Uncovering You: The Complete Series (Mega Box Set)

by Edwards, Scarlett

  I throw up all over my legs, all over the seat, all over the dark, perfect leather.

  I manage to get the door open before the next convulsion takes me. Cold air rips into the cabin.

  I fall to my knees and hurl on the street.

  I’m on my fucking hands and knees on the frozen fucking street, spewing my guts out. The smell is horrible. Tears fill my eyes. I’m a sticky, wet, disgusting, mess. Sweat beads my forehead. It drenches my back. My whole body feels hot, hot, hot, way too hot.

  I’m crying. I feel so awful, I feel so ashamed.

  Blares continue to sound from behind us. I feel somebody grab my shoulder. It’s James.

  He’s left the car.

  “You’re okay,” he says. His voice is deep with concern. “You’re okay, Celeste. Get it all out. I’m here. I’m here for you.” He rubs my back. “I’m here.”

  I shy away. I don’t want him near when I’m like this. I just want to be invisible. I don’t want anybody to see. I don’t want—

  One more violent spasm blindsides me. My stomach turns inside out, and hot bile races up my windpipe. It sears my throat. There’s nothing left in my stomach so all I get is a dribble, a pathetic dribble of spit running down my chin.

  “You’re okay. You’re okay, baby,” James keeps saying.

  I don’t know who he’s trying to convince, him or me.

  To any bystander, I am so far from okay that okay isn’t even in the same time zone. My body is falling apart. I’m breaking, being corrupted from the inside, and there’s not a damn thing I or anybody else can do about it.

  Quite simply, I am dying. I know I am. I know the cancer is killing me. I know there’s no escape.

  I’m weak, I’m frail, I’m rotting. I throw up again. You know those anti-tobacco ads showing the blackened insides of a smoker’s lungs?

  I imagine my whole body being like that.

  “Help me up,” I manage weakly. James lifts me instantly. I cling on to him. I look at the mess I’ve made all over the street, all over the inside of the rented car. I feel even sicker. He doesn’t deserve somebody like this. He doesn’t. He needs better.

  I look at him through blurry, tear-stained eyes. “Take me to the hospital,” I murmur.

  I know, for better or for worse, that I am never going to see the inside of James’s apartment again.

  12.

  We arrive in the ER. The car stinks. I hate myself for that.

  I complain of stomach pains and overwhelming nausea. They know the procedure. So do I. I step out of my nasty, soiled clothes and put on the hospital gown. James waits on me every step of the way.

  I wish he would just leave. Just leave me alone, just leave me to die.

  I don’t want subterfuge anymore. I’ll tell the doctor exactly what happened to me earlier this week. About the light in my eye. About the real cause of my panic attack. I’ll tell him about everything.

  Maybe the blood markers didn’t show anything new, but I know things have taken a turn for the worse.

  The nurse gives me something for the nausea and tells me I need to rest. I get placed in my own room—small, tiny—and it allows for visitors.

  So James is still here.

  “You should go,” I tell him.

  He appears shocked. “No.”

  “Go,” I tell him. “I don’t want—“ I wince and gesture at my body, “—you to see me like this.”

  A deep frown line marks his forehead. “I’m not leaving you, Celeste.”

  “James, please. I really, really don’t want…” My voice hitches.

  I don’t want to die. I don’t want to hurt you. I don’t want you to suffer because of me.

  “I just want to be alone,” I finish on a choked sob. “Please?”

  “You’re trying to push me away,” he grunts. “I won’t let you. I’m staying, Celeste.” He picks up my hand and brings it to his lips.

  “I love you,” he murmurs against my knuckles.

  My heart melts. But my own defenses kick in with a deep and passionate fury.

  I jerk my hand away. “No,” I say.

  “No what?” He peers at me. “No what, Celeste?”

  “No, I don’t want you here!” I exclaim. “No, I don’t want you to love me. Leave, James! Just go! Look at me. Really, really look at me!” I turn angry eyes onto him. “Look how hollow my face looks! Look, touch here…” I take his hand and press it against the side of my body. “You can feel my ribs! James, I’m dying. You can’t—you shouldn’t—be here!”

