Stupid Love

by Cindy Miles

  “Yes,” Jace said. “I’m taking her.”

  Satisfied, they loaded back up their truck and took off.

  “Darlin’, are you sure you don’t want to go with them?” Jasper said, standing beside me. “I appreciate your stubbornness, but you’ve got me damned worried.”

  Without my asking, Jace helped me stand and, although I felt weak, and there was a dense aura that seemed to cling to me, that debilitating pain was gone. Weird, but it was. I smiled at Jasper.

  “It’s fine, really,” I said, and grasped Jasper’s hand. I hugged him, and somehow, I felt as though he knew everything I was hiding. “I’m sorry,” I whispered in his ear, and hugged him tighter.

  “What for?” he said, as softly as his gruff voice would allow.

  I smiled, and fought back tears. “I just am.”

  Jace hadn’t let go of me, his strong hands steadying me.

  My friends were all there, concern etched into their faces.

  And I no longer had it in me to carry on my charade. I was tired. So damned tired.

  I looked at Crisco. “Can you and the others come by my house later?” I asked.

  Crisco looked at Jace. “Sure, what time?”

  I gave him a wan smile. “I don’t know,” I answered. “Just…a little later.”

  I could tell by Crisco’s expression he knew I needed a little time with Jace alone, and I turned to Jace then, and his eyes were sharp as he studied me, waiting, unsure. “You don’t mind taking me?” I asked.

  Jace didn’t answer. Instead, he looked at Brax, who simply gave a nod then moved toward Jasper, and Jace led me to his truck. Opened the door.

  And just like old times, I climbed in, and my heart dropped.

  We were silent as we drove to my house, and while the conversation that lay ahead gave me butterflies, I felt at peace with it. I knew it was long overdue, and I had no idea what Jace’s reaction would be. But I could no longer brush him off. I couldn’t chase him away. I couldn’t pretend I didn’t love him, or that I didn’t want to be with him. I couldn’t let him keep wondering what had driven me to put a stop to the best thing that—to me—had ever happened.

  I had to tell him the truth.

  And then give him the opportunity to decide for himself if being with me was worth the baggage it carried; or as much of a burden as I’d thought it would be.

  When we grew close to the house, my dad was walking toward us from the barn, Captain Gregg on his heels. The surprised look on Max’s face did not go unnoticed by Jace, I was positive. They were both equally surprised to be there, with me. Hell—so was I. I guess I’d thought I could just…continue doing what I was doing. How stupid I had been. We stopped the truck, Jace helped me out, and then Dad stuck his big hand out. “Son,” Dad said.

  “Sir,” Jace replied, shaking his hand.

  Neither said a word, and I looked at my dad, then, and gave a wan smile. He’d have a freak-out later, when he found out I’d had a goddamned seizure. But that’d be later. I had to do this now, before I lost my nerve. I looked at Jace.

  “Walk with me?” I asked him.

  He merely nodded, and I could still see the caution in his eyes.

  Max and Captain Gregg mounted the porch, and Jace and I silently fell into step, side-by-side, and when we got to Little Joe’s fence, he was there, whinnying and pushing his big head over the gate to be petted. I draped my arms around his neck and stroked his nose, rubbed his soft velvety muzzle, and all the while Jace remained quiet. Waiting. Watching me.

  “What’s the matter, Memory?” he finally asked, In That Voice of Suede and Velvet. For as long as I was on this earth, I hoped I’d never forget the sound of it.

  I gave Little Joe a final pat, then took Jace’s hand, because I somehow felt we needed to be completely alone, and we walked out into the empty hay field. The sun was dropping but still present, and it cast a surreal tallowed glow over the field, the kind where bugs caught the light and danced, and looked like fairies.

  “Sit,” I said, and sat down. Crossed my legs, Indian style. Jace lowered beside, me; long legs bent, forearms resting on his knees.

  I looked at him then, with the sun behind him, and his face stern, unreadable, the muscles flinching at the jaw. His dark brows, so stark against his winter pale skin, were beautifully arched and furrowed. The dark dusting of stubble clinched his jaw and cheeks and the area beneath his nose. And those faded-by-the-sun sage eyes stared at me, and he twisted an old dead hay stem between his fingers.

