Love Always, Kate

by D. Nichole King

  I shifted my attention to the snowflakes circling around us. I didn’t know what to say, so we sat in silence for a few minutes, letting the car warm up.

  “You’ll have to tell me where to go.”

  Damian didn’t say anything. He just stared out the window. I could hear him breathing. Taking my hands off the wheel, I sat back in my seat. I didn’t want to push him, so I waited. Eventually, he sighed and turned to me.

  “Uh, I didn’t expect to see you here today.”

  “I forgot my gloves.”

  So lame.

  Damian reached down and unzipped his bag. There was a half-grin on his face as he pulled out my favorite pair of gloves. “I was going to give them to you on Monday.”

  If the smell of alcohol hadn’t been burning my nostrils, I would’ve found the gesture charming. I took the gloves from him, touching his hand. “Thanks.”

  He bowed his head, refusing to look up when he spoke. “Hey, I’m sorry. Like I said, you weren’t supposed to be here today.”

  “Damian, I don’t even know what happened.” I reached and placed my hand over his. He started to withdraw it but stopped. His eyes met mine.

  “My dad and I haven’t gotten along in a long time. Sometimes it just…” he paused and rubbed his forehead. “My mom and my brother died. They went out to get a birthday cake for The Good Doctor, and they never came home.”

  How drunk was he? Would he remember opening up to me tomorrow?

  The idea spurred some bravery within me, and I squeezed his hand. “I’m sorry.”

  “It hasn’t been easy.”

  “And the alcohol?”

  Damian squinted at the floor and scoffed. He shifted in his seat before meeting my eye again.

  “I get it.”

  “Get what?” he snapped.

  “Losing everything in an instant. Wanting to run away from the emptiness inside.”

  Damian didn’t say anything for a while. He stared at our entwined fingers. “I live on Lincoln Place Drive. I’ll show you.”

  We drove in silence, except for Damian giving me directions. I turned into the long driveway to a huge three-story brick house. I gaped at the size of it. It was beautiful, with white trimmed windows and evergreen shutters.

  I drove up to the first garage door and shifted into park. Damian grabbed his bag and reached for the handle. The door swung open, and he swiveled. “You coming?”

  “Oh, uh, sure.” The invitation caught me off guard. I guess I’d assumed he’d rather be alone.

  The foyer was bigger than my bedroom. My mouth dropped. No way could my parents ever afford even a fraction of the place. Damian must have noticed my awe as he was halfway down the hallway before coming back for me.

  “It’s just a stupid house. Come on.” He grabbed my hand and yanked me into the massive kitchen. My eyes bugged out. It was Martha Stewart’s dream kitchen, aka my mother’s dream kitchen. Stainless steel appliances accented the black marble countertops and cream-colored cabinetry.

  The grip he had on my wrist almost hurt. I tried to tear away, but he held on even tighter. “Damian, let go. You’re hurting me!”

  He dragged me over to one of the stools under the breakfast counter. I rubbed my wrist when he let go and plopped down on one of the stools. Glancing over, I saw Damian rummaging through the refrigerator. He yanked out two bottles of beer and started walking over to me.

  “Oh no,” I said, sliding down. I swiped them before Damian had a chance to protest. “I’ll make you coffee.”

  Damian’s eyes shot daggers into me. I ignored him and put the alcohol back in the colossal refrigerator. The Keurig sat at the opposite side of the kitchen. I took a gander and opened the cabinet above the machine. Bingo: K-cups.

  I faced him. “What do you want?”

  He narrowed his eyes. “A beer.”

  I spun on my heel, rolling my eyes. “You’re getting coffee. What kind?” The sternness of my voice surprised me.

  “I don’t care,” he mumbled, slouching lower in the chair.

  I grabbed a random cup and stuck it in the machine. “Coffee mugs?”

  Damian scowled and pointed one cabinet over. He lowered his head to rest on his arms. I took two mugs, filling mine with hot chocolate and his with coffee. When both cups were full, I sat Damian’s in front of him. He glared at it, glanced at me and took a sip.

