Page 84 of What Should Have Been Ours

I hear Gabrielle talking to the nurses, asking too many questions, and over-explaining everything. She’s scared, so I squeeze her hand, trying to calm her, even though I feel like my body wants to give.

The doctor finally walks in after what feels like hours, and without her saying anything, I know. The way she looks at me, the hesitation before she speaks. I know. I’ve given that same look too many times to count. I know exactly what it means.

The air in the room shifts, getting cold all of a sudden. I hear Gabrielle exhale sharply beside me, her fingers tightening around mine. She’s trying not to cry before the doctor tells us anything, but I can tell she’s barely able to hold back.

The doctor sighs, flipping through my chart even though she clearly already knows what it says. “Dr. Hayes…we ran your tests.”

My stomach twists, everything inside me bracing for the impact.

“Your blood work was pretty concerning. Things that didn’t show up previously,” she tells me. “Your white blood cell count is dangerously high, your platelets are low, and when we ran further testing…”

She doesn’t have to say it.

I already know.

I don’t think I can stomach hearing it, though.

I can tell Gabrielle knows too, because she literally stops breathing.

The doctor finally meets my eyes. “We need to do a bone marrow biopsy to confirm…but we’re pretty confident that we’re looking at a relapse.”

Silence. Total, deafening silence.

It doesn’t feel real. This is actually happening again. After everything. After my longest remission that I thought would be my last.

I hear Gabrielle suck in a breath like she’s trying not to break down, and I should say something. I should reassure her. But I can’t.

Because my mind is spiraling.

Because no matter how strong I’ve been, no matter how much I’ve convinced myself I’ve become untouchable—

I’m not.

I never was.

31

Gabrielle

I can’t breathe.

I’m gripping Cam’s hand so tightly that my fingers ache, but I can’t let go. I can’t let it feel real.

This can’t be real.

The hospital room around me starts to blur because of the tears that keep threatening to spill, and the voice of the doctor turns into dull static. My heart is pounding so violently in my chest that I can hear it thrumming in my ears, drowning out everything else.

The cycle never stops, does it?

I feel like I’m not even here anymore—I’m back to being sixteen years old, sitting in a different hospital room, holding the same hand, watching the same boy about to fight for his life once again.

His body was so weak back then, his skin was so pale, his hair completely gone, dark circles hollowing out his face. I remember his voice, how tired it always sounded, how dark everything had gotten after months of chemo, even when he was still trying to make jokes for my sake.

“Gab, I bet I still rock the bald look better than Vin Diesel.”

I remember laughing—forcefully, desperately—because it was better than crying.

“You look better than anyone, Cam. Even when you’re sick.”