pain, this overwhelming, gut-wrenching pain in my chest, so I can remember what he’s capable of. All of it; the love, the laughter, the life he promised. I remember it so I can put that last piece of my heart away.
“Twinkle, let me come with you,” he pleads. I shake my head at him. I can’t formulate the denial I need. “Then I have one stipulation, and I will let you leave.”
“What?” I choke out.
“Kiss me, kiss me and mean it.” He throws my words back at me. Those were the same words I said to him after his senior prom. I walk towards him. Instead of me taking control, he places both hands on my face and lowers his lips to mine. One brush of his soft lips has me wanting more. Needing all of him. I give everything I have to this kiss. I give him his absolution from guilt. Begging him to go on with life, do great things, find love, and be happy. I hope that’s what I tell him in that kiss, because that’s what I want to convey. I pull back and gently touch my lips. I want to trap the feeling, like I wanted to trap the scent in my parents’ room. I want to wrap them both around me like a warm blanket. “Phoebe, why did that feel like a goodbye kiss?”
“It wasn’t a goodbye kiss.” I see the briefest of smiles form on his lips. “A goodbye has a chance for a hello. This is not goodbye because this is The. End.” I grab my small bag and leave the room with him standing there. I don’t want to remember the pain I just caused him. I don’t want to remember the cries I heard as I walked away. I don’t want to remember anything about this life. I’m leaving with my heart in shreds, never to be repaired.
I catch my plane; make my way to the apartment paid for by Myra, and sleep. I’m numb, going through the motions. I meet with the new oncologist, agree to the new medications he wants to try, and schedule treatment to start next week. Being numb is better than feeling. Being numb gives me a chance to survive this next year of life, rebuilding and recreating who I am. I tick off my goals, make lists, and settle into my new home. The first round of chemotherapy will be intense. I agreed with my doctor to go into the hospital for the month. Infections and set backs are more likely to happen. I will follow that up with three to four months of another regimen, but hopefully after the initial doses, I will be in remission. Two years of maintenance will follow, but nothing intensive, mainly oral drugs with no side effects. I’ve given myself a year from the first infusion . . . a year to begin training with a ballet company. Any one that will take me. I will prevail. I will dance center stage, and I will dance for my mom. After that, I have no plans. No dreams. No aspirations. I free my mind of everything and prepare for the toxins to flow through my veins, killing every fucking cancer cell. The drug names swarm before my eyes, Adriamycin, Cytoxan, and Methotrexate. They’re coming for you cancer. They’ll own you and rid my body of your poison. Only then, will I rid my body of the hate that has filled it. Hate for cancer. Hate for death. Hate for Luke for destroying us, but mostly hate for myself for breaking Luke the way I did. I took the purest form of love, the love I gained from his as a child and threw it back in his face. Then I left. .
Chapter 13
Luke
One week. Seven long days since she left that room and I watched her walk away. Why didn’t I stop her? “The End,” she said, and I died inside. I told myself that she couldn’t have meant that. The first day, I wasn’t too worried. Sure, I hated that she was upset, scared shitless of the battle she had on her hands, and hated fucking cancer in general. How can a six-letter word create such devastation? By day two when I still hadn’t heard from her, all my calls, voicemails, and texts went unanswered because she had shut off her cell service. She still hadn’t come home, and I began to panic. I checked all the banking accounts. I
“Twinkle, let me come with you,” he pleads. I shake my head at him. I can’t formulate the denial I need. “Then I have one stipulation, and I will let you leave.”
“What?” I choke out.
“Kiss me, kiss me and mean it.” He throws my words back at me. Those were the same words I said to him after his senior prom. I walk towards him. Instead of me taking control, he places both hands on my face and lowers his lips to mine. One brush of his soft lips has me wanting more. Needing all of him. I give everything I have to this kiss. I give him his absolution from guilt. Begging him to go on with life, do great things, find love, and be happy. I hope that’s what I tell him in that kiss, because that’s what I want to convey. I pull back and gently touch my lips. I want to trap the feeling, like I wanted to trap the scent in my parents’ room. I want to wrap them both around me like a warm blanket. “Phoebe, why did that feel like a goodbye kiss?”
“It wasn’t a goodbye kiss.” I see the briefest of smiles form on his lips. “A goodbye has a chance for a hello. This is not goodbye because this is The. End.” I grab my small bag and leave the room with him standing there. I don’t want to remember the pain I just caused him. I don’t want to remember the cries I heard as I walked away. I don’t want to remember anything about this life. I’m leaving with my heart in shreds, never to be repaired.
I catch my plane; make my way to the apartment paid for by Myra, and sleep. I’m numb, going through the motions. I meet with the new oncologist, agree to the new medications he wants to try, and schedule treatment to start next week. Being numb is better than feeling. Being numb gives me a chance to survive this next year of life, rebuilding and recreating who I am. I tick off my goals, make lists, and settle into my new home. The first round of chemotherapy will be intense. I agreed with my doctor to go into the hospital for the month. Infections and set backs are more likely to happen. I will follow that up with three to four months of another regimen, but hopefully after the initial doses, I will be in remission. Two years of maintenance will follow, but nothing intensive, mainly oral drugs with no side effects. I’ve given myself a year from the first infusion . . . a year to begin training with a ballet company. Any one that will take me. I will prevail. I will dance center stage, and I will dance for my mom. After that, I have no plans. No dreams. No aspirations. I free my mind of everything and prepare for the toxins to flow through my veins, killing every fucking cancer cell. The drug names swarm before my eyes, Adriamycin, Cytoxan, and Methotrexate. They’re coming for you cancer. They’ll own you and rid my body of your poison. Only then, will I rid my body of the hate that has filled it. Hate for cancer. Hate for death. Hate for Luke for destroying us, but mostly hate for myself for breaking Luke the way I did. I took the purest form of love, the love I gained from his as a child and threw it back in his face. Then I left. .
Chapter 13
Luke
One week. Seven long days since she left that room and I watched her walk away. Why didn’t I stop her? “The End,” she said, and I died inside. I told myself that she couldn’t have meant that. The first day, I wasn’t too worried. Sure, I hated that she was upset, scared shitless of the battle she had on her hands, and hated fucking cancer in general. How can a six-letter word create such devastation? By day two when I still hadn’t heard from her, all my calls, voicemails, and texts went unanswered because she had shut off her cell service. She still hadn’t come home, and I began to panic. I checked all the banking accounts. I
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