  He twists his hand around and grips mine. He looks me deep in my eyes. “You’re not,” he says. “You haven’t spoken to the doctor yet. You’re not terminal.” His voice rises. “You’re not, Celeste. So stop fucking pretending you are! You won’t chase me away. You won’t get me to leave. I love you, goddammit. And woman, as much as you try to resist? It’s only going to pull me in tighter.”

  I rip my hand away in disgust.

  “No, James,” I spit. “Stop trying to force me and my life into this perfect world you’ve dreamt up for us. Open your eyes. Open your eyes and smell the roses!”

  I’ve started shouting.

  “Look at me! Fucking look! I am not a healthy person. I am not going to survive. I’m just not, James. I’m fucking not. You need to leave. Go. Now! Go home. Don’t get drawn into me.” I glance down at my shivering body and scoff. “How can you say you love me? I’m repulsive! I’m repulsive and hideous, and you need to get away. Go, James. Go now! I have doctors here. Nurses. You think I need you? I fucking don’t!”

  I laugh again. This time, I make it cruel and malicious.

  “You think you can do anything for me? You can’t. You fucking can’t. Nobody else can, either. You know what’s going to happen when they put me in the scanner? You don’t because you’ve never gone through it. Guess what? I have. When I was a girl. I know what this shit feels like. It’s not the chemo drugs doing this to me. They’re not the ones destroying my appetite and making me vomit. It’s the cancer, James. They’re going to put me in the scanner, and I’m going to light up like a fucking Christmas tree! The cancer will have spread all throughout my body. There’s no—there’s no life for me after this!”

  I start crying. Sobbing, more accurately. It’s fueled by anger and frustration, not sadness.

  “Just leave, James! Leave me alone. Leave me alone to die. Go, dammit, forget about me! Forget about the life you promised. Forget about everything. There’s no sailing away into the sunset for us. Don’t you see that? You’re smart. You should be able to recognize the point of no return.”

  “Celeste…”

  “THIS IS IT!” I scream. “WE ARE PAST THAT POINT! Go! Get out of here! Leave me! I don’t want to see you. Go home and forget about me. JUST GO!”

  He pushes his chair back, then stands. His eyes are dark as he reaches for his jacket and puts it on.

  I’m shaking. Adrenaline is pumping through my veins. I know I shouldn’t be getting this amped up, but it’s important to me that James knows this is over. That we are over.

  Maybe it won’t happen today. Maybe it won’t happen tomorrow. But I have absolutely no doubt that I won’t live to summer.

  So why drag him through it? Why cause him the pain? Why induce the agony? Why break his heart? I’d rather be alone now. Alone, and dying. When I go, I want to be like a pebble dropping into a calm pond.

  Plop, and the water swallows it up. It’s gone forever. Quietly. Peacefully.

  Not like a grenade. There’s no explosion. No shrapnel.

  It’ll be smooth, quick, and easy.

  No casualties, either, just like with the bus.

  James opens the door. I look away. My eyes are filled with tears. The worst feeling of sadness envelopes my gut.

  He stares at me for a long, quiet moment. I know because I can feel his brilliant green eyes running over my body.

  “You need some space,” he says finally. His voice is hushed and serious. “I understand that. I’ll
give you room to breathe, Celeste, but this is not good-bye. I’ll see you again. And by then, you’ll have changed your mind, and realized just how beautiful you are. That, I promise you, Celeste.”

  He walks out into the hall and closes the door.

  Beautiful? I think. I’m deplorable.

  13.

  I fall asleep waiting for the doctor. The sound of the door rouses me.

  I look up and see him walk in. I feel awfully tired. Exhausted.

  The fight with James took more out of me than I expected.

  He sees that I’m awake. “How are you feeling, Celeste?” he asks.

  “Like shit,” I murmur.

  He makes a disapproving sound in his throat, but otherwise doesn’t comment.

