Because why would the special guest speaker at a cancer fundraiser be a twenty-year-old guy?
Unless that guy had cancer.
Still, despite knowing this, I hold out hope. Because maybe it’s his father, or mother, or someone else he’s close to. Not that that makes things any better, but it seems much more preferable to imagining that the man I have fallen so hard for could be sick.
But now as I look at him, the suit making my hands itch to take it off him, I notice things I hadn’t paid attention to before. His defined cheekbones, that once I thought looked supermodel sexy, now emphasise how thin his face is. How gaunt. How skin I’d once thought was creamy, is now pale. Sickly.
“No,” I whisper, and shake my head. Because please, no. Not him.
“I ...” Joel clears his throat again, and the emcee steps up beside him, whispering something in his ear. Joel shakes his head and the man walks away, leaving Joel Henley, my Joel Henley, to face the music and the microphone alone.
“My name is Joel Henley. A lot of you know me, but for those who don’t, I’m going to tell you a little something about my story,” he says, and a few people offer up claps of appreciation. I’m moved to the side as the wait staff clean up the colossal mess I’ve just made. I barely register the movement. The only other person in the room is him.
“I was diagnosed with cancer when I was sixteen.”
The words cut straight to my heart. Sixteen. That was when he left. When he picked up and disappeared, cutting all ties.
He thought he was dying.
Still, I find some sliver of hope. Because maybe he’s cured. Maybe he’s been through chemo and radiotherapy, and all those other crazy treatments, and come out the other side. Perhaps he’s the poster boy for cancer fundraising because look, it worked on him.
But then I think of my father.
I know the story of cancer all too well.
It’s a book that wrote our family’s future.
Joel continues to speak, and every time another line comes out of his mouth, it’s another dagger to my heart. Words like remission. Words like returned.
Words like forever.
And then he says the one line I’ve been dreading since he started to speak. The one line that puts a taint on everything we’ve been through, because while I’ve been celebrating the birth of our relationship, he’s been saying goodbye to life.
“When I first found out, my father and I moved to Sydney. To get the best treatment available. To do everything we could.”
The words taunt me, teasing at the seams of my soul. No. Not him.
“We fought, and we won, and then ... and then it spread to my brain.”
Quiet waves of sympathy ripple around the room, then silence. You could hear a pin drop.
“And after several rounds of treatment, they worked out it was inoperable. The position it’s in—you can’t reach it with a scalpel. There was nothing we could do,” Joel says. He lets out a breath, and my heart goes with it. “When they told me I only had another year or so to live, I decided I wanted to do more. Thanks to the good people at Cancer Australia—Milo, Jo, Cath—I was able to submit a list of twenty-one things I wanted to do before I turned twenty-one. Before I ... well ...” He trails off. He looks so lost for a moment. People this young and this beautiful aren’t supposed to die. A woman next to me wipes a tear from her eye. “They have covered the costs of around fifty per cent of the things I wanted to do. And I had some pretty pricey items in there.” Joel jokes, but it falls flat.
Hot laps.
Acting on stage.
Each memory is a ball of lead, rolling in my stomach.
“So they’ve helped make my last few months a bit more bearable. And that’s why I encourage all of you here today to give, and give generously. Because I’m one of the lucky ones. I’m not leaving behind a kid, and I’m old enough to know that—well, shit happens in this life. It’s how you deal with it that counts.”
His words etch themselves into my heart. And then they break it.
The boy standing on stage watches me with wide eyes, and the girl who fell in love with him breaks inside of me. She just breaks.
“A big round of applause for Joel Henley,” the emcee says, taking the microphone and gesturing to Joel as if he’s a prize to be won on a round of Sale of the Century. “If that doesn’t encourage you to dig, and dig deep, I don’t know what will. Now, let me introduce ...”
He keeps talking, but I can’t hear a word he says. Because the boy I love is running through the audience, pushing past well-wishers to get to me.
And the fear that’s been swirling around in my body finally takes flight. It transforms into energy, and I run.
And hope like hell this is some nasty dream.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
The cold night air assaults me as I fly down the street. I kick off my heels when I reach the corner, grabbing them in one of my hands and turning toward the wharves.
My feet burn as I run across the gravel. Each cut is like a balm to my soul, because right now I need to feel this pain, this physical outlet for my own internal grief.
“Ellie!”
I hear my name in the distance, but I keep going, turning down yet another street. My lungs burn from the brute force of the cold night air, and my cheeks and nose are ice. It doesn’t matter. None of it matters.
Shit!
I turn left around a building, and that’s when it catches up to me. My body is walloped with this huge hit of despair and heartache and pain, a pain so deep it vibrates within my body. Bile lurches in my throat, and I stagger to the bin on the corner and empty the contents of my stomach. Acid coats my mouth. Tears freeze on my cheeks, and I wonder when I started crying, and when it will ever stop.
“Why ...?” I sob, my body shaking. I stagger to the corner of a building and punch the wall with my fist. The impact is dull, an echo of a pain I can’t feel. A pain that’s nothing compared to the ache that’s welling inside me.
I cry, a raw, primal sound, and at some point two arms wrap around me. Warm. Strong.
