Total pages in book: 126
Estimated words: 118733 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 594(@200wpm)___ 475(@250wpm)___ 396(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 118733 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 594(@200wpm)___ 475(@250wpm)___ 396(@300wpm)
Kent’s hand found hers, and he squeezed it. “Hey, are you okay over there?”
How had he known she was upset?
“I’m fine,” she told him despite the pain clear in her voice.
Kent pulled over into the nearest parking lot and put the Jeep into park. He unbuckled her seat belt and pulled her to him as much as he could with the console in the way. Kent didn’t ask her what had made her cry or why she felt down. He held her because he knew. Palmer sobbed into his chest over the sudden onslaught of emotions brought on by the trip, her budding feelings for Kent, and the realization that her time on earth was almost over. With the tears came the anger. The hurt and frustration. And the questions. Why her? Hadn’t she sacrificed enough already?
Not once did Kent tell her everything would be okay. He faced the same battle of watching her die in front of him. He would be the one to take her to the hospital when the time came. Death with dignity no longer applied to her, unless they returned to California. Kent would shoulder the brunt of her death and had never wavered in his decision to take her on this trip. For what was left of her life, she couldn’t fathom why someone would be so kind.
Kent continued to hold her, soothing her with soft strokes up and down her back. He only asked her once if she was in pain, but she told him she wasn’t, even though she was. The pain was different. It was gut-wrenching, rip-your-heart-out, pointed pain. It was her reality, and nothing could take it away from her. Not a pill, not a shot in the hip, not even her personal medic.
When Palmer pulled away from Kent, he wiped her tears and kissed her forehead. She wanted more and hated that she couldn’t have it. She wouldn’t put him through any more heartbreak than he’d already experienced.
“What can I do?” he asked.
Palmer cleared her throat. “They’re my demons. I’m the only one who can combat them,” she said.
He understood. “If they were physical, I’d beat the shit out of them for you.”
“And I’d let you.” The tumor was physical, but it had a grip on her, and it wasn’t letting go until it won.
Kent waited until he was sure Palmer was okay before he started driving again. He turned the GPS on and set their destination for Boston. When they were back on the road, Kent reached for Palmer’s hand and held it. She appreciated the gesture and clung tightly to him.
It was early afternoon when they checked into their hotel downtown. They’d specifically chosen one within walking distance of the historic features they wanted to visit. The valet helped them with their luggage and then took the keys to the Jeep. Inside, Palmer checked them in while Kent played with a dog belonging to one of the guests. When they got to their room, Palmer cackled when she read the pillow on the bed: “Wicked Smaht.”
“What’s so . . .” Kent didn’t need to finish his question because he saw it too. “I think this might be our most interesting stop on our vacation.”
“I agree.”
They freshened up and then set out to explore. Their first stop was Quincy Market for lunch. Palmer had read about it and Faneuil Hall in a brochure back at the inn in Chatham and thought it would be a great place for them to eat. As soon as they stepped inside, Palmer felt overwhelmed. People were shoulder to shoulder, and the food selection was far more expansive than she had anticipated.
“I don’t think I read the pamphlet clearly.”
Kent laughed. “How about we get something from the vendor outside? I saw a food truck near the entrance of the marketplace.”
“Sounds like a better option.”
They stopped and watched a drumming street performer who used buckets and stainless steel bowls as his equipment. Palmer couldn’t make sense of what song he was playing, but she enjoyed the rhythm. Before they left, Kent dropped a five-dollar bill into the man’s tip jar. They found their food truck, ordered, and sat down at a picnic table, near dancers who tried to entice onlookers to join them.
“People who can dance like that have so much talent. I’m envious.”
“You can’t dance?” Palmer asked.
Kent huffed. “Nope. Can you?”
“Absolutely not,” she chuckled. “I have two left feet, zero coordination, and have never been to a nightclub.”
“I’d say we could add that to your list, but veto.” Her eyes widened at him. “The noise would be too much,” he said, and then took a bit of his clam chowder, or, as the sign said, CLAM CHOWDAH.
Once they finished, they found the Freedom Trail and took it to the site of the Boston Massacre. Palmer marveled at how the city had memorialized the location right in the middle of traffic. The history of the United States of America fascinated Kent. He peppered the colonial soldier with questions and nodded along with everything the young man said. There was a tour of the Old State House, but they decided against taking it.