by R. C. Martin
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright
Prologue
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
Twenty
Twenty-One
Twenty-Two
Twenty-Three
Twenty-Four
Twenty-Five
Twenty-Six
Epilogue
About Last Night—Prologue
Acknowledgments
Also by R.C. Martin
About the Author
Copyright © 2017 R.C. Martin. All Rights Reserved.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and other elements portrayed herein are either the product of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to real persons or events is coincidental. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.
Cover Design by Cassy Roop at Pink Ink Designs ©2017
www.pinkinkdesigns.com
Interior design and formatting by Champagne Formats
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright
Prologue
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
Twenty
Twenty-One
Twenty-Two
Twenty-Three
Twenty-Four
Twenty-Five
Twenty-Six
Epilogue
About Last Night—Prologue
One
Two
Three
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
Also by R.C. Martin
About the Author
My dad is a doctor. An anesthesiologist, to be exact. Naturally, he spends lots of his time in a hospital. I remember when I was younger, on those nights when he’d come home just in time to tuck me into bed, he’d always have this very distinct smell. It wasn’t how he smelled when he left for work in the morning, but I somehow managed to attach that smell to my father—that smell being the smell of a hospital. Sterile. Metallic. Dad. Even now, as I walk through these halls, passing by rooms I’ve grown quite familiar with over the last year and a half, I still can’t help but breathe deeply and think of him.
My brother is a doctor, too. Or, at least, he will be soon. For as long as I can remember, Beckham has wanted to bear the title of M.D. I’ve always thought him quite noble. It’s not just his career aspirations that make me think that, but also the very fabric of his being and why he’s worked so hard to get to where he is—which happens to be the second half of his third year of medical school. He’s brilliant. Though I’m biased, and I know that he hasn’t gotten this far without effort. But his heart, his heart and his desire to help people, that’s why I admire him. Being a doctor has never been about the money or the status or anything like that. Not to him. Never to him. It’s like I said—he’s noble; a trait inherited from our mother, I’m sure.
My mother is not a doctor; at least, not in the traditional meaning of the word. She didn’t spend countless years in school and then endure residency. Yet, even still, she’s amazing in her own right. While she might not hold any sort of medical license, she’s what I’d like to call a doctor of the heart. She’s the most caring and giving person I know. Ironically enough, she’s the one who made me realize that I want to be a doctor. She’s the one who brought me to various hospitals in my free time, encouraging me to volunteer and to give back as often and as generously as possible. Both of my parents have always taught me that I’ve been blessed to be a blessing, and I cling to that truth.
Though, on days like today, I don’t feel like a blessing. I feel useless. Helpless. Angry.
I’ve been volunteering in the cancer ward at children’s hospitals since I was fifteen. It sort of happened by chance. It all started around Christmas time. Mom and I were delivering gifts to sick kids, and there was this little girl that I will always remember very distinctly. Abigale. She was seven, and I remember seeing the light in her eyes when she unwrapped the book she’d been given. Her excitement lasted only for a moment, and then as soon as she opened it, finding more than pictures, I saw her shoulders drop. Turns out, Abigale couldn’t read. She’d been so sick for so long, she’d never learned how; and her parents were so busy working to cover her medical bills, she didn’t have anyone to read to her. I asked if she’d like me to read the book. When she agreed, I did. I came back the next week and read it again. And the week after that, I brought another book. Soon, I was reading to her all the time. Not just her, either, but lots of kids.
When Abigale died—her life stolen by cancer—it broke my heart. I remember crying my eyes out in mom’s arms. She comforted me, like only a mother can, and then she challenged me. I had been so upset, furious that a child so young and full of spirit could be taken just like that. When mom told me to channel that anger and use it for good instead of wallowing in grief, that’s when I decided that I wanted to be a doctor.
I want to help cure cancer. I want to be on the front lines.
Though, on days like today, I’m not so sure my anger can propel me that far.
Abigale’s isn’t the only death that I’ve seen; she’s not the only loss that I’ve known; her parents are not the only parents that I’ve cried with. I know in my heart that there is a God, that He loves us all—especially the little children of the world—and that disease and death are not His intentions for any of us. That’s just life. It’s just the brokenness of our world. But I also believe, that to some, He has gifted us with the mind and the heart to do something about the injustice of sickness.
But on days like today…
I’m nineteen years old and a sophomore at Colorado State—where my brother graduated with his undergrad. I’m pre-med and supposedly on my way to following in his footsteps. Yet, today, I don’t feel like a nineteen-year-old, bursting with energy and drive. I don’t feel as though my anger is strong enough to battle my sorrow. Today, death has won, and I wasn’t ready. I wasn’t ready at all.
It’s so freaking cold outside, even the snow doesn’t want to fall from the sky, leaving the dark clouds to glower over me as if it’s my fault the temperatures are just downright rude. I hurry out of the children’s hospital, puffing out a sigh of frustration as the automatic doors hiss closed behind me. I shiver, the cold biting through my coat, and then readjust my purse on my shoulder, trying not to think of what’s inside.
