Forbidden Love
Page 24
Fucking cancer?
"No, this is some bad joke. Some kind of excuse for all that shit strewn around in there. I've heard some really fucked-up stories, Dylan, but that's just cruel." I screwed up my face in disgust. “You're young and fit…healthy even. You don't have cancer. Nice touch with the scar, though.” I brushed him off when he tried to put his hand on me again. I glared for a moment and angrily asked, "So, you're a drug addict and a liar now?"
I couldn’t believe it. Of all the people I could fall for, it had to be a drug user. Somebody who did the very thing I had been battling against. Life had a pretty fucked-up sense of humor for sending this shit my way.
"I don't fucking believe it." I pushed off the bed. My legs were still a bit wobbly, but Dylan was already standing. "Don't fucking touch me!" I jerked away from his grasp, stumbling just a little bit more. I couldn't believe I had been duped by this…by him.
"Haven, please," he pleaded, his hands up in a surrender motion. My eyes scanned the room. I needed to get away from this place, from him. I felt trapped, like glass had encased around my chest and filled with water. I was positively drowning in pure dread and there was no way to escape.
I couldn't stop the angry tears from running down my face. "No!" I screamed, pushing my way passed him. "This isn't happening. I gotta get the fuck out of here."
"Haven, we need to talk. Just stop for a goddamn minute!" His voice elevated and fear laced his appearance. He was terrified of me walking out the door and never seeing me again; it shone clearly in his eyes. He grabbed both my wrists and brought my face to his. "Just hear me out. If you still want to leave, then I can't stop you." His anger disappeared instantly. In its place was defeat. "Just…listen." His breath fanned across my face. "Five minutes, Haven. You owe me that much."
I stared back at his beautifully tortured expression. He was pleading with his eyes, begging me to just hear him out.
How could I?
"You’re not lying, are you?" My voice sounded distant and cold. I shivered. Still unconvinced but curious as to how far he’d take his story I looked away and lowered my head; everything was just too intense. "Fine," I mumbled. "You have five minutes."
His body sagged in relief as he placed his lips against my temple. "Thank you."
I pulled away and walked out of his bedroom.
I sat on the arm of the sofa, not able to sit and get comfortable. I stood again, paced. My hand shook as I chewed my thumbnail. Realization hit me like a firecracker had just been shoved halfway up my ass. The drugs in the bathroom weren’t street drugs. They were prescription medications. The labels flashed back in my mind as I sat there waiting. He really was sick. The pills, the small glass vials…they were all forms of painkillers.
Dylan emerged a few minutes later, low-slung faded Levi's, no shirt and bare feet.
He didn't look sick. He looked positively edible.
Focus, Haven.
"So, have you had a second opinion?" I fired questions at him while he filled the carafe with water. "How long?" I didn’t give him a second to answer before the next question flew from my mouth. "What kind of cancer is it?" I was rambling now. "Have you exhausted every possible course of treatment?" My last question died on my lips when he looked my way briefly, not speaking a word. Instead, he allowed me to get everything out.
I watched as he moved around his kitchen, the counters bare except for a toaster oven and the coffee pot.
I blurted, "Is that why you have nothing really in this place? Is it because you're dying?"
He didn't turn to look back at me, just sighed as he continued the mundane task of making coffee.
A buttery smooth scent drifted through the air as it percolated, the aroma comforting despite the war waging in my mind. 'This isn't happening. I mean, look at you?" I openly gawked, gesturing with my hands. "You're beautiful. You're strong. I certainly didn't notice any track marks in your arms." My tone was sardonic when I continued. "Trust me, I would know." I bit my tongue as soon as the revolting words left my mouth.
He made a strangled noise in the back of his throat. "I don't have any marks because I'm not doing treatments anymore. And the only mark left of the treatments I have done, is this.” He pointed to his chest and let out a resigned sigh. "I'm dying, sugar." His pause was deafening. "The medicine is just for pain now."
Realization crashed over me, denial jumping right out of the seventh floor window behind me and splattering all over the cement below.
The needles…he wasn’t fighting anymore. He was enduring.
He handed me a cup of freshly made java. "Here, sugar, get some caffeine in your system." He opened the refrigerator, grabbed the creamer and poured a splash into my waiting cup.
I just stared on, awareness of the severity of his situation slammed into me like a baseball bat to the gut. Silent tears slid down my cheeks as I looked into the swirling caramel liquid, salty mixing with sweet. “What kind?” I asked again.
“Brain cancer.” He cleared his throat.
I brought the steaming mug to my lips, catching the sorrow on my tongue as it collided with the velvety smoothness of Dylan's Colombian brew. "I really need to go." I set the cup on the counter and turned back toward the bedroom.
Dylan followed behind, stopping momentarily in the doorway while I searched for my purse.
