“I won’t be long,” I tell her. I slip into a CC t-shirt and then into my jeans.
“Mmm, mmm, those jeans are tight in all the right places. I might have to get out of this water and come check that out.”
I wink. “I put a text order in for the food, so let me go get it and then…” I stretch my arms out. “All yours.”
She sighs. “Always?”
“Always.”
I leave Cleo beaming in the tub, moving her hand around so she can see the light glint on her ring.
Twenty-Eight
Kellan
I ride the elevator nearest to my flat—the one that gets the least traffic. With new gloves on my hands, I press the “6” button and lean my shoulder against the mirrored wall.
I can’t help the little smile I give myself in the mirror. For just a second, I swear I see dimples.
Thank you, Ly.
I stand stone still, feeling…warm. Just really fucking warm and…glad. That things turned out this way. I inhale deeply. Fuck, I’m lucky. I love her so much. It was crazy, giving her that ring. I did it recklessly—because I love her. I can’t believe she said “yes.”
I step out of the elevator on the sixth floor still grinning like a fool and get a kick out of going into the restaurant. As always, people give me looks, but I don’t give a shit. I’ve got my fucking woman in the bath tub with a diamond on her finger.
God, it’s good. I close my eyes and fire a prayer off to somewhere. Thank you.
I get Cleo’s little brown bag and hand my card to the woman at the counter. She hands me my receipt, which echoes my thoughts: THANK YOU. I walk to the elevator slowly, taking careful breaths because sometimes my lungs try to close up a little.
Right now, my chest feels tight. Excitement, I guess.
I press the “up” arrow and tap my foot as I hold the warm bag against my thigh. I can’t fucking wait to get back up there to her.
I laugh. Did that really happen?
Yeah. It fucking happened.
I ball my hand into a fist and press it to my aching chest. I step into the elevator hearing birds caw…smelling salt water. I’ll buy her a cottage by the sea. I want kids out there, playing on the sand. I think of Cleo at an easel, smiling as she paints. The feeling of my mother knots my chest up. My eyes blur a little.
I lean against the elevator wall and rub just under my throat. I grip the rail with my gloved hand.
The elevator lifts me. The door opens, and I walk out.
My chest feels…tight and heavy. Cleo. That’s my first thought. Needing her. My cheeks and chest flush. My shoulder aches. I blink down at the hardwood, stunned by the crushing pressure on my chest. I dropped Cleo’s food.
Fuck.
Can’t breathe. I grasp at the hall wall. Can’t see. I stagger toward my door.
Cleo!
My heart lights up like a fireball, spreading all through me.
I can’t breathe without her.
Guess I really can’t…
Epilogue
August 7, 2020
October 19, 2014
Dear Cleo,
The last six weeks have been the best ones of my life. Meeting you…knowing you—it’s the answer to the question “why,” which I have asked so many times.
I flew from Emory to Memorial SK because of you. Just you. I never told you, because I didn’t want you to feel burdened or obligated. Do you remember in the ambulance that night, the way you rubbed my hand? You kissed my neck and pulled my hair, you did everything you could to keep me awake, just like the EMTs wanted. I remember only pieces of this—individual frames in a longer, blurry film—but in one of them, I can hear you telling them, “You have to fix him. I love him.”
I knew you really thought they could fix me, because you never said those words to me. You probably figured I was semi-conscious and I would remember. I think maybe you didn’t want to burden or obligate me. You didn’t know you had already. Meeting “Sloth” in person changed me before I even spoke to you. It was a lie: I watched you just for business. I watched you, stalked you, because my heart was sore and tired, and looking at you made me warm down to my soul.
So many times, you warmed me. What I wanted to say that night in the elevator was that when I got here in the ambulance, I had only one foot in. Despite the painkillers they had me on, I realized I was back at Memorial SK and I was fucking scared. I couldn’t breathe. They gave me oxygen. Some Ativan. I started saying I wanted to be discharged. Arethea found me and she later said I cried for you. She told me she would try to find you.