My car is freezing, despite the fact that it’s only been left unattended for fifteen minutes. I turn over the engine, letting it idle for a moment before I can wait no longer. I blink away my tears as I back out of the parking spot and then will myself not to burst into a sob until I’ve gotten home. I’m halfway there when I see a semi-truck in my rearview mirror. That’s when I lose it.
When I left for winter break, Timothy was alive. He was sick, they’re all sick, but he was alive. His parents were hopeful. He had color in his face. And the last tim
e that I was with him, he made me read the same story three times in a row. When I was home with my parents, I was out shopping for Christmas gifts, and I found a book about trucks. Timothy loved trucks. The bigger, the better. I bought it, knowing how much he would love it. Then, an hour ago, I was so excited to show it to him. But I had no idea…
He was four. He was full of so much life. He was an adventurer trapped in a sick body. Now—now he’s gone. He’s gone, and I’m here and blessed to be alive. I’m blessed to be a blessing, and yet, I don’t feel grateful. I feel sad. I feel tired. I feel defeated. It’s as if I was walking blindly, no idea where the edge was, and now I’m here—Timothy’s death pushing me over.
Now, my anger doesn’t seek justice. My sorrow makes me weep for peace.
“Oh, honey! I’m home,” cries Brooke from the front door.
I suck in a deep breath, sitting up quickly before I race to the bathroom. Cracking the door, so that I don’t make a sound, I give myself a once over in the mirror. My brown eyes look bloodshot, the skin around them puffy and irritated from my tears. My cheeks are splotchy, and my long, dark hair hangs about my face like the Kenzie of old—in other words, I look like a hot mess.
Frantically, I run my fingers through my wavy mane. It takes a lot of work to get my frizzy curls to look, well, not frizzy. On my best day, I manage the beachy-wave look. Just now, I don’t manage to tame it as well as I’d like. I give up, pulling it back into a low ponytail that hangs all the way to my waist. I then splash my face with cool water before patting it dry. When I look at my reflection once more, I stifle a groan. I don’t look much better.
I’m naturally thin, always have been, and my face is round but narrow—like an oval. My features are made up of a bunch of fine lines. My mom calls me delicate, my dad thinks that I look graceful, but all I see is oval; and after an hour of crying, I look a fright. My dark eyeliner is smeared, and mascara is running down my cheeks. I splash my face again, patting it dry before brushing my fingers under my eyes to clear away the smudges.
“Kenzie! Where are you? I’m home!”
She’s excited. This morning, when I arrived back at our apartment, I had been excited for this moment, too. I haven’t seen my best friend since we went our separate ways for winter break. Her family lives in Arizona, and she was home for the holidays. Even though we’ve been texting incessantly over the past month, I’ve missed her.
I met Brooke freshman year. She lived across the hall from me in the dorms. We hit it off right away, and we’ve pretty much been inseparable ever since. When we decided we wanted to live off campus for our second year, there was no question whether or not we’d get a place together. We’re basically nothing alike, so I’m not sure how we click so well, but we do. She’s the yin to my yang, and I love her to death.
“Kenzie Mariah Willis! I—”
I hear her voice growing closer and closer until she stops. Knowing she’s found me, I plaster on a smile just as she pushes open the bathroom door.
Brooke is a five-six to my five-four; but the girl doesn’t own a flat pair of shoes, making her about five-nine or taller just about all the time. I look up at her now, her boots forcing me to tilt my head back in order to see her face. She’s still bundled up from being out in the freezing cold. With her cute beanie—complete with a fat pom-pom on top—pulled over her shoulder-length, golden blonde locks, and her cheeks, as well as the tip of her nose, rosy from being outside, she looks like one of those fictional winter fairies—only taller. Though, the light that shines in her big, bright blue eyes fades the instant she sees me.
“Oh, god—who died?”
It kills me that that is her first question. It breaks my heart that she’s been around me long enough, and I’ve gone through this so many times, that that is always her first question when she’s caught me crying. Even worse, nine times out of ten, she’s exactly right to ask.
I draw in another deep breath in an attempt to ward off more tears before I reply, “Timothy.” His name comes out barely above a whisper. In spite of my efforts, my eyes well up just thinking about the empty room I found this afternoon.
“Yikes. Uh, shit,” she mutters, looking at me anxiously.
Brooke doesn’t handle tears well. Like, at all. I know this, and yet I can’t make myself stop crying.
“Oh, honey, I’m so sorry,” she says, reaching out to rub my arm. “Um, yeah, I don’t remember which one he was, but that sucks. Like, royally sucks. Cancer is a bitch. But, um, yeah—you’re going to be a kick ass doctor one day soon, and you’ll be one of the doctors who helps find the cure. I mean, shit, what year are we in? We’ve got to be getting close, right? With, like, technology advancing everyday and, you know—super smart people trying new, innovative things. I mean—”
“Brooke, stop talking,” I chuckle through my tears, reaching up to pat her hand. “It’s okay. I’ll be okay,” I lie.