"No, this is some bad joke. Some kind of excuse for all that shit strewn around in there. I've heard some really fucked-up stories, Dylan, but that's just cruel." I screwed up my face in disgust. “You're young and fit…healthy even. You don't have cancer. Nice touch with the scar, though.” I brushed him off when he tried to put his hand on me again. I glared for a moment and angrily asked, "So, you're a drug addict and a liar now?"
I couldn’t believe it. Of all the people I could fall for, it had to be a drug user. Somebody who did the very thing I had been battling against. Life had a pretty fucked-up sense of humor for sending this shit my way.
"I don't fucking believe it." I pushed off the bed. My legs were still a bit wobbly, but Dylan was already standing. "Don't fucking touch me!" I jerked away from his grasp, stumbling just a little bit more. I couldn't believe I had been duped by this…by him.
"Haven, please," he pleaded, his hands up in a surrender motion. My eyes scanned the room. I needed to get away from this place, from him. I felt trapped, like glass had encased around my chest and filled with water. I was positively drowning in pure dread and there was no way to escape.
I couldn't stop the angry tears from running down my face. "No!" I screamed, pushing my way passed him. "This isn't happening. I gotta get the fuck out of here."
"Haven, we need to talk. Just stop for a goddamn minute!" His voice elevated and fear laced his appearance. He was terrified of me walking out the door and never seeing me again; it shone clearly in his eyes. He grabbed both my wrists and brought my face to his. "Just hear me out. If you still want to leave, then I can't stop you." His anger disappeared instantly. In its place was defeat. "Just…listen." His breath fanned across my face. "Five minutes, Haven. You owe me that much."
I stared back at his beautifully tortured expression. He was pleading with his eyes, begging me to just hear him out.
How could I?
"You’re not lying, are you?" My voice sounded distant and cold. I shivered. Still unconvinced but curious as to how far he’d take his story I looked away and lowered my head; everything was just too intense. "Fine," I mumbled. "You have five minutes."
His body sagged in relief as he placed his lips against my temple. "Thank you."
I pulled away and walked out of his bedroom.
I sat on the arm of the sofa, not able to sit and get comfortable. I stood again, paced. My hand shook as I chewed my thumbnail. Realization hit me like a firecracker had just been shoved halfway up my ass. The drugs in the bathroom weren’t street drugs. They were prescription medications. The labels flashed back in my mind as I sat there waiting. He really was sick. The pills, the small glass vials…they were all forms of painkillers.
Dylan emerged a few minutes later, low-slung faded Levi's, no shirt and bare feet.
He didn't look sick. He looked positively edible.
Focus, Haven.
"So, have you had a second opinion?" I fired questions at him while he filled the carafe with water. "How long?" I didn’t give him a second to answer before the next question flew from my mouth. "What kind of cancer is it?" I was rambling now. "Have you exhausted every possible course of treatment?" My last question died on my lips when he looked my way briefly, not speaking a word. Instead, he allowed me to get everything out.
I watched as he moved around his kitchen, the counters bare except for a toaster oven and the coffee pot.
I blurted, "Is that why you have nothing really in this place? Is it because you're dying?"
He didn't turn to look back at me, just sighed as he continued the mundane task of making coffee.
A buttery smooth scent drifted through the air as it percolated, the aroma comforting despite the war waging in my mind. 'This isn't happening. I mean, look at you?" I openly gawked, gesturing with my hands. "You're beautiful. You're strong. I certainly didn't notice any track marks in your arms." My tone was sardonic when I continued. "Trust me, I would know." I bit my tongue as soon as the revolting words left my mouth.
He made a strangled noise in the back of his throat. "I don't have any marks because I'm not doing treatments anymore. And the only mark left of the treatments I have done, is this.” He pointed to his chest and let out a resigned sigh. "I'm dying, sugar." His pause was deafening. "The medicine is just for pain now."
Realization crashed over me, denial jumping right out of the seventh floor window behind me and splattering all over the cement below.
The needles…he wasn’t fighting anymore. He was enduring.
He handed me a cup of freshly made java. "Here, sugar, get some caffeine in your system." He opened the refrigerator, grabbed the creamer and poured a splash into my waiting cup.
I just stared on, awareness of the severity of his situation slammed into me like a baseball bat to the gut. Silent tears slid down my cheeks as I looked into the swirling caramel liquid, salty mixing with sweet. “What kind?” I asked again.
“Brain cancer.” He cleared his throat.
I brought the steaming mug to my lips, catching the sorrow on my tongue as it collided with the velvety smoothness of Dylan's Colombian brew. "I really need to go." I set the cup on the counter and turned back toward the bedroom.
Dylan followed behind, stopping momentarily in the doorway while I searched for my purse.
