That’s it—I was losing my mind. This whole nightmare thing was making me insane. Dallas wasn’t married. He just didn’t want to lead me on. He liked being single. In a way, it would have been easier if a ring had been hidden in the bag. At least I would have had some concrete reason why he didn’t want to see me again.
Angry with myself, because I’d known right from the start what tonight was—and what it wasn’t—I began putting everything back in the bag. Out of curiosity, I glanced at the label on the prescription bottle. Depakote. I’d never heard of it before. The bottle was pretty much full. I tucked it back inside the bag and tried my best to make it look like nothing had been disturbed. But I felt terrible.
I went back into the room, where Dallas was stretched out on his back, hands behind his head, sheet pulled to his waist. He smiled at me, and I felt even worse.
“Come back to bed,” he said.
Ignoring my guilty conscience, I crawled under the sheets, and he pulled me on top of him, my head on his chest.
For a couple minutes, we lay like that, the length of my body along his as he slowly ran his hands up and down my back and I listened to his heartbeat. Our breathing synced, and I felt peaceful inside.
“I was thinking,” he said softly.
“‘Bout what?”
“I don’t have to be in Boston right away.”
I opened my eyes. “No?”
“No. And I was also thinking about what you said earlier. Catching a Tigers game tomorrow, if they’re playing at home.”
I picked up my head and smiled. “That would be fun. I love Comerica Park.”
“Let me grab my phone.” He slipped out from beneath me and walked over to the door, where his jacket lay in a heap on the floor. “Probably I should hang this up.”
I watched, admiring his naked form as he hung his jacket in the closet and shut the door. He came back over to the bed with his phone in his hand and sat down, frowning at the screen.
“No game tomorrow?” I asked.
“No. I mean, I don’t know. I haven’t looked yet. But I have a bunch of texts from my brother I’m going to ignore.”
“Why?”
“Because he bothers me. Okay, let’s see …” He typed and scrolled. “Aha! Oh hell yes, this is perfect.” Looking at me over his shoulder, he grinned. “Tigers vs. Boston Red Sox at Detroit.”
I laughed. “But who will you root for?”
“You know what? I’m gonna get my niece and nephew a bunch of Tigers shit just to bug my brother. He loves the Sox.”
“You’re terrible.”
“I know. I’ll get tickets tomorrow.” He set his phone on the nightstand and plugged it in before snapping off the light. “We should probably get some sleep. I just need to take my contacts out.” He leaned down and kissed me, then headed into the bathroom, closing the door behind him.
I couldn’t believe it—he wasn’t going to leave tomorrow! That could mean he’d changed his mind about seeing me again, couldn’t it? Or at least that he might be willing to consider giving us a chance? Otherwise, why bother? If tonight was really only about having some fun “for old time’s sake,” he could’ve simply dropped me off tomorrow morning and been on his way to Boston. Instead he wanted to stay.
I smiled in the dark.
This was only the beginning. A new beginning. A second chance for a first love.
There was hope for us.
Eight
Dallas
I’d forgotten about the pills.
I stood in the bathroom and stared at my travel bag, which I could have sworn I’d zipped, but was now open, and the bottle of Depakote was plainly in sight.
My stomach went a little queasy at the thought of her seeing it, although it was highly unlikely she would have known what they were for. I took the bottle from my bag and read everything on the label, but there was nothing on it that indicated why someone might take the drug. Still.
Damn it, why had I listened to that neurologist? I didn’t need those stupid pills. And damn Finn for guilting me into bringing them on this trip. I wasn’t even convinced that those dizzy spells I sometimes got were seizures in the first place. I’d seen one doctor who said they were just “stress episodes.”
And I’d only passed out the one time, a month ago, and only for like two seconds. I’d probably just been dehydrated. Or hungry. I hadn’t even felt the tingling in my hand lately. Half of me was convinced the diagnosis was complete bullshit, and the surgery Finn wanted me to have was just him showing off how much smarter he was than me.
Yes, I’d seen the scans. Yes, I’d read the results. Yes, I’d listened to the opinions of multiple doctors and radiologists, all of whom fired at me with the same bullets.
A 1.2 cm mass. Left parietal lobe. The area that controls upper right side mobility. Probably been there for years. Not on the surface.
And I wasn’t an idiot. I knew something was causing the dizziness. The constant headache. The vivid memories. The occasional numb feeling in my hand. The worsening eyesight. But none of those things seemed particularly alarming to me. When compared with the risks of the craniotomy, which included potentially losing motor control and sensation in my right hand (thus ending my days as a tattoo artist—as any kind of artist) and some speech or language function, not to mention the rounds of chemotherapy and radiation I might need afterward, well, fuck. A headache, a dizzy spell here and there, and some pleasantly intense memories seemed a small price to pay. And didn’t everyone’s eyesight get worse as they got older?
