Royce: An Enemies to Lovers Romance

by Skye Darrel

  “I can deal with anything,” I say shakily. “We’ll worry about it later. Live in the present, right?”

  April smiles. “Right.”

  “I’ll visit your parents tomorrow, after the Support Group meeting. They need to know what an eligible bachelor I am.”

  “Don’t get cocky.”

  I bury myself in her neck and my body stirs again. “Too late for that.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  APRIL

  Everett holds my hand outside the meeting room. He’d driven all the way from Baltimore to meet me at the Longwood Community Center. Support Group time.

  “Ready?” I say.

  He kisses me. “Ready, Princess.”

  “Don’t call me Princess in there. It’d be weird.”

  Everett squeezes my rear. “As you wish, kitten.”

  I nudge him off. We’re having a good time, but I can tell he’s uneasy.

  When we go in, the others are chatting around a cookie tray near the window. There’s also a bowl of punch, and Everett pours me a cup like we’re at a party.

  “Such a gentleman,” I say sweetly.

  “I’m always a gentleman.”

  “Not in bed,” I say in his ear.

  Everett’s face darkens a shade.

  I introduce him to all the Support Group regulars, like Mr. Thompson, who leads the Group in discussion, and Vivian Mendez, who’s had ALS for three years now and still going strong. Handshakes all around. No one recognizes Everett as the heir of Royce Innovations, and he asked me not to use his family name.

  Just Everett. My boyfriend. He’s the second youngest person in the room next to me.

  Sixty-year-old Mr. Thompson calls for the session to start. We take our seats in a circle, Everett sitting at my side.

  “They look pretty healthy,” he whispers. “George Thompson over there is an ox.”

  “Mr. Thompson works out.”

  “Even with ALS?”

  “He doesn’t have it, his wife did. She passed away eight years ago and he started Support Group in her memory. He’s a social worker now.”

  “Oh.”

  “There’s no cure,” I say, holding his hand. “Remember?”

  “Not yet, April. Not yet.”

  I smile for him. “You’re sweet.”

  Support Group works like any support group for chronic disease. Stories are exchanged. Pains shared. Victories, no matter how temporary, are celebrated. But no one in this group ever wins. I’ve been attending since I was fifteen, and in that time people have come and gone. No one asks why someone stops attending, because we know what the answer is.

  That doesn’t mean we’re depressed or anything.

  When you know for sure you can’t win, acceptance comes sooner or later. Certainty gives you peace. That’s what I’d felt—until I met Everett.

  Now the peace is gone because I know he’s not ready for the end. He hasn’t accepted it. Even here, surrounded by people with ALS, Everett has this detached look as he holds my hand. As if he’s merely observing. As if what’s happening to the others won’t happen to me.

  We go around in a circle saying how our lives are going. When it comes to my turn, I blush a little. I tell them how supportive Everett is. How amazing. I tell them about our trip to the mountains. Of course I leave out the spicier details, but everyone smiles knowingly when Everett pecks me on the cheek.

  “She’s the bravest girl I’ve ever met,” he says.

  I look down, shy all of a sudden.

  An hour later, Support Group ends, and we finish how we always do, with applause, for ourselves and each other.

  “Good people here,” Everett says to me.

  “Thanks for coming.”

  “Anytime, Princess.” He nuzzles my neck.

  I giggle. “Stop it!”

  “Can’t.”

  “Gotta visit the ladies' room. Meet you outside?”

  “Don’t be long,” he says.

  I hurry into the hallway. This day is turning out way better than I’d expected. I have to admit, the idea of having Everett by my side forever—no matter long forever lasts—would be nice. He saw me at my most vulnerable, and he's not afraid. What more can I ask for?

  After washing up, I head out to the parking lot. Others Groupers are walking to their cars. One man, Harris Powell, who’s lived with ALS for nearly eight years, is being pushed in a wheelchair by Mrs. Powell. My eyes follow them. Eight years is well above the average survival time, but survival doesn't always mean living. Harris is frozen to that chair, an oxygen mask strapped to his face, and he can’t speak more than a few slurred words at a time. His throat muscles are too weak.