  We drank our beverages in silence. Every so often, Damian would eye the refrigerator, probably wishing he hadn’t invited me in so he could be drinking his way to oblivion by now. He finished his coffee first and watched as I took a slow drink. When I put the mug back down on the counter, he reached for my hand.

  “Come on,” he drawled.

  “Where?” I considered pulling away, but didn’t.

  “Upstairs.” He stood up and tripped over the leg of the stool. I tried to let go of his hand, but he held on too tight. With a grunt, I toppled to the floor and landed on top of him. He started laughing.

  “Couldn’t wait, huh?” He licked his lips seductively and slapped my butt. “The floor might be a little cold, but I’m game.”

  Ugh…

  He was drunk; I ignored him. He pushed my head down to kiss me. I ducked out from under his grip. Sure, I wanted him to kiss me, but I wanted him to remember it.

  I crawled to my feet. Damian scoffed, swearing under his breath as he rolled onto his stomach, dragging himself onto his hands and knees. I offered my hand; he batted it away.

  “I’m not a fucking child,” he stammered.

  If it hadn’t been for the wonderful moments we’d shared, I would’ve been hurt. Instead, I blamed the alcohol and followed him up the stairs.

  He rounded the corner to his bedroom. Staggering his way to his unmade bed, Damian slipped off his shirt, dropping it to the floor. My eyes were drawn to the tattoo on his bicep. The design looked Celtic. He crawled into bed and fell onto his back, eyes closed. Another Celtic design in the shape of a cross was burned on his chest. I wondered what they meant.

  My eyes drifted over his body. Oh so perfect! My heart pounded, and I forced myself to look away.

  I grabbed the black blanket and spread it over him. He opened his eyes, staring straight into mine. Still high on courage, I reached down and touched his cheek, running my fingers down over his lips. He kissed my fingers, saying nothing. I dropped my hand, and Damian rolled to his side, taking the blanket with him. His shoulders soon rose and fell in a steady rhythm. I sat down beside him, rolling my fingers around locks of his hair.

  More than anything, I wanted to take away his torment. Pain, even though it hurt, made us stronger—if it didn’t destroy us first. I fought my disease harder each time because of the sting inside. I couldn’t allow it to beat me. No matter how loud it screamed, I’d channel all of my energy into defeating it. I wanted Damian to do the same to his. Except right now, his pain was winning. And I didn’t know how to even the score.

  Or even if I could.

  I looked around the room as I toyed with his hair. Two shot glasses and an empty bottle of Tequila sat on top of his night stand. The wall across from his bed was black, all the others were white. Large white stair-step shelving stood at the far left, a guitar leaned against it. Black curtains draped the windows, and a huge television hung on the wall across from his bed. Clothing, CD cases, shoes, belts, towels, and empty bottles of whisky were strung across the floor. It looked nothing like my room, which I kept OCD clean.

  Eyeing the mess, I decided to tidy up a bit. At least make a pathway from his bed to his private bathroom. His breathing had steadied, and he started to snore. The soft noise made me smile. I debated for a few seconds, then I leaned down and kissed him on the cheek before I chickened out.

  I stood up and started creating a trail by moving stuff with my feet. At best I could get his shoes out of the way. My clean-freak-overdrive kicking in, I grabbed any CDs and Blu-rays I found lying on the floor. With a stack in my hands, I walked over to the white shelving and placed the
stuff on it.

  I glanced back at Damian; he looked so peaceful. I started making my way to the door, watching my step. My eyes skipped across the carpet. My breath caught when I noticed something on the floor beside the bed. A lump welled up inside my throat. There was no mistaking what I saw.

  Nothing Damian did or said that day had stung until now. I was able to excuse it all. But seeing the black lacy bra beside his bed hurt even more than any cancer procedure I’d endured.

  Chapter 6

  November 19

  Dear Diary,

  Now would be a great time to have a girl friend to hash stuff out with. I don’t know what to think. I mean, I know I’m new at this whole…whatever this is. Are we even in “friend” territory? Is it possible to go beyond friends without ever being friends? If this—whatever-thing—is nothing, then why does my stomach still feel so empty?

  I guess I thought there was something behind what we shared the other day. You don’t kiss someone the way he did and not feel something, do you?