Bottom line, I didn’t want to be some pitiful, drugged-up, shell of my former self, unable to work or draw or talk, and dependent on others to take care of me. I would never burden anyone that way. And I never wanted anyone to see me as weak. Frail. Vulnerable. Or feel sorry for me.
Especially Maren. No fucking way. I’d rather die than let her see me with a shaved head, staples holding my scalp together, listening to me struggle to speak. And it’s not like I could tell her about it at this point, anyway. Oh, hey, funny thing, I forgot to mention I have a brain tumor.
I took out my contacts and put on my glasses, frowning at myself in the mirror. It was an asshole move and I knew it, but I had to keep it from her. Not only because she’d be mad, but because she’d pity me. More than anything, I didn’t want anybody’s pity—not hers, not Finn’s, not my parents’, not anybody’s. I’d always lived my life the way I wanted to, and if this thing in my head was punishment for that, so be it. I’d deal with it my way, in my own good time, and I didn’t need to give a shit what my family wanted. It’s not as if they’d ever given a shit about what I wanted. And I refused to feel guilty about it.
But Maren … Maren was different. She’d never done anything but care for me. I’d come here to put things right, and I was going to end up hurting her again. She was going to hate me for it.
But loving her was the purest, deepest thing I’d ever felt, and I wanted—I needed—to hold on to that for a little bit longer. One more day.
She was already asleep, facing away from me, by the time I got back in bed. I set my glasses on the nightstand and nestled my naked body behind hers, one arm slung over her waist.
I wished I never had to let go.
I woke up about ten, and Maren was still asleep. My head was aching, so I went into the bathroom and took some ibuprofen. When I came out, she was awake and sitting up, looking adorably shy as she held the sheet up to her chest.
“Good morning, sunshine,” I said.
Her smile lit me up. “Morning. I love that you’re wearing glasses but not pants. You look cute in them.”
“Thanks. How’d you sleep?” I sat on the edge of the bed.
“Like a baby.”
“No more nightmares?”
She shook her head. “No.”
“Good.” I patted her leg through the sheets. “Are you hungry? “
“Yes. Will you let me take you out for breakfast?”
“No. But I will let you eat room service in my hotel room.”
She sighed exasperatedly. “Are you ever going to let me treat you while you’re here?”
Angry with myself, because I’d known right from the start what tonight was—and what it wasn’t—I began putting everything back in the bag. Out of curiosity, I glanced at the label on the prescription bottle. Depakote. I’d never heard of it before. The bottle was pretty much full. I tucked it back inside the bag and tried my best to make it look like nothing had been disturbed. But I felt terrible.
I went back into the room, where Dallas was stretched out on his back, hands behind his head, sheet pulled to his waist. He smiled at me, and I felt even worse.
“Come back to bed,” he said.
Ignoring my guilty conscience, I crawled under the sheets, and he pulled me on top of him, my head on his chest.
For a couple minutes, we lay like that, the length of my body along his as he slowly ran his hands up and down my back and I listened to his heartbeat. Our breathing synced, and I felt peaceful inside.
“I was thinking,” he said softly.
“‘Bout what?”
“I don’t have to be in Boston right away.”
I opened my eyes. “No?”
“No. And I was also thinking about what you said earlier. Catching a Tigers game tomorrow, if they’re playing at home.”
I picked up my head and smiled. “That would be fun. I love Comerica Park.”
“Let me grab my phone.” He slipped out from beneath me and walked over to the door, where his jacket lay in a heap on the floor. “Probably I should hang this up.”
I watched, admiring his naked form as he hung his jacket in the closet and shut the door. He came back over to the bed with his phone in his hand and sat down, frowning at the screen.
“No game tomorrow?” I asked.
“No. I mean, I don’t know. I haven’t looked yet. But I have a bunch of texts from my brother I’m going to ignore.”
“Why?”
“Because he bothers me. Okay, let’s see …” He typed and scrolled. “Aha! Oh hell yes, this is perfect.” Looking at me over his shoulder, he grinned. “Tigers vs. Boston Red Sox at Detroit.”
I laughed. “But who will you root for?”
“You know what? I’m gonna get my niece and nephew a bunch of Tigers shit just to bug my brother. He loves the Sox.”
“You’re terrible.”
“I know. I’ll get tickets tomorrow.” He set his phone on the nightstand and plugged it in before snapping off the light. “We should probably get some sleep. I just need to take my contacts out.” He leaned down and kissed me, then headed into the bathroom, closing the door behind him.