  During Group today, he mentioned getting a voice synthesizer, which will be pretty expensive, and can he please kick the bucket before he sounds like a robot? He was joking. We laughed with him. Dark humor. But I’m not sure I can ever live like that. Trying to picture myself in a wheelchair while Everett pushes me around makes me shiver.

  Everett is nowhere to be seen.

  Turning back inside, I spot Vivian Mendez walking toward the exit with her husband. In her late forties, Mrs. Mendez is one of those people who never seems to age. But she uses a cane to walk, courtesy of ALS.

  She waves at me. “Wonderful to see you today, sweetheart. Your boyfriend is a treat. My Brucie here was a looker in his day, but that man is positively divine. Good catch.”

  I blush, and her husband’s expression says he has zero in interest in this conversation.

  “Thanks Vivian. Actually, have you seen my boyfriend? I seem to have lost him.”

  “He’s helping George Thompson clean up. So considerate. See you two next Friday?”

  “I’ll be here. Everett might be busy, but I’m sure he’ll make an effort.”

  She laughs. “He’d better!”

  I wish them a good afternoon.

  Back outside the meeting room, the door is ajar. I stroll up the hallway and hear two voices talking inside the room. One belongs to Everett. The other sounds like Mr. Thompson. Kinda odd. What do they have to talk about?

  Something in Everett’s tone makes me stop beside the door.

  I peek in to see him speaking with Thompson. Their faces look gloomy.

  “The worst part is this,” Thompson says. “Her mind will stay intact. It’s not like Alzheimer’s or Parkinson’s.”

  “That’s good, right?” Everett says. “April won’t lose her memories or personality. She’ll always be her.”

  “Sure, the disease won’t affect her mind. She won’t forget who you are. Nothing like that. But ALS will destroy her body. Patients call it being a prisoner in their own body. Prisoner sums it up. Depression is common, loss of interest in life.” Thompson sighs. “You want to know what it’s like living with an ALS patient? Ugly—that’s the honest truth. I saw what this disease did to my wife. You should be ready for it.”

  Everett runs a hand through his black hair, the brave, happy mask gone. Worry etches his face. I pull my head back and lean against the hallway wall, heart pounding in my chest.

  “I love her,” Everett says. He sounds so shaken I almost don’t recognize his voice. “I can’t let her die like this.”

  Thompson grunts. “You want advice? My real advice? You want April’s life to be as painless as possible?”

  “That’s why I’m here.”

  “Don’t marry her. Leave her life.”

  “What?”

  “You are searching for a happy ending,” Thompson says. “There isn’t one. The best thing you can do is let her go. I know her folks, they can look after her better than you. April doesn’t need a fiancé to watch her die. You’ll break her heart, and she'll break yours. Won’t change a damn thing either. It’s not a question of love. It’s a question of . . .”

  I slip away before Thompson finishes, my feet moving like lead weights. I think I’m going to be sick.

  Sick. Ha ha.

  Somehow I manage to reach the parking lot. A sob le
aves my throat. I wipe my eyes and wait for Everett to come out.

  Nothing Thompson had said was wrong. That’s the worst part.

  Chapter Fourteen

  EVERETT

  I asked George Thompson for advice because his wife had lived with ALS.

  Advice on how to make April comfortable. How to make every day our best. But Thompson got the wrong idea. He thought I’d meant making April comfortable while she dies.

  So he described the final months of Mrs. Thompson. Feeding her, changing her diapers, helping her out of bed when their caretaker wasn’t around.

  The details scared me for a moment. Only a moment.

  Now he says the best thing I can do is leave April alone. Spare her the pain of dying in my presence. Her body will atrophy until she’s bed-ridden, with a machine breathing for her. She’ll need around the clock care. There will be no dignity in it, no heroic last stand. Just a slow, miserable journey toward that final day when she stops breathing.