  “The nurse said you have something to tell me?”

  “Yes.” I exhale and close my eyes. I hate confessing that I’m a liar, but it’s beyond time to tell him the truth.

  “I’m not—I’m not holding up, doc,” I say. “My ears are always ringing. I have awful headaches. Every time I take a breath my diaphragm hurts. And I wasn’t entirely honest with you earlier. There are… I see artifacts in my vision. Just like, these massive white specs. They come and go. The first time it happened was just before I fell and hit my head.”

  “Before, or after?” he asks.

  “Before,” I say. “Look. You don’t need to shield me from the truth. I know you said the bloodwork didn’t show anything out of the ordinary, but you and I both know how inaccurate those tests are.” I take a deep breath. “When I go in for the scan I fully expect things to be worse. Much, much worse, than my last one.”

  The doctor sits in the chair left vacant by James. “Celeste, I did not lie. Your bloodwork came back normal. It was in line with what we saw before.”

  “But it doesn’t tell the whole story,” I say.

  “No,” he admits. “But if your prognosis was made worse by anything, those tests didn’t pick it up. You’re right, there are inaccuracies. But the symptoms you described to me…”

  He hesitates.

  “What, doctor? Tell me.”

  “They could be related to the tumor, you’re right, but they don’t mean it’s gotten worse. You’re under a lot of stress with exams. There’s bound to be anxiety about your treatment. Before, while your body was able to keep such things at bay, it’s possible that everything else has piled up past the tipping point. And now you’re simply more susceptible to exhibiting symptoms. That’s all.”

  I grimace. “I’d like to believe that.”

  “I spoke to your boyfriend. He told me you haven’t let your foot off the gas at all. You’ve just been, go, go, go.”

  “Wait,” I stop him. “James Landon? You spoke to him? When?”

  “He came to seek me out. He wanted to speak about your condition.”

  “Christ,” I mutter. “You didn’t tell him—“

  “I’m bound to you by doctor-patient confidentiality,” he assures me. “I didn’t volunteer any information without your consent. But the things he told me allow me to get a better picture of things.”

  “What did he tell you?” I ask weakly. The last thing I wanted was James interfering with all of this.

  “We spoke of your lifestyle. We both agreed you’ve been taking it too hard on yourself.”

  I start to protest, about to say that he has no right telling me how to live my life, but Dr. Robinson simply continues over me.

  “You’re fighting a very powerful disease, Celeste,” he says. “You need to give your body the tools it needs to do so better. Rest. Plenty of liquids. Food, as much as you can stomach. You can’t fight cancer on a deficit.”

  “The cancer is a part of me,” I remind him. “It’s not some external force. It’s a flaw of my own body.”

  “Maybe so, but that doesn’t mean you can’t do your part to help,” he says. “Meanwhile, I’ll order more tests. It will give us a clearer picture.” He stands and touches my shoulder. “In the meantime, Celeste, rest. Sleep. You need it to recover.”

  And he leaves me like that, all of a sudden a hell of a lot less certain about what I’m going to do with James.

  14.

  A nurse comes in and tells me that the earliest I can get my scan is tomorrow, so would I like to go home? I ask her if it’s okay if I spend the night. She seems surprised by my request. Then she asks about health insurance.

  “Just the standard student Blue Cross plan,” I say.

  She tells me she’ll need to check, then returns a few minutes later shaking her head.

  “I’m sorry, but your condition does not require overnight care. You can certainly pay out of pocket, but—“ she lowers her voice, “—it’s not very cheap.”

  “How much?” I ask.

  “Three hundred for the room. Another hundred and fifty for the nurse on call.” She shakes her head again. “A few hundred extra for the doctors, surveillance, admin fees. Honey, it’s going to add up to nearly a thousand dollars. If the doctor’s discharged you, I suggest you go to your own bed and get some proper sleep.”

  My mind works in circles. I can’t afford to spend one thousand dollars on… nothing.

  And yet my only alternative is to call James and ask him to pick me up.