I was so lost that night. You’ve been here now, you know why. I told myself if you reached out to me in any way—a text, a call, even a card—that I would do another transplant. I wanted you so much. There were no odds. Just you.
I don’t know how to tell you…when you came. You showed up in my room. I remember you wanted me to get in bed with you. Cleo… you killed all my pain in just that moment. Every time I got scared that you would go, you showed me you were made of iron.
That’s how I knew, when Willard told me about the CMV, that if it gets bad, I will have to shelter you myself. If you’re reading this, that’s probably what happened. They say this shit is hard to beat. I hope you never see this letter. I’ll try hard, I fucking swear.
But I want to know— that if I have no choice— if I send you away so you don’t have to watch me die and walk out of the ICU alone— I want to know you have no doubts about my feelings.
I want to marry you. Do everything with you. Travel the world. Have children. Watch them grow. If I can, I will. I swear. (Unless you don’t want that).
But if it doesn’t go that way…
I wanted to leave instructions for you— wishes for the one I love.
Okay, Sloth. Here I go…
Don’t guard your heart. I understand you’ll want to. Keep it open. You’re so strong. By far the strongest person I’ve ever known. Don’t isolate yourself.
Actively seek love. Anyone could love you, Cleo baby. Go on lots of dates. Blind dates. Match.com dates. Please find someone to hold you while I’m gone. Nothing in this universe would please me more.
Have lots of children. (I know you want to). Millions of years of evolution compel me to offer you my banked sperm, but consider having children with someone you love, who’s also living. If I have angel vision, I would love to see your pizza-loving Cleo spawn.
Please don’t think of me too often. I know it will be hard at first, after what we’ve been through, so don’t rush things. Sometimes the pain will take you to your knees. I know that, baby. I’ve felt it, and I wish to hell you didn’t have to. It never goes away, you know that already, but I know you can learn to live with it.
Have fun. Do what you love. I’m leaving you some money, baby. When they bring the check to you, take it without a fuss. For me. I still want to take care of you. It’s important to me. You deserve the best.
Please don’t regret a thing about the time we shared. Everything you did was good enough. Your marrow is a lovely thing. Do you know how much it pleases me to know we share your DNA? I’m going to leave this world perfect.
Don’t worry with my resting place. I won’t be there. Once a year, baby. That’s all you need to do.
I want you to travel. See the world for me. Leave your angel DNA on every continent. Find someone to love, who loves you back, and take him (or her) with you. Share a cot in a hostel. Go to the beach a hundred times a year. Dancing in the rain is fucking cold and, in my opinion, unpleasant, but enjoy other spontaneous things, like extra nights on vacation, and a good fuck. Yeah—that’s right. Don’t forget to use that pretty pussy.
Also, keep painting. There’s a grant waiting for you at my mother’s foundation.
Don’t hold onto bitterness and anger. I know it’s easier said than done, but I want you to remember what, to me, is the most important fact of my life: I died knowing that you loved me.
Maybe I wasn’t here for very
long, but while I was, you gave me the greatest gift you could—your heart.
I don’t know why I was here, or exactly how I got here, or even where I’m going, but I know the point of it was loving you. There is no doubt in my mind, Cleo. We love each other. I think that’s the point, baby. I think that’s why. We didn’t need a lot of time. We took what we had.
Please keep Truman close to you. Don’t walk down dark roads at night, baby, take a self-defense class. Be careful who you trust, or sensible. Cherish what I value most, okay?
When you meet your next love, kiss them as soon as you know. Put the poor bastard out of the misery of guessing.
Make sure he treats you like an angel. You are, and always will be, mine.
Your Kellan.
The bedroom door pops open before I have a chance to swallow back my wrenching sobs. I see Olive’s small, blonde head, then Mary Claire’s stunned face.
She scoops Olive up, stroking her hair. She reaches around Ol and, with her brows drawn tightly, MC signs, “Are you okay?” Her eyes widen, to emphasize surprise. “Do you need anything?”
I shake my head. “Go away,” I sign back. My daughter’s green eyes meet mine, and I give her an unsteady smile. “It’s okay Ollie, Mommy’s sad, but I’ll feel better soon,” I fudge. “Go play with Aunt MC.”