  I began.

  “I beg one thing of you, Jace Samuel Beaumont,” I started. My voice was quiet, yet it seemed to carry its weight across the hay field to lift and linger in the air.

  “What’s that?” he asked softly.

  “Please, please, listen to everything I have to say,” I continued. “Don’t interrupt. Please.”

  He was quiet for a second, staring at the ground, the soft afternoon’s light almost a halo around him. Then he lifted his head, and gave me that slight, half-crooked smile, and I knew it might be the last one I ever received. “All right, ma’am.”

  I breathed. In. Out. Slowly. And I held his gaze.

  “When I was seven years old, I was diagnosed with an ATRT—Atypical Teratoid/Rhabdoid Tumor. It’s a rare, high-grade tumor typically found in children under two. I was aggressively treated with surgery, chemotherapy, and radiation. I was given a less than twenty percent survival rate. But I beat it. I won.”

  I watched Jace’s face go even paler than it already was.

  My throat suddenly constricted. I had to force the next words out. For Jace. For myself.

  Through tears I smiled. “But, it’s back,” I said, and my voice cracked. “And I’ve been taking experimental medication in an attempt to shrink the mass. More meds to keep the headaches and nausea away.” I swallowed the lump in my throat. “And I didn’t want you to know—anyone to know, and I’m so sorry.”

  Jace Beaumont slowly stood, turned from me, walked a few paces into the field, grasped the back of his neck with his hands and interlocked his fingers. And stared at the sky.

  He said absolutely nothing.

  I sat completely still for several moments—unsure of Jace’s reaction. Unsure of what mine should be. The scene was surreal, the one where I was sitting in the dead hay grass, and Jace stood several paces away, and the fading light glinted off every wispy bug and moth like dust fairies floating on the breeze, and a cricket or some other night bug’s chirp was the only sound there. All else was silent. Still. Quiet.

  “So the headaches weren’t from allergies. They’re from…this.” He rubbed his eyes with his thumb and forefinger. “What’s your prognosis?” Jace asked, his voice low, a little shaky. Still, he faced away from me.

  I gave a quiet laugh and rose. “With or without surgery—”

  Jace whirled, and in his face, his eyes, I saw anger, pain. “Dammit, Memory! Stop playing around!” He rubbed his head, his jaw, then sunk his thumb and forefinger into his eyes sockets. He said nothing else, just waited for me to continue, I supposed.

  “Without surgery, unknown. The drugs I’m taking are trial,” I said. “With surgery, less than a thirty percent survival rate. The mass is large and in a tricky area of my brain.” I breathed, and fear began to crawl up my throat. “Surgery could fail, and I wouldn’t survive. Or, it would be a successful removal but leave me in a vegetative state.”

  Jace’s face had hardened, and the fading light caused shadows to cut into his features, making the angles sharp, fierce. “Or it could just be successful, right?”

  My heart cinched. “A low probability, but yes. Followed by intensive, aggressive chemotherapy and radiation,” I admitted softly.

  He rubbed his face again, then his hands rested on his hips and he muttered something unintelligible under his breath.

  Then he looked at me. “Are you telling me you might be dying?” he asked, and that buttery voice cracked.

  I inhaled. Exhaled. My insides burne
d, and my lips were numb. “Yeah,” I admitted. “That’s what I’m telling you.”

  In the waning light of dusk I watched Jace Beaumont’s face crumple in pain. Disbelief. And he moved a little closer to me, and I saw it in his eyes, too. “How could you do it, Memory?” he began. “All this time, every moment we’ve been together you’ve known?”

  Slowly, I nodded.

  He dropped his head, kicked at something on the ground. “Christ, Memory,” he said, then looked up, and the anguish, the anger there, in the depth of those eyes, made me recoil. His brows furrowed, then he laughed, and it was a cynical clamor that didn’t sound natural coming from Jace. “You made me fall in love with you, Memory,” he growled out, and I’d never seen him so furious. “I was minding my own business, just trying to be polite and do my job and you.” He walked toward me, grasped me by the shoulders and stared hard at me. “Jesus Christ, you made me fall in fucking love with you.” His voice broke and he glanced away, returned his gaze, and there was so much fury and pain there. “Why’d you do that, Memory Thibodeaux, huh?” His fingers dug into my shoulders. “Why?”