The truth is, this time feels different. This time feels harder. This time, hearing her talk about a cure makes me feel inadequate and small. I don’t tell her these things, of course. She doesn’t need to carry the weight of my doubts.
“Sorry. Um—oh!” she gasps, clasping her hands together. “I have an idea. How about some hot chocolate? Do we have milk? I can run down the street to the corner store and grab some. Yeah—I’ll do that. I’ll grab some popcorn, too. We can stay in the rest of the day and drink hot chocolate until we’re sick, and chat about our breaks, and go over class schedules and stuff. Yeah, that’s what we’ll do. I’ll be back in a few!”
Before I can get a word in, she’s racing down the hall. Then, when I hear the front door close, I smile in spite of myself. I turn back to the mirror, suck in air through my nose, and then breathe out my sadness. I have approximately fifteen minutes to pull it together. While my heart aches, Brooke will be back soon, and the rest of the day will go exactly as she described.
It is the Brooke way. Everything can be fixed with chocolate and chatter.
While Brooke is out, I wash my face and put on a fresh coat of eyeliner and mascara. I always feel more human with my eyes darkened. Mom has been telling me I don’t need it since I discovered how much I love it, but she’s my mom. That’s what moms are supposed to say. What they don’t tell you is that eyeliner is a gift from God, and when carefully applied, it makes me look like I’m actually awake and not a zombie with scary hair.
Recognizing that said hair is a lost cause for the day, I comb it to one shoulder before plaiting it in a braid I let dangle down my chest. Then, knowing we’ll be staying in for the rest of the evening, I head back to my room to change my clothes. I’m just pulling on a pale pink, long-sleeved t-shirt over my cheetah print, cotton joggers when there’s a knock at the door. I grab a pair of warm, wool socks from my dresser drawer, scrunching my brow in confusion as I make my way to answer.
“Brooke, if I open this door and your hands are full of—”
I stop mid-sentence when I pull the door open and see someone decidedly taller, darker, and bulkier than my bestie.
“Oh, no,” he murmurs, his shoulders sinking at the sight of me. “Who died?”
I close my eyes, determined to keep the tears at bay as I draw in yet another deep breath. My sob gets clogged in my throat when Owen wraps his arms around me, crushing me against his broad, hard chest.
Unlike Brooke, Owen is great with tears. It’s like he has a sixth sense. He can smell them from a mile away. I might not even know that I have any tears left in me, but he does. Even if I’ve covered up the evidence of my crying spree, he knows about it—kind of like now—and he’s always ready and willing to comfort me—just like this—and I love him and hate him for it at the same time.
I don’t answer his question right away. Instead, I relax in his hold, battling my tears until I feel like I can open my mouth to speak without unleashing them. Then, with a sigh, I gently push my way out of his arms as I tell him about Timothy.
“That sucks, Kenz,” he mutters, shaking
his head in disgust.
“Yeah,” I reply with a nod, my thoughts temporarily wading into the dark places of my mind, were hopelessness reigns.
My freezing cold toes remind me that we’re standing in an open doorway. I reach for his jacket and pull him inside before closing us in. “So,” I start to say, shaking my head clear, “not that it’s not good to see you, but what are you doing here?” I look up at him in question, tugging my socks onto my feet.
Owen is a year older than Brooke and me. Like Brooke, I met him in campus housing. He was the resident assistant for the floor above ours. Now, he lives off campus just a couple blocks away. Though, he’s here so often, you wouldn’t know it.
“I just thought I’d drop by to see if you were back. Is Brooke around?”
I smile knowingly, folding my arms across my chest.
“Yeah. She ran out for some milk and popcorn. She’ll be back any minute. You want to chill?”
“Sure,” he says, shrugging his way out of his coat. He drapes it over the arm of the couch before plopping his big frame down on a cushion. I shake my head and roll my eyes, snatching up the garment before heading to the coat closet to hang it up.
“So, when did you get back in town?”
Owen is Cuban, but—like me—was born and raised a Coloradan. However, he’s got family in Miami, which is where he travels every Christmas. I know without even asking that he had a great time out on the beach—he’s got the tan to prove it, his skin the perfect shade of golden brown. Not that he needed anymore of an advantage in the looks department.
He keeps his black hair buzzed close to his scalp, and he’s always sporting a five o’clock shadow, a look that makes the ladies gawk wherever we go. Basically, in one word, Owen is hot. Not to me, obviously—he’s like my brother—but I can understand the appeal.
“I flew in last night,” he tells me as I join him on the couch. “Three weeks in Miami, and I forgot how fucking cold it is here.”
“Well, it might help if you wore some long sleeves,” I tease, extending my leg to poke his big, solid bicep with my toe.