My four-year-old nods knowingly. “I love you Mommy.”
I feel a flash of mom guilt as MC carries Olive off, but it’s lost quickly in the typhoon of grief roaring through my soul. I drop my head down to my pillow and give in to hysterics.
Outside my window, waves crawl up a long, deserted shore. The sky looms low over the sea. A bird caws, frantic—like I feel.
I hold my pounding head and squeeze my pillow close. I miss him. I miss Kellan so much. I picture his face and sob so long and hard my stomach starts to churn. I drag myself into the shower and sob as I wash. I pull a swimsuit on, then flop down on my king-sized bed. I need to get out of the house. Instead I grab the nearest framed snapshot off my nightstand and grip it to my chest, as if that can ease my pain.
I hear my daughter’s gleeful scream echo down the hall. Poor Helen’s sharp meow as Olive dashes after her. The sound of crashing waves floats in through the half-cracked balcony door. It’s a perfect summer afternoon. I have to stop. No use in grieving all this now.
And yet, the more I tell myself to stop crying, the less I can. I curl over on my side, weeping helplessly…for how long?
I cry for both of us. For Kellan, mainly—all he went through, my poor K.—but for myself too. For all the pieces of my heart that cracked and fell away. The ones I never found again, and never will.
I used to think the pain of this would pass, but now I know it’s a lie, what they say: that time heals all wounds. It doesn’t. Time fades the scars a little, but like physical scars, soft spots on our hearts don’t really mend. If you press hard enough on them, they ache. They even break wide open sometimes.
Like today. August 7. It’s no wonder I’m a mess.
The door creaks, and I tense. I drag a deep breath into my lungs and brace myself for Helen’s lithe body, or Olive’s wide, green eyes.
Instead, I hear my husband’s long, strong strides over the hardwood. I cover my puffy face with my arms and wait to feel his hands on me.
I feel him over me. Then his hands are on my back.
“Cleo?”
He clasps my shoulders, firm and gentle, then seems to decide against rolling me over onto my back, and takes my face between his hands instead.
His fingers brush the hair out of my eyes. He sees my blotchy face and murmurs, “Fuck.”
I peek up at him. His blue eyes are wide and startled. His perfect face is twisted in alarm. “Did something happen? Lyon?” He bends down over me, kissing my cheek. “Don’t leave me guessing, baby…”
“Not Lyon.” I shake my head and wrap my arms around his shoulders. As I pull him down on me, he sees the letter. He hovers over me for a long moment, eyes locked on the yellow pages. Then he sinks down to the bed, pulls me to his chest, and tucks my head against his strong pec as he reaches for it. I can hear the papers crinkle as he holds them out in front of him.
“Cleo…why? After so long…” He sets the papers down and leans away from me, forcing me to lift my head off his chest so he can see my face. “Why right now, when things are so good, baby?”
My eyes fill with tears and tenderness gentles his face. He brushes his lips over mine, presses his cheek to mine. His skin is hot. He smells so good. Like…marijuana. And spices. Like Totally Baked, the marijuana bakery we started several years ago.
I inhale a long, slow, soothing breath. “I don’t know,” I murmur. Or rather, can’t explain what made me open Kellan’s goodbye letter this year, on this particular day.
I sink my hand into my husband’s soft, gold hair. I can’t help smiling at him. “You’re home early. How did that happen?”
“Magic.” He gives me a gentle smile. “I got something you might like.” His eyes gleam. “From our old stomping grounds.”
He reaches behind him, fingers delving into the back pocket of his jeans. He holds up a tiny swatch of pale grey fabric.
“Ohhh. A Chattahoochee College onesie.” I take it from him, rubbing my thumb over the soft cotton.
“Got a shirt for Olive Arethea, too. I gave it to her.” He grins. “She said, ‘It’s just like Mommy’s!’”
I smooth the onesie over my pregnant belly.
“Looks good on you,” he says softly. He reaches for my face, stroking his thumb over my jaw. Tears fill my eyes again. He wraps an arm around me and I turn to face him…my gravity. He smiles and draws me closer, sheltering my body with his larger one. His mouth brushes my eyes and nose and finally….so carefully…my mouth.
