Total pages in book: 108
Estimated words: 104657 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 523(@200wpm)___ 419(@250wpm)___ 349(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 104657 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 523(@200wpm)___ 419(@250wpm)___ 349(@300wpm)
I reach for my opposite shoulder, massaging the tension from it. This is an awful conversation. And I never thought I’d have it with Everleigh Reichart. “I want to know how I’ll know when he’s close to dying.”
“Do you want it sugarcoated?”
I shake my head.
“Okay. These are common progressions.”
As Everleigh lists complications including fractures, anemia, jaundice, hypercalcemia, heart attack, stroke, spinal cord compression, paralysis, organ failure . . . it triggers a headache. I hold on to some things she says, such as cool, mottled skin, loss of appetite, extreme fatigue, breathing patterns, confusion, potential “rallies,” and I tuck them away in my memory so I’ll know when I see them, it could be close to the end.
“There is observational data on things like the timing of death. End-of-life care professionals have noticed that some patients appear to wait until they are alone to pass away. Others wait until a specific person is there, or an event is over, like a daughter getting married. Of course, there’s no science behind it, but I think it’s true to some extent that in certain circumstances we choose when to let go. I wouldn’t leave anything unsaid.”
I rub my temples and slowly nod. “I never leave without hugging him and saying ‘I love you’ because even before I knew about the cancer, I had a feeling things weren’t going to get better.”
Everleigh stands, but I catch the tears in her eyes before she turns away. “You’re a good man, William Landry.” She opens the fridge door. “Have you had dinner?”
“I had a protein bar.”
“Well, that’s not enough. What do you put on your egg sandwich? My mom said it made her stomach turn inside out.”
“I’m going to bed.” I scoot back in my chair.
“You have a forty-eight-hour shift that starts tomorrow. Don’t you think you should eat?” She sets the eggs on the counter.
“I’ll survive.” I reach past her to grab a bottle of pills from the top cabinet shelf.
She fills a glass with water and offers it to me. “What hurts?”
My gaze slides along her face and its delicate features. “Everything,” I whisper.
“I think it’s just an illusion,” she says in a soft tone.
I wash down two pills with a big gulp of water and then set the glass on the counter. “The pain?”
She shakes her head while wiping water from my mustache with her thumb, warm palm pressed to my cheek. “Life.”
I’m leaving. Whatever I said to her on my way out of town no longer matters. Still, I clasp her wrist, keeping her hand on my face. “We’re an illusion?”
Another slow nod. Her gaze focuses on my mouth for a second before lifting to my eyes.
“Do you really believe that?” For some reason, I’m enamored of this woman’s every thought.
Her touch.
Her gaze.
Her breath so close to mine, it feels like my own.
I guide her thumb into my mouth, teasing the pad of it with my tongue before playfully nibbling it.
Everleigh’s lips part, and my heart pumps faster. Bringing her thumb to her mouth, I slide it past her lips while ducking my head and kissing the corner of her mouth, her thumb, her wrist. An insatiable craving for her takes over, dulling the pain in my head and the ache in my heart.
Our mouths fuse, her hands snaking around my neck as mine claim her backside, fingers curling into her skirt, hiking it up her legs. For eleven years, whenever she’s popped into my head, I’ve felt an unshakable anger because it wasn’t just that she didn’t tell me the truth. It was the sticky, vulnerable feelings I allowed myself to feel for her. The kind that felt like love.
With trembling hands, Everleigh unfastens my jeans. I nearly die when she slides her hand up my shirt instead of down the front of my briefs. Her other hand slips under the waistband at my back, fingers curling into my glutes. My pelvis rocks toward her.
I’m fucking dying, so I grab the back of her legs and lift her onto the counter. The water glass crashes into the sink, but we don’t pause for a second. My impatient fingers unbutton her blouse, and she helps me while our mouths devour each other.
Pulling away, I forge a path down her neck with my lips and tongue. Then I slide her bra straps down her arms and pull the white lace material away from her perky breasts.
I should send her plastic surgeon a thank-you. They were perfectly fine eleven years ago. They’re just more. More fine. More fucking perfect.
“Oh god,” she whispers, “this is happening.” Her fingers thread through my hair, and I swallow the moan of pleasure it elicits. I also grin against her skin as I reach the swell of her breast. It shouldn’t happen. But yeah, it’s happening.
On Monday, I’ll drive to Somers, and this will become a distant memory under the pile of rubble that will be my life when my father dies.