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Flattening myself as much as possible, I slide my body across the bed inch by inch until I can roll off the side. Knowing I looked ridiculous, I pop my head up over the side to determine if Oliver has moved at all, but I see operation sneak out is successful thus far.
We barely slept through the night. We were both clearly trying to be considerate of the other and did a good job pretending. The thing is, I can tell a difference between a sleeping and non-sleeping Oliver. He held me tight through the night, but his body never relaxed, his breathing never deepened. At some point we both managed to sleep for a while, physical and emotional exhaustion taking toll, and he released his hold on me. I have no idea what time it was at that point, but our room was just turning a lovely shade of pink when I finally succumbed to the persistent Sand Man.
Now, stealth is the key because I have somewhere I’d like to go and while I do so, Oliver can be left to finally get the sleep he needs after such a crazy night – which was my fault. As quietly as possible, I grab what I need from my suitcase before escaping into the bathroom.
Several times during the night as we both lie in silence, I thought about biting the bullet and talking to him about what happened between us, what I’m feeling and what I did in the bathroom, but I couldn’t bring myself to open my mouth. Part of me is embarrassed and ashamed. I wish my emotional dam hadn’t chosen that specific moment to break and make me lose my composure. It wasn’t Oliver’s fault by any means, he didn’t do anything wrong. In hindsight I shouldn’t have buried my feelings. His touch and what was happening between us triggered a tsunami of feelings within me. I could no more control the rage that erupted from me than I can the color of the sky or the phase of the moon. They needed to rise up, be heard, be felt, be seen. There was no stopping them.
I do wish the timing had been better. I’ve dreamed of something happening between Oliver and me for a really long time. Perhaps it was less of a dream and more of a fantasy. I’ve long since accepted the fact that we would always be friends, and that option I would claim. It was far better than the alternative.
Somehow I’ve managed to keep my feelings reigned in all these years. And when that felt difficult, feigning busyness and creating distance were my solutions. Then, unexpectedly, something happens, something amazing and of course that’s the time I have a moment of pure insanity. Who in their right mind would want to deal with this, with me? I’m a mess and I don’t expect that’s going to change any time soon.
I’m not sure if I didn’t talk to him after the event last night because I wasn’t ready to talk to him or about it, or if it’s because I wasn’t ready to listen. I know Oliver – I’d hedge better than anyone – and I know he’s been holding back on me the last few days. He has things he wants to say, things I know he will say at some point. I need to brace myself for that.
When I initially woke this morning, I thought about snuggling back down into my pillow, letting myself fall asleep once more, but a thought occurred to me during my restless night and I woke wanting to see it through today. So, here I am, getting dressed as quickly and quietly as possible so I can make a solo escape. Pausing briefly as I remove my pajamas and get a look at my chest, I run the tips of my fingers over the red, slightly raised, marks on my chest. Regret fills my heart. Not only for my outburst, but for doing this to myself. In the light of day it all seems foolish now. Acting in such a way isn’t going to change anything. It isn’t going to make the cancer go away, isn’t going to change my fate. It’s wasted emotion, wasted actions. Pushing the feelings aside, I finish dressing, pull my hair back, slip in my earrings, and brush my teeth.
Finding the resort pen and paper, I leave Oliver a short note and then grab my purse and the room key. Just as I reach the door, I about jump out of my skin when I hear, “Going somewhere?”
Whirling around, I find Oliver standing there. Hair sticking up every which way, tired eyes, a shirtless chest and a frown greets me. He looks adorable; frown notwithstanding. “Oh! You’re awake. I didn’t mean to wake you.”
“I’ve been wondering what you’re up to ever since you slithered out of bed like a snake having a seizure.”
Feeling embarrassed I look away, “Saw that did you?”
His only response is a smirk. “Where are you going?”
“There’s just somewhere I want to go. I won’t be gone too long.”
“You were just going to leave without saying anything?”
“I wrote you a note,” I defend.
“No, that’s not what I mean. If you want to go somewhere, that’s fine, you know that doesn’t bother me. I’m in no way the boss of you.”
“Okay, then I guess I don’t know what you mean if that’s not the issue.”“My ‘issue’ is that you’re going to leave without talking to me about last night.”
“There’s really nothing to talk about,” I defend. “I lost it for a moment and behaved foolishly. I’m sorry you had to see that. It won’t happen again.” I turn to exit but Oliver steps in front of me.
He sighs and shakes his head, “God, Remy. Who do you think you’re talking to here? It’s me, Oliver. Don’t speak to me like I’m a stranger or work associate you merely embarrassed yourself in front of. You’re acting like there’s something wrong with the fact you let down your walls. There’s nothing wrong with emoting. You haven’t-” he pauses.
“Haven’t what?”
He looks me in the eyes, “You haven’t really said a word. You’ve tried to be better matter-of-fact, business-like even. Not since we’ve been here, not since you told me about your diagnosis. It’s like you think you can’t talk about it or refuse to, I don’t really know. But, you haven’t acknowledged it at all. It’s like this big giant elephant in the room.”
“What’s the point in talking about it? My feelings about this, my thoughts, my wishes, they don’t matter. What’s happening is happening no matter what I want. Screaming, yelling, maiming myself – it’s pointless.”
Oliver shakes his head and the look on his face, his stance - I instantly feel ashamed and it frustrates me. “What happened to you?” he whispers and his words feel like a slap. The disappointment, the sadness… it’s so prevalent in the sound of his voice that I’m not sure how to respond at first.
“What do you mean?”
“What do I mean?” he repeats almost laughing to himself. “I mean, where’s the Remy I’ve known my whole life? The Remy that never lets life get her down, the one that’s a damn force to be reckoned with, that doesn’t ask for things in this life, but demands them. The one that other people are envious of and count themselves lucky just to know – in the hopes that some of your spirit will rub off on them. The Remy that used to laugh without restraint, always sees the day as promising, sees potential in everyone and finds the optimistic outlook in everything. The one who fights for what she wants instead of lying down and taking it. I want to know where that girl is.”
“’That girl’ watched her mom suffer and die from cancer. Then just as she started to feel like herself again, started to heal and found each day a little bit easier to bear, she was told she now has the same cancer that took her mother’s life.”
“Then fight dammit! Do what your mother did, fight with everything you have, don’t just lie down and be its bitch.”
“How dare you say that to me,” I begin to shake with anger. “I’m not a warrior. I do not serve in the military. I have no artillery, no weapons.”
“No! How dare you! How dare you think so little of yourself. How dare you not value your life. How dare you not use every resource at your disposal to fight for your life - the same life your mother would have given anything to save. She continually requested just one more hour, one more day. What a disservice you do to her and her memory. What would she say? What would she think?”