“You gotta tell me,” he whispers. “What’s with your timing, wife o’ mine? Two days I’m down in Georgia with the franchise, you take a walk down memory lane?” He smooths my hair back off my forehead. “Lucky I got business taken care of fast and raced home to my woman, mmm?”
I wipe my eyes. “Not lucky! Unlucky. No more leaving till the baby’s born. I mean it.”
Kellan chuckles. “You would think I leave you all the time.”
“You do.” I wrap my arms around his broad, strong shoulders. My nipples harden as my breasts brush his chest. “That makes twice this pregnancy. No more. Please…say you won’t.”
His lips tug into a crooked smile. “I won’t. On one condition.” He reaches for the letter, and I watch him fold it. He smirks as his eyes flick up to mine. “You’ve gotta talk to me.”
He slips the folded letter into his back pocket. Then his fingers tuck a strand of hair behind my ear. “You trying to feel sad? Get your pregnant woman emo thing on?” He’s teasing, trying to make light of such an awful, painful subject. But the weight inside me can’t be lightened.
I shut my eyes and rub my lips together. Tears drip from my eyes. “I want to be reminded of unhappy times. Because we’re happy. That’s why.” I wipe at my eyes as my voice cracks. “We were them too, remember. You wrote that to me, Kell. Can you imagine? If I really had to read that?” Tears stream down my cheeks.
He strokes my hair over my shoulders. “No. I can’t imagine. Never have and never will. We haven’t had to.” His blue eyes are deep as oceans. His big hand cradles my belly. “We are all four healthy. Here. Together. I’d say we’re pretty fucking happy, no?”
I wipe my eyes. “We are.”
“We earned it, yes? We waited for it. For a long time.”
I nod, dabbing at my cheeks. After our engagement, we waited almost two years to get married. Kellan wanted to feel healthy, and that took some time. The day he passed out in the hall, I found him when the paramedics showed up, bustling and bumping the walls. They told me they thought he’d had a heart attack, and I was wailing when he started reaching for my hand.
The chemo did damage his heart. But it repaired itself.
Even now, with
six years of remission under his belt, we still have our moments. But they’re so many fewer. We forget for weeks and even months sometimes. Despite some aches and pains, expected side-effects from all his treatments, he’s healthy and cancer-free. I know we’re fortunate. I watch him smile again.
“Do you know what day it is?” he asks.
“Of course.” I reach for his hand.
“Our anniversary.” He kisses my knuckles. “I brought THC fudge from the café. In the fridge. But I really want to celebrate alone.” His eyes darken. “What say you?”
He’s already up, getting my soft, white cover up from the armchair and my favorite flip-fops from their spot beside the balcony door. I watch him move around our bedroom, gathering a blanket, a bottle of water, both pairs of sunglasses…even my favorite hair band.
He takes my hands and pulls me up from my beached whale position, smirking a little as I shift my hips to accommodate my belly. “Turn around. I’ll get your hair.”
I turn my head and feel his fingers sift through my locks.
I yawn. “Love it when you do that. Feels so good.”
“That’s what I’m good at. Making you feel good.” He takes his time pulling his shirt over his head. Ensuring I’ll relish the way his hard chest looks in motion. Like always, I feel warm between my legs. Like always, it’s a struggle not to outright gawk at his bare body. I lick my lips as he kicks his shoes off, leans down to roll his pants up.
I love the way his shoulders ripple as he moves. I love everything about him. By the time he’s got our beach bag slung over his arm, I’m smiling. He takes my hand and leads me out onto the porch…and down the sandy stairs, out toward a tiny wooden beach shack that is only ours.
We walk together on the hot sand, slowly first, and then with long, hungry strides. Kellan picks me up and twirls me, and the skirt around my bathing suit flips up.
I can’t stop laughing. Then we reach the beach shack and I feel my pulse pound. He unlocks the door and I nip at his back.
Never Let Go: Top Shelf Romance Collection 6 Page 74