  April won’t want me to see her like that, Thompson says. She doesn’t even need me. April has a loving family and devoted friends, people she's known all her life. People she trusts completely. And she’ll have Support Group.

  I’m a third wheel, a man she wants to look pretty for. A burden to her soul. I am a newcomer to the short life of April Finch. Short life—because that’s what George Thompson is really saying. Walk away and let April spend what’s left of her short life in peace.

  No. Can’t do it.

  I respect Thompson. He cared for his wife to the very end, and his advice is heartfelt. George Thompson wants the best for April, the youngest of his flock. But he’s also a broken man, scarred by the past. I see it in the stoop of his shoulders, hear it in the muted tone of his voice. I respect him, but I am not him.

  “Thank you for the advice,” I say. “But I’m not leaving her.”

  The man stares at me in silence. “Best of luck,” he says eventually.

  We shake hands and I leave him to his thoughts.

  Outside, the September air has a cold bite. I walk to my Audi, where April is waiting. Her car is parked next to mine. She's looking my way but doesn't see me. Her eyes are vacant.

  “Hey. Feeling okay?”

  She startles. “Yeah. Been waiting for you. Where’d you go?”

  “Had a chat with George Thompson.”

  A faint smile forms on her lips. “What about?”

  “Nothing important. I’ll tell you later.” I hold her waist and she feels tense. “Sure you’re okay?”

  “Yep. Just thinking.”

  “About what?”

  “Stuff.”

  “Stuff?” There’s that sadness in her eyes I haven’t seen since our trip to the lodge. “If anything is wrong, tell me.”

  She pulls away and walks to her car. “I’m fine, Everett. Let’s go. Mom and Dad are expecting you.”

  “April,” I say.

  “What?”

  “Love you.”

  She smiles wider. “I know. Hurry up, we don’t want to be late for dinner.”

  I get in my car and follow hers.

  It’s a short drive from the community center to her neighborhood. But the whole way she does twenty over the speed limit. She cuts jagged turns. Brakes at red lights with tires screeching. I stay on her tail, my chest tight from the seatbelt. I expect police sirens any second.

  When we reach her house, April swerves onto the driveway and almost hits the pavement. I stop behind her, my fingers sore from clutching the steering wheel. I walk to her Civic as April climbs out.

  “That was fun,” she says.

  “Your parents would be very upset if they saw you driving like that.” Me too for that matter.

  “Live a little, Everett. Life is short.”

  I shake my head. “What’s gotten into you?”

  “Ha.” April twirls her hair around one finger. “Remember where my mouth was the last time you asked me that question?”

  I remember. “You’re upset about something.”

  “Not at you.”

  “Baby, wait.”

  But she’s already opening the front door and calling for her parents. They come out and wave me in, April standing between them. I feel like an intruder as I walk up the steps.

  The Finches greet me inside. I want to make a good impression, but I keep one eye on April. She’s upset. It doesn’t matter what she says or how much she smiles, I always know when my girl is upset.

  Her dad is gray at the temples, wears glasses, and has a guarded look when we shake hands. “Welcome to our home, Mr. Royce.”

  “Please, Mr. Finch, just Everett.”

  “Just Michael for me.”

  Her mother is bubbly and pulls me into a hug. She insists that I feel right at home. “So pleased to meet you, Everett. Call me Rita.”

  “The pleasure’s mine, Rita.”

  April scoffs. “Now that we’re all on a first name basis, can we eat?”

  Her mother tilts her head. “Are you all right, hon?”

  “I’m hungry.”

  Her parents lead us through the entryway into a modest dining room. The house is small but tidy. Inspirational plaques and family photos line the walls. Many pictures of April. Toddler. Child. Teenager. A preserved timeline of her life. The pictures stop with April in a high school graduation gown. It’s like her life stopped.

  While her parents are busy in the kitchen, she sits at the mahogany table sipping a glass of water.