  Wouldn’t that just be the most hypocritical about-face possible?

  “Give me a minute to decide?” I ask.

  She smiles. “Sure.” And leaves the room.

  I pick up my phone. I eye my clothes—they’ve been washed and folded and packed in a little plastic bag for me to change into.

  I scroll through my contacts. Names of old friends and acquaintances flash on the screen. I wish I’d have been a little bit more diligent befriending other girls this semester. As it stands, James is the only person I can call.

  Or is he?

  I pause on Summer’s number.

  What if I called her and told her what was going on? What if I told her about everything—about my health, about my relationship with James, about how her made—up rape charge has really screwed up his life.

  The thing James said about her looking up to me comes to mind.

  Could that be true? I never felt it. If anything, she was always a touch dismissive toward me. Even back in high school, when we spent nearly every day together…

  But how much of what happened between us is my fault? Did I ever really make a concentrated effort to get to know Summer on more than a surface level?

  No.

  I mean, we lived together, sure—and I’m thinking back to the time before the whole lock-changing incident—but I don’t think we once had a heart-to-heart. Not really.

  Maybe I should shoulder a greater part of the blame. I knew Summer about as well as she knew me.

  And that is, not very well.

  Summer… or James? Summer or James? I love James—Goddamnit! It hurts to admit it. But, I fucking do. Pushing him away right now really is the best thing for us.

  If I survive, and I’m not holding my breath, but if I do get through this, if I somehow miraculously beat this fucking awful tumor lodged inside my skull and emerge whole, he and I can rekindle things. I’m sure…

  Unless at that point he has already moved on.

  The scenario fills me with sadness. It’s lose-lose-lose. Everyone I touch will be affected by me, and not for the best.

  In truth? I’m starting to see how Brad had the right idea. He promised me a forever. And then he crushed my heart when he learned I would not last that long.

  So maybe breaking up with James now is me taking a page from Brad’s book. It’s not cowardly. If I truly love James, then I want to leave him whole, right?

  Whole, and unbroken, and capable of carrying on his own life.

  But I ruined that for him. Just by being who and what I am.

  I ruined his life by being the target of Summer’s jealousy.

  But maybe I can still right things. If I call Summer and tell her where I am, and why… if I make her see that in
just a few months I won’t even be here, and there’ll be no threat to her trying to win over James—not that he would ever go for her, but still—if I make her see that, convince her of that, maybe it’ll be enough to withdraw the rape charge.

  And then maybe, just maybe, I can right some of the wrongs I’ve caused.

  I enter her number and hit “call.”

  15.

  I’m waiting in the lobby of the hospital when my phone buzzes.

  A text.

  Summer: I’m outside.

  I take a deep breath and wander into the cold. I spot her Mini across the lot and make my way toward it.

  She watches me approach. I take the door handle and pull. It’s locked.

  Figures.

  Her eyebrows go up in genuine surprise and she hits the button to open the door. I slip in.

  “Sorry,” she says. “I was just—flustered. I don’t know.” She looks my way. Her eyes dart nervously over me.

  “It’s not contagious,” I quip.

  The words startle a gasp out of her.

  “It’s not—that!” she says. “It’s just… cancer? Really? How long have you known?”

  “For about the entire term,” I mutter.

  “Jesus,” she says under breath. A fire sparks in her eyes. “You knew the entire semester, and you waited until now to tell me?”

  “We weren’t exactly on the best of terms,” I remind her.

  She shakes her head. “Forget about that. Seriously. It’s over with. Done. I’m sorry, by the way. I should have never… but you don’t want to hear that. You know I would have never done anything if I knew?”

  “So it takes the prospect of my death for you to finally feel guilty,” I say without thinking.

  Summer flinches as if I’d greatly wounded her. The words rattle around the inside of the car and leave a cold, dead air.

  “I didn’t mean that,” I try to correct. “I didn’t—“

  “No, no,” she says. “I deserved it. How else does it look from the outside? I’ve been a horrible friend. I feel like an even worse person.”