  Maybe I imagined it. Maybe it’s been there for a few weeks. It doesn’t look like he cleans his room much at all. Or…no, I’m an idiot. It’s lingerie! Of course it means what I know it means. Should I just ask him?

  But the way he looked at me. And kissed me. And touched me.

  I can’t get his blue eyes out of my mind. Every time I close mine, I see his. They pour into me with such intensity. Argh. This is crazy.

  I wonder how many girls he’s invited up to his room. I was probably the next contestant on his list of “Player’s Price is Right.” I can’t believe I fell for a guy like that. So stupid.

  Now I have to get him out of my head. Should be easy, right?

  Who am I kidding!

  How do you stop liking someone? Can I just will myself to let him go? How do I forget his lips? Or his touch? Or how his eyes looked like they were memorizing my every feature? Is it possible to see him again and not burst into tears?

  I don’t think I want to.

  Tears dripped onto the pages as I wrote. The more I wiped them away, the heavier they seemed to fall. Eventually, I gave up. Questions with no answers flooded my mind, making me more confused. My stomach weaved itself into a tight ball. Setting my diary aside, I grabbed the wastepaper basket. I heaved until my chest hurt.

  Fire and ice burned in my veins. I picked up my diary and chucked it across my bedroom. After it smacked against the door, I regretted throwing it. I waited a few seconds, hoping my mother wouldn’t come up, wondering if I was all right. When she didn’t come, I collapsed face down on my bed.

  My pillow sopped wet with tears, so I turned it over and sobbed until the other side matched. No amount of crying would wash away the rejection.

  In my mind, I replayed the afternoon. What if I hadn’t gone inside? Or upstairs? Why had I wanted to organize his room? I would still be holding onto the false assumption that he cared about me.

  My mother knocking on my bedroom door woke me up the next morning. I pulled the blankets up to my chest so she wouldn’t see that I’d fallen asleep with my clothes on. No uncomfortable questions that way.

  “Yeah?” I flipped onto my stomach to hide the signs of distress.

  “Are you hungry?”

  “Uh, no. I’m fine. Just worn out from the chemo.”

  “Okay, sweetie. Come down when you feel rested.”

  I nodded into the pillow.

  As soon as the door clicked, emptiness engulfed me again, and the pain that was forgotten in sleep returned with all its fury. I wrapped my arms around my stomach, curling into the fetal position. Unlike Damian’s way for numbing the pain, I would have to suffer through mine. Not fair.

  It was past eleven in the morning when my cell rang. I fumbled for it, almost knocking it off my bed. The text was simple.

  Thank you.

  The number belonged to Damian. I cried myself back to sleep.

  If I could have skipped my treatment on Monday, I would have. I didn’t want to see him. What would I say? He didn’t know what I had seen laying on his floor. He didn’t know I knew, and I didn’t want to be that girl.

  I walked as slowly as I could to the third floor of the hospital, wondering why I hadn’t just gone home. There were so many times I considered turning back, running to my car and speeding off. But Damian would be there the next time. And the time after that. And the time after that.

  “I was starting to get worried,” Leslie said as I passed the nurses’ station. “You’re thirty minutes late. Very unlike you.”

  “I know. Sorry.” I didn’t make eye contact.

  “Well, let’s get started.”

  I followed her to the chemo room, looking behind me a few times. Where was he? Part of me wanted him to be worried about my lateness, like Leslie. I pictured him pacing the hallway, or sitting in my chair in the tiny room, restless with his phone in hand. In my mind, it would be the proof I needed that he cared, that the kiss was real.

  But I searched in vain. I spent my two hours alone, pretending to read my book, flipping through my diary and tapping my pencil on the arm of the chair. Minutes ticked by slower than ever. With flared nostrils, I fought the tears back. I pursed my lips together and made clock-watching my new hobby.

  He isn’t coming.

  I bowed my head and sobbed. His not showing up vindicated the ache in my heart. No matter what I had convinced myself of all weekend, until now I’d held on to the hope that I’d been wrong. I wanted so badly to be wrong.