  Words wouldn’t form, my lips wouldn’t move. The air sat stagnant in my throat, my throat was bone dry, and all I could do was stare back. Jace’s words shocked me; hit me in the gut like a ton of bricks. My heart quickened, and tears filled my eyes.

  He dropped his hands and walked a few paces off, shaking his head. Stood with his hands on his hips, those long cowboy-bowed legs braced wide, and stared at the ground. He stood that way for what seemed like forever. Then the pager on his hip went off, and after a moment he looked at it. Turned and walked to me, but wouldn’t look at me. Kept his gaze at the ground but stood beside me; so close we could have shared the same breath.

  “I’ve got to go,” he said, his voice unsteady. “I’ll walk you back to your father.”

  “I’ll stay here,” I answered quietly.

  He nodded, looked at something in the far distance, then nodded again.

  Then just…walked away.

  Watching Jace Beaumont as he strode away from me in silence crushed my heart. I’d known all along it was wrong to keep something so epic as a fucking brain mass a secret. But I’d done it, and there was no changing the past.

  I watched him get in his truck, back up and pull away, and my friends passed him on the lane, and they didn’t stop, didn’t speak. In the far distance I saw Jace turn onto the highway, and I could do nothing more than wipe the tears from my eyes and head back to the house.

  My confessional wasn’t quite over.

  As I walked, I thought about how, in the summer months, I loved walking the hay field in shorts, or a dress, so the grass would lightly brush my legs and bare feet, and the pungent scent of hay reminded me of a very short time in my life when I wasn’t sick, my mom was alive, and my father had both of his girls and we were all happy, carefree. It seemed like such a long, long time ago, and I missed it. Wanted it back. Wanted a for-sure future. Not this fucked up, not-so-stable existence.

  There was never any going back. Only forward.

  I grew closer to the barn, and Crisco had started jogging my way, and the others waited at the porch where my father sat, waiting. And when Crisco got to me he draped a lanky arm over my shoulder.

  “You okay, Mem?” he said as we walked.

  I looked at him, shadows growing long, and I slid my arm around his narrow waist and gave a wan smile. “There’s something I’ve got to tell all of you,” I said quietly, and laid my head on his bony shoulder and he let me, and together we walked to where Claire, Sugar, Brie, Bentley and Conner were waiting on the porch with Max Thibodeaux. And I told them then, as daylight left and darkness crept in; told them everything. From my first battle with Death to the one I presently fought. They were all stone cold quiet except the girls. Claire wept softly, and Bentley held her hand; Brie kept wiping her cheeks and Sugar sniffed, and Crisco sat with his head in his hands. Conner’s face had blanched; Bentley just looked at me, his eyes wet and glassy in the porch light. In the end, I told them my reasons for keeping my new diagnosis a secret. My past a secret.

  I never wanted to be treated differently.

  Once I’d finished, Claire got up, walked over to where I sat on the porch rail, and wrapped her arms around my waist.

  “So what does all this mean, Mem?” she asked. “How much…when will you decide what to do?”

  “Mais, Peeshwank,” I said softly, and a sob escaped Claire’s throat. “I’m still trying to figure that part out.”

  Long after my friends left, Max and I stayed on the porch. I’d joined him on the swing. Crisco had told him what happened at the game and, although concerned, he knew me well enough to know I wasn’t going to the hospital. But he did promise to call Dr. Cates first thing in the morning.

  “It’s new, Memory,” Max warned. “It’s the first seizure you’ve had this time around and the doc said to let him know of any new symptoms.”

  “I know, Dad,” I agreed. “I know.”

  He sighed then, and looked at me. “They all deserved to know, Memory,” my dad said. “They’re your friends and they love you. You did good.”

  I gave a light laugh that did not come from my heart, and I grasped his hand in mine and looked at him. “Then why do I feel so crappy?”