I couldn’t believe it—he wasn’t going to leave tomorrow! That could mean he’d changed his mind about seeing me again, couldn’t it? Or at least that he might be willing to consider giving us a chance? Otherwise, why bother? If tonight was really only about having some fun “for old time’s sake,” he could’ve simply dropped me off tomorrow morning and been on his way to Boston. Instead he wanted to stay.
I smiled in the dark.
This was only the beginning. A new beginning. A second chance for a first love.
There was hope for us.
Eight
Dallas
I’d forgotten about the pills.
I stood in the bathroom and stared at my travel bag, which I could have sworn I’d zipped, but was now open, and the bottle of Depakote was plainly in sight.
My stomach went a little queasy at the thought of her seeing it, although it was highly unlikely she would have known what they were for. I took the bottle from my bag and read everything on the label, but there was nothing on it that indicated why someone might take the drug. Still.
Damn it, why had I listened to that neurologist? I didn’t need those stupid pills. And damn Finn for guilting me into bringing them on this trip. I wasn’t even convinced that those dizzy spells I sometimes got were seizures in the first place. I’d seen one doctor who said they were just “stress episodes.”
And I’d only passed out the one time, a month ago, and only for like two seconds. I’d probably just been dehydrated. Or hungry. I hadn’t even felt the tingling in my hand lately. Half of me was convinced the diagnosis was complete bullshit, and the surgery Finn wanted me to have was just him showing off how much smarter he was than me.
Yes, I’d seen the scans. Yes, I’d read the results. Yes, I’d listened to the opinions of multiple doctors and radiologists, all of whom fired at me with the same bullets.
A 1.2 cm mass. Left parietal lobe. The area that controls upper right side mobility. Probably been there for years. Not on the surface.
And I wasn’t an idiot. I knew something was causing the dizziness. The constant headache. The vivid memories. The occasional numb feeling in my hand. The worsening eyesight. But none of those things seemed particularly alarming to me. When compared with the risks of the craniotomy, which included potentially losing motor control and sensation in my right hand (thus ending my days as a tattoo artist—as any kind of artist) and some speech or language function, not to mention the rounds of chemotherapy and radiation I might need afterward, well, fuck. A headache, a dizzy spell here and there, and some pleasantly intense memories seemed a small price to pay. And didn’t everyone’s eyesight get worse as they got older?
Bottom line, I didn’t want to be some pitiful, drugged-up, shell of my former self, unable to work or draw or talk, and dependent on others to take care of me. I would never burden anyone that way. And I never wanted anyone to see me as weak. Frail. Vulnerable. Or feel sorry for me.
Especially Maren. No fucking way. I’d rather die than let her see me with a shaved head, staples holding my scalp together, listening to me struggle to speak. And it’s not like I could tell her about it at this point, anyway. Oh, hey, funny thing, I forgot to mention I have a brain tumor.
I took out my contacts and put on my glasses, frowning at myself in the mirror. It was an asshole move and I knew it, but I had to keep it from her. Not only because she’d be mad, but because she’d pity me. More than anything, I didn’t want anybody’s pity—not hers, not Finn’s, not my parents’, not anybody’s. I’d always lived my life the way I wanted to, and if this thing in my head was punishment for that, so be it. I’d deal with it my way, in my own good time, and I didn’t need to give a shit what my family wanted. It’s not as if they’d ever given a shit about what I wanted. And I refused to feel guilty about it.
But Maren … Maren was different. She’d never done anything but care for me. I’d come here to put things right, and I was going to end up hurting her again. She was going to hate me for it.
But loving her was the purest, deepest thing I’d ever felt, and I wanted—I needed—to hold on to that for a little bit longer. One more day.
She was already asleep, facing away from me, by the time I got back in bed. I set my glasses on the nightstand and nestled my naked body behind hers, one arm slung over her waist.
I wished I never had to let go.
I woke up about ten, and Maren was still asleep. My head was aching, so I went into the bathroom and took some ibuprofen. When I came out, she was awake and sitting up, looking adorably shy as she held the sheet up to her chest.
“Good morning, sunshine,” I said.
Her smile lit me up. “Morning. I love that you’re wearing glasses but not pants. You look cute in them.”
“Thanks. How’d you sleep?” I sat on the edge of the bed.
“Like a baby.”
“No more nightmares?”
She shook her head. “No.”
“Good.” I patted her leg through the sheets. “Are you hungry? “
“Yes. Will you let me take you out for breakfast?”
“No. But I will let you eat room service in my hotel room.”
She sighed exasperatedly. “Are you ever going to let me treat you while you’re here?”