Safe.
I hiccough my way to cohesion, and then push against his chest. “No,” I choke. Though my tears, his face is somehow even more beautiful, the streetlight spotlighting him like an actor in a play. “No.” It’s weaker.
Softer.
Giving in.
“I’m so sorry, Ellie.” He pulls me tight against his chest, so tight I feel it rise and shakily fall with every breath. He’s hurting too, and somehow I hate that more. I hate that more than every ounce of pain I feel. “I ... it’s why I left without a word, all those years ago. I left you, left my friends—everyone. I even closed all my social media accounts. It was just too much.”
It answers a doubt that had been niggling in my mind, but now that I know the truth, I’d have rather it remained a question. Some things are better left unanswered.
There’s one question burning in my mind, and I know I have to ask. Know I need the answer before I can even begin to process this monstrosity called life.
“How long?”
Two simple words.
They say so much without saying a damn thing.
“The doctors can’t agree. Things were looking good, but the latest—”
“How. Long?” I seethe, but it’s also a plea. A plea for him to be wrong. For this all to be a cruel, lonely dream.
“A year. Tops.”
This time, when I suck in a breath it scrapes down my throat. A year? That’s ... “Three hundred and sixty-five days.”
My shoes drop to the ground, a dull thud that seems to come from far away, a fall from hands not mine.
“Yeah.” Joel nods, and a fleeting pain crosses his features before he schools it again. And damn it, I want to be strong like him. I want to be this man, this model of good grace about what the future holds, but I’m giving it everything I have to not lie on the pavement, kicking and screaming about how unfair life is.
“Is there a treat
ment? A special ...”
His shaking head cuts me off. “They’ve tried everything. I’ve already had it better than most. And thanks to Cancer Australia—”
“You didn’t know I’d be there tonight?” I beseech him with my eyes.
“No. I do these speaking things for them all the time. I didn’t know they’d hired your Mum; she’s from the EC, not the city.” He licks his lower lip, and gazes down at me. “I would never have wanted you to find out ... like that.”
“Or did you just not want me to find out?”
He wrestles with his answer. “I ...” He runs a hand over his head, his traitorous skin, and then looks back at me. “A part of me wanted you to never have to know. To never look at me with the pity everyone else does.”
“Pity?” I ask, my eyes bugging. “So what? You were just not going to show up on one of our dates one day? And then what? I’d see your funeral notice in the fucking paper?” I shove at his chest, and he falters.
“I would have said something!”
“Would you?” I’m on a roll now. My devastation turns to anger. Anger that he didn’t tell me. Anger that I don’t know how to deal with this. Anger that two people in my life I’ve loved have been touched by this bitch named Cancer.
But most of all?
Anger that there’s nothing I can do.
And nothing I try can ever change that.
“I ... it’s why I tried to avoid getting involved in the first place. Why I was so hesitant, even though you’re so ...” Joel steps closer. He takes my shaking fists and holds them to his face, kissing my knuckles as if they’re made of glass. But it’s him who’s made of glass. Him who is so inherently breakable. “Ellie, I ... I think I love—”
“Don’t.” I sob the word out, and press one finger to his lips. They’re soft, too soft. For some reason, this breaks me all over again. “I can’t ...”
“I’m sorry.” Tears shine down Joel’s cheeks, the streetlamp highlighting them in mockery. Some are his, some are mine—all are salty evidence of this deep wound that’s been cut open.
It hurts, hurts so damn much that I can’t take it anymore. So I do what I do best in these situations.
I run.
And I don’t look back.
***
At first, I expect him to chase me. Want him to, even. But then he doesn’t.
And somehow, that leaves me feeling even more hurt than I had been when I found out.
Joel Henley has cancer. My Joel.
And soon he won’t be around anymore.
My feet pound the pavement, tears drying as the cool night air whips around my face. Blonde curls stick to my cheeks, dance in front of my eyes, and I hurt. I hurt where my arms have rubbed against the stupid tulle of my dress. I hurt where the wind has whipped my lips.
But most of all, I hurt right in the gaping hole in my chest where my heart used to be.
I turn corner after corner, but nothing looks familiar. Buildings, apartments, pubs and shopfronts—they all blur into one unidentifiable mess. I glance up at the street sign on the corner next to me, needing some clue on how to get out of here. My hand digs through my handbag, searching for my phone. I tap out a text to Hope when I remember—my shoes are on a street corner some twenty-minute jog from here.
I thud my forehead against the red bricks in front of me. The dull ache makes me grit my teeth, but it somehow feels like release. Because no one should have to feel the pain I’m feeling without showing a scar. No one should have to hide hurt that eats up all of your insides.
I tap out a text and crumble to the ground. Dirt spikes against my bare legs, but I don’t care. I feel like Cinderella, only I’ve completely missed the damn ball. Because it wasn’t supposed to happen like this. I’ve shown up to the wrong event.
Somewhere farther along the dark alley, a man coughs. It’s a throaty hacking noise, and on any other day, at any other time I would have got up and walked away. Today, I stay. Nothing can hurt me now.
