Total pages in book: 109
Estimated words: 103719 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 519(@200wpm)___ 415(@250wpm)___ 346(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 103719 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 519(@200wpm)___ 415(@250wpm)___ 346(@300wpm)
Lydia had been a surprise in most ways, and a shocker in a specific one, but there had never been any issues with them getting along. They had been of like mind, and very like body, at the beginning. Now, though, they had diverged, and he was taking the road less traveled—and yes, it was making all of the difference. Unfortunately, his one-laner was a kick in the ass that came with an early grave—and the reason there was no more traffic currently on it was because the chances of someone his age getting catastrophic cancer was a lottery win in the worst possible sense.
The urge to apologize to her again for getting sick was like his cough, a returning spasm in his throat that he knew wasn’t going to be eased for long. Still, he swallowed the syllables as best he could because he knew actions, not words, were what mattered when you were making amends, and his immune system was just not up to the task of curing him. And neither were all the drugs he’d been taking.
“I think you should speak to Gus again about Vita-12b,” Lydia said in a low voice. When he started to shake his head, she cut in, “If you can smoke, you can be more open-minded about it.”
Her eyes, those beautiful whiskey-colored eyes, stared across at him so intensely, he felt like she’d taken his shoulders in strong grips and was shaking him.
“It’s our last option, Daniel.”
“No, it isn’t.” He made an attempt at sitting up again, but his torso, wasted though it was, somehow weighed seven thousand pounds. “The last option is to let go.”
She gasped a little, and tried to hide the inhale with the back of her hand. When she recovered, she whispered, “Don’t say that.”
“The truth is what it is.” He eased even farther back into the cubbyhole he’d fallen into. The position twisted his spine and torqued his hips, but relieving the discomfort wasn’t worth the effort it would take to straighten himself out. “Whether we talk about it or not, I’m dying, and we need to face that.”
“But you could just try Vita—”
“You remember how much fun we had last night?” He glanced out the open doorway of the walk-in to the bed that had been made—no doubt by her, even though C.P. Phalen had all kinds of staff. “God, it was so fucking romantic, you holding me over a toilet as I threw up bile. Really great. Was it good for you? I know I saw tears in your eyes, and yeah, sure, they were from joy. On my end, I was tempted to quit in the middle, I really was, but I persevered for your pleasure because that’s the kind of man I am—”
“Daniel.”
He closed his eyes and cursed. “You know, I remember when you used to say my name in different ways. Now, it’s just that one way.”
“Will you please just talk to Gus one last time?”
Daniel looked down his body. He was wearing an old pair of his cargo pants, not that he needed all those pockets for anything. The waistband was very loose, a requirement given how much his stomach bothered him—and something his weight loss conveniently provided—and beneath the cinch of his belt around the bones of his hips, his thighs and calves no longer filled out anything of the legs. It was like he was wearing someone else’s bottoms, and really, wasn’t that the truth?
“You know—” He coughed a little, and then stayed quiet for a couple of seconds afterward just in case the spasms bloomed into another round of respiratory Pilates. “I can’t remember the last time I had a meal that didn’t taste like metal. Or slept through the night. Or wasn’t consciously aware of my body’s every twitch and jerk.”
“I know it’s been hard—”
“I’ve been stuck with needles, cut open, and stitched up. Filled with dyes and put in machines. Stared at and prodded by strangers. I’ve been wired thanks to steroids before the chemo and up for days, and then so tired that blinking was like sprinting a marathon. I’ve had more antibiotics than a Walgreens stocks during flu season and I’ve worshipped toilet bowls like it’s a new religion.” He lifted one of his hands and let it speak for itself when it came to the shaking. “You want to know why I smoke out in the woods? It’s like wandering through a museum of my old life, and I like the exhibits even if I no longer own the paintings. I’m just trying to reconnect with myself before I fucking die.”
Lydia seemed to collapse into herself. But then she rallied with a refrain that made him want to scream: “C.P. Phalen said it might cure you.”
“She’s not a doctor.” He tried to mediate the harshness in his voice. “Gus, who is one, tells me they don’t know what it’s going to do to me.”