  Max shook his head. “Don’t do this, Memory,” he warned. “You fight, girl. Don’t you let regrets pile up on your heart and drag you down.”

  I nodded and leaned against his shoulder.

  “Jace took it hard, yeah?” he asked.

  I nodded. “He did.” I lifted my gaze to his. “He…asked me why I let him fall in love with me. And then he had a call so he left rather abruptly.”

  Max Thibodeaux squeezed me tight. “Give him time, darlin’,” he advised.

  “I’ll give him all I have.”

  I’d lain awake for what seemed like hours that night, my phone clutched in my hand, hoping Jace would call. Or text. I even cracked my bedroom window, thinking he might come back to the house, and I didn’t want to miss his arrival.

  None of that happened and, finally, I drifted off into a restless sleep.

  I stared hard at the road in front of me. Anger surged through me; a rage that took me by surprise. It shocked me more than Memory’s confession.

  A fucking brain mass?

  Jesus Christ. She could die. She could fucking die…

  Emotions made me recoil, and my foot let off the gas. My eyes glimpsed the speedometer; I hadn’t noticed I was going so fast, but I had been going almost ninety. I let the truck slow and I pulled off onto the shoulder. Threw the truck into park and just sat and stared at the empty road. My eyes closed then, and I squeezed them tight, and a lump lodged in my throat. My fingers gripped the steering wheel so hard, my knuckles turned white, and I forced myself to breathe.

  How the hell could this be happening? Memory was the most full-of-life soul I’d ever known. She couldn’t just…die. Not be present anymore. It wasn’t a natural feeling, her not being here anymore. Not being alive.

  How the fuck could I fix something like that?

  The pager went off, pulling me out of my thoughts. A second tow, only a few miles away. I took a few more minutes, collected myself. Never had I felt so helpless. Out of control. I’d always tackled problems head-on and won.

  How could I win this for Memory?

  I breathed. Put the truck in drive and started in the direction toward the next tow, but my thoughts flung around my head in chaos.

  I’d been so angry with her. And in the very same breath I’d told her I’d loved her. Memory’s face had crumpled at my fury. In her eyes I’d seen fear. Sadness. And I’d just been a selfish horse’s ass.

  Yeah, I was in love with her. Yeah, it pissed me off that she’d withheld such vital information as a brain mass. Given the same circumstances, though, would I have done the same thing? Maybe. I couldn’t say. I didn’t have a life-threatening brain mass. Hadn’t survived one alread
y.

  I had no fucking business judging her choices.

  “Goddammit, Memory,” I swore, and slammed my fist against the steering wheel. My voice caught on my words, and my eyes began to sting. “Goddammit to hell, Memory Thibodeaux.”

  Up ahead, a car had pulled off on the side of the road, its yellow hazard lights flashing against the pitch-dark night. A few vehicles had passed me since I’d started off, but tonight had been busier than usual. A tractor pull two counties over had the roads hopping. I pulled ahead of the car, put the wrecker in reverse and looked over my shoulder as I backed up the truck.

  When I put it in park I knew what I was going to do as soon as I finished the tow. I didn’t care if I had twenty more tows waiting. I was going to drive back to the Thibodeaux’s and tell Memory I was sorry for being such a jackass.

  And tell her how crazy in love I was with her.

  I swung out of the truck and exchanged words with the young guy who owned the car. He waited off the shoulder as I began the wench, and as I waited by the tow, my thoughts raged back to Memory. Her diagnosis. And how scared she must be. She’d kept her cancer—past and present—a secret from everyone, just so they wouldn’t treat her differently. Just so she could continue to be the person everyone had come to know and love.

  Just so she could live the way she’d wanted—

  “Hey, watch out!” a voice shouted.

  Just before lights swerved toward me.

  I jumped, dove for the wrecker frame.

  Too late.

  A crushing sensation morphed with screeching tires and a blasting horn, and then everything went blacker than night.

  I wasn’t sure how long I’d been sleeping when my phone rang, and my eyes darted open. I sat up, peering at the screen as I tried to focus. It wasn’t a number I recognized, but I answered anyway.

  “Hello?” I said.

  “Memory? This is Brax Jenkins.”