. Thank you.”
“Go to church. Drag West with you.”
“I will.”