Feet shuffle along the street and then a pair of worn canvas shoes are in front of me, stopped right at my legs. Beside them, the wheels of a shopping trolley roll to a halt. From here, I can see the plastic bags, the loose clothes—most likely everything this man owns. It’s the caravan of the unfortunate.
“I don’t have any money,” I say, only my voice is so hoarse from the raw bursts of emotion that I barely get the words out. The stench of human waste filters through my nose, and I pray that he’s not about to pee on me. Because there’s not a lot that would make me feel worse than I do right now, but I have to admit that that would be up there.
“‘Ere.”
A hand with dirt-lined nails passes down a bottle inside a brown paper bag.
I eye it for a moment, thinking what a stupid idea this is. How dangerous drinking something out of this man’s hands could be. He could have some kind of contagious disease, have spiked it with some kind of date-rape drug, or even pissed in it, for all I know. This is definitely not a safe move.
Then I think what safe has done for me so far.
I clasp the bottle with both hands and bring it to my lips. I tip my head back, and the strong scent of whiskey assaults me even before the liquid hits my lips. It burns my tongue, brings a fire back to my throat, then heats my chest and my stomach.
I drink long, and I drink hard, big gulping swallows that speed through my body. The cheap alcohol mixes in my gut, and my stomach lurches.
It’s all the indication I need to stop. I wipe my lips with one hand and raise the bottle toward my saviour. A round face shadowed by wiry grey hair looks down at me, eyes a wicked black in the dark. “‘Ave some more.”
I swallow, and look at the bottle again.
My knees are starting to feel ... numb.
God, I want to feel numb.
I bring the bottle back to my mouth, but just as I do, the whiskey rebels against my body. Excess saliva coats my mouth, and I drop the bottle, stagger to my feet and hurl into the nearest bin for the second time tonight. It’s acidic. It stabs at my throat.
But it’s still got nothing on my heart.
“Fuckin’ weirdo.” The homeless man picks up the bottle and shuffles down the street, pushing his trolley full of belongings.
For some reason, that makes me laugh, but there’s no mirth in my outburst, just a kind of lunacy.
A taxi pulls up to the street corner and Hope flies out, the door left open behind her. She wraps her arms around me, even though I probably smell like spew, and whiskey, and heartache.
“I’m so sorry,” she whispers in my ear. She pulls back and studies me. I dread to think what she must see. Messy hair, reddened nose and cheeks, and eyes that even a panda would find offensive. But for some reason, she doesn’t leave me there in the middle of the street. “Come on.”
She links her arm through mine and walks me to the waiting car, where she ushers me inside. I slide across the leather seat and latch my seatbelt through.
“She spews in here, there’s a cleaning surcharge.” The cabbie points to a sign above his head that details all the information anyone could want to know about the kind of fees one might pay if they dirtied his car.
“Got it. Emerald Cove, please,” Hope says, and then puts her hand over and squeezes my knee.
My phone starts to ring, that damn “Drops of Jupiter” song, and it makes me want to cry all over again. When I was outside with Colin the other night, Joel must have assigned that song to be his personal ring-tone. Who else would it be?
I hit cancel, then turn my phone off. I can’t talk to him right now. It hurts too much.
In a soft voice, Hope says, “I know this sucks, honey. I know.” She bites her lip, and then looks me square in the eye. “But I promise, it’s going to get easier. Better.”
I nod, but my eyes are vacant, my head a million miles from here.
Because it’s not going to get easier.
I just don’t see how it could.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
When my father died, I didn’t stop. I kept going. I had to look after my sister and my mother. I had to organise the funeral and be strong.
Now? Now, I don’t stop, but I’m not really here, either. I’m lost. I’m so far gone, I don’t know how to find myself again. Because the man I love is going to leave me.
For the second time in my life.
He calls, at first every ten minutes, then every hour, then twice a day. I don’t answer. I have nothing to say. Nothing will ever be able to quite articulate I’m sorry and why and it’s not fair all at once. And that’s not even covering the big one.
Please don’t go.
Cancer is a vicious bitch, and she’s already taken the man who was once the most important person in the world to me. She plucks out her victims and gnaws at their being, eats at their soul. They’re chosen without rhyme or reason, and just when you think you have the nature of it down, that you’ve beaten the beast which controls you—
Snap.
She breaks you in two.
You breathe your last breath.
I don’t want Joel to end up like that.
And that is the crux of it. I’m a horrible person. I’m going to Hell. Because I’ve already been hurt so much that now, the idea of willingly putting myself back into a situation like that again? Loving someone who is going to die scares the ever-loving shit out of me.
In romance novels, the heroine always does anything for love. She’ll throw herself under a train if it means being with the man of her dreams.
I want to throw myself under that train. I’m just petrified that after I do, no one will be around to scrape me up off the tracks. I’m the one who always picks up the pieces. I can’t break again.
And shutting him out of my life now will be easier than losing him later.
I throw myself into work, stuffing paper bags as if my life depends on it. When I show up to work at the hot-air balloon field an hour early, Colin raises an eyebrow, but he doesn’t say a word. When I place the baskets in order then stumble as a wave of grief hits me, he stands and holds me close.
The Twenty-One (Emerald Cove #2) Page 12