  Another picture of her hangs above a cupboard. I walk over. She’s about seven or eight, grinning with two missing teeths at the camera. She’s on her belly in the grass, holding her chin, hair in a long braid looped around one shoulder. The sky is sunny.

  “Patapsco Park,” April says.

  “Cute.”

  “She wouldn’t be so cute if she knew what lay ahead.”

  April gives me a smile that doesn’t reach her eyes. I scoot into the chair beside hers and hold her hand. I don't know what I can say to make her feel better, so I don't say anything.

  Her parents walk in from the kitchen.

  Rita carries a big casserole dish with oven mitts. “Hope you like it, Everett.”

  “I’m sure it’s delicious.”

  “Don’t be so sure,” April mutters.

  Her parents sit at the other side of the table.

  I can't remember the last time I sat down to a meal with my own parents. The casserole tastes good to me.

  Rita asks about my family and Royce Innovations. I give her the clean version, briefly mentioning that venerable great-great-grandfather, Achilles Royce, who founded the company in the 1920s. Back then, it was called Royce Co. and Sons, and the company sold bicycle parts and sewing machines. Much has changed over a century.

  April stares at me and rolls her eyes. Yes, Princess, I named my cat after him.

  “It sounds like a wonderful company,” her mother says.

  “Royce Innovations is shutting down St. Jude,” April says. “They’re a bunch of as—” She shakes her head. “Forget it.”

  “We are a bunch of a-holes,” I say. “It’s true. Pardon my language.”

  Rita chuckles nervously. “I’m sure everything will work out for the best.”

  “Tell that to Yvonne,” April says, her eyes flashing. She’s barely touched her food. “But I'm sure you're right, Mom. Everything will work out for the best. I mean, when have things not worked out for the best? Like, just this morning I saw an accident on Miller Street. An ambulance came and someone probably died, but everything worked out for the best I'm sure.”

  Silence.

  April’s dad adjusts his glasses. “How was Support Group, kiddo?”

  “Great. They had cookies and punch.”

  “Thank you for going with her,” Rita says to me. “It means a lot. My darling always has us of course but it’s not quite the same.”

  April shifts in her seat, eyes on her plate.

  “It was my pleasure. I’ll always be
here for your daughter.”

  “Always?” April says. “Are you gonna be here when I can’t get out of bed anymore? Help me use the toilet? Clean up after me?”

  “It won’t come to that, sweetheart,” her mother says quickly. “We’ll find a treatment for you, I promise. Everett, I don’t mean to be forward, but if you are interested in helping her—”

  “Mom,” April cuts in. “Now is really not the time to talk about your miracle cures.”

  “I’m interested,” I say. “I’ve been researching ALS treatments myself.”

  Her mother’s face lights up. She tells me about a list of doctors she’s spoken with over the years. Rita is a nurse. She’s worked at a long-term care facility for over twenty-five years, and she’d seen her share of misery even before April’s diagnosis.

  “My job gave me perspective,” Rita says in a fragile voice. “I wouldn’t know how to cope otherwise.” She pauses, glancing at April. “Oh honey, I only meant—”

  “It’s fine, Mom. I know you don’t mean half of what you say.” April looks at me, and I struggle to keep my composure.

  Her mother keeps talking. Rita has contacted a scientist from the National Institutes of Health. There are so many potential leads. Rita has called and emailed and written letters, not only to American specialists, but to every research center for neurodegenerative disease in the world.

  “Gene therapy looks promising,” Rita says. “I read about a Norwegian doctor named Lars Reijonen who came very close to finding a cure—”

  “Excuse me,” April interrupts. “I need some air.” She gets up, her eyes moving between her mom and me. “By myself.”

  Rita forces a smile. “Would you like some lemon meringue pie, Everett?”

  “Please.”

  “Love is a hard thing,” April’s father mutters in a voice so low I barely hear him. I think he was talking to himself.

  I PUSH the screen door open and spot her lying in the back yard with hands under her head. She’s watching the stars.

  I sit down on the grass. “Your parents said I’d find you out here.”