  My stomach turned, and I threw up. Whether from the poison flowing through my veins or the hurt smoldering in my gut, I didn’t know. Time stood still, allowing the pain to take over. I curled up in the chair and cried over someone I never had. Ridiculous.

  The door didn’t move until Leslie returned to unhook the central line. She must have noticed my puffy, red eyes, but she didn’t mention it—probably because I didn’t give her time. Her lips formed a straight line, and she sighed as she sat down beside me. Understanding her not-so-subtle ways, I jumped to my feet. I fumbled with my bag, stuffing my things in as I started for the exit.

  In a defeated voice, Leslie reminded me, “Treatment on Friday this week, Kate.”

  Thanksgiving. Whatever.

  “See you then,” I muttered and walked out the door.

  Stopping at the elevator, I pushed the down arrow half a dozen times as if it actually helped move the cables faster and waited. Most days the wait didn’t bother me, but today, all I wanted was to crawl under my covers. Leslie’s words rang in my head: “You’re strong, and I know you can handle it.”

  I wasn’t handling it. I was falling apart.

  I lifted my head to the ceiling. Stupid elevator.

  “Kate! Wait!”

  I jerked around to look down the hall. Tammy, the new nurse, jogged toward me holding a long white box in her arms.

  “I’m glad I caught you,” she said, a soft smile on her face.

  I stared at her. I hadn’t really spoken to Tammy since she helped insert my central line. She spent most of her time with the kids who had to stay in the hospital. She handed me the box, which had a large red ribbon wrapped around it that tied in a perfect bow.

  “What’s this?”

  Tammy shrugged. “The florist dropped it off about ten minutes ago. It has your name on it. Happy Thanksgiving.”

  Sure enough, Kate Browdy was scrawled across the top of the box in black ink. I scanned the top, moved the bow to the side, and turned it over. No sign of who it could be from. I began to pull at the satin when the elevator bell rang, and the metal doors opened. Six people already stood inside. Glancing between the bench behind me and the package in my hands, I tipped the box vertical and side-stepped into the elevator.

  Not surprisingly, everyone got out on the first floor. Instead of taking my time, I hurried to the car. I tossed my bag in the backseat and laid the box gently on the passenger seat. The bow slipped off easily. Clamping my lower lip between my teeth, I lifted the lid
and gasped. Inside laid a dozen red roses. A blank white envelope sat on top of the thorn-free stems. Swallowing, I picked it up and turned it over in my hand.

  I studied the flowers; they were beautiful. Someone cared enough to send them.

  Who? Why?

  The answer waited in the small pocket trembling in my hands. My breaths exited in uneven spurts. What if they were? What if they weren’t?

  With my eyes closed, I lifted the flap and pulled out the card inside. I held it in my hand for a few moments, hoping, before opening my eyes. The card was white with tiny red roses printed in the corners. I traced my fingers over the handwriting.

  Out of town for the week, visiting grandparents.

  Meet me Saturday? My house. 6pm.

  Sorry about Friday. I didn't know you'd be there.

  Damian

  I smiled tentatively and slid the card back inside the envelope. Picking up one of the roses, I lifted it to my nose and inhaled. My eyelids fell as the delicate petals glided over my cheeks like velvety satin. The weight in the pit of my stomach lifted a little.

  The flowers looked beautiful in the vase on my night stand. When my mother asked, I told her the truth—just not all of it. I said they were from Dr. Lowell’s son who was volunteering at the hospital.

  “He keeps me company during my treatments.” I swallowed. “Sometimes.”

  “And?” The eagerness in her irises was crystal clear.

  “That’s it,” I answered, my voice pitched higher than usual. Crap.

  “Hmm.”

  I looked away. “Uh, I have some homework. I’d better…” An involuntary smile began to spread across my face. “See you at dinner?”

  Before she could say anything else, I scurried upstairs and closed my door behind me.

  On Thanksgiving, I got a text from Damian.

  I’m thankful for you.

  I didn’t know the proper protocol for something like this. Do I text back? I decided to leave it alone, though I still thought about it for the rest of day.

  Mom and I went Black Friday shopping as we always did, but I drove to the hospital by myself.