Page 88 of What Should Have Been Ours

Kinsley elbows him. “Wes.”

“What?” he says, shrugging. “He’s the one who decided to relapse. If you needed more attention, Cam, all you had to do was ask.”

Gabrielle glares at him. “Wes, I swear to—”

I chuckle, shaking my head. “Nah, it’s okay, let him talk. He gets uncomfortable with feelings. He’s just trying to cope.”

Wes points at me. “Exactly. Don’t make this weird, Gabs. Let me be emotionally stunted in peace.”

Gabrielle rolls her eyes, but her grip still tightens on me.

Then the doctor starts, and my amusement disappears. The first part is fine. The lidocaine burns as it seeps into my skin, but it’s nothing I can’t handle. But once the needle goes in? It’s agonizing. A deep, pulling pain radiates through my hip and spine. My fingers twitch against Gabrielle’s, but I try not to react too much. I don’t want her to know how bad it is.

I don’t think I’m fooling her, though. Her free hand comes up, brushing against my hairline, soft and soothing. I turn my head slightly into her touch, exhaling through the pain. It takes only minutes, but it feels so much longer.

When it’s finally over, I feel wrung out, like I’ve been hollowed from the inside out.

Dr. Smith tells me the results will take a couple of days, pats my shoulder, and leaves the room.

Wes clears his throat. “Damn, dude. That looked bad.”

I glare at him. “You don’t say.”

He smirks. “You should milk this as much as possible. Bet Gabrielle would do whatever you wanted right now.”

Gabrielle smacks his arm. “I already do whatever he wants.”

I grin. “Wait—whatever I want?”

She groans, but her lips twitch like she wants to smile. And that’s all the pain medicine I need right now.

* * *

When it’s just me and the quiet—all alone—that’s when it really hits me. I stare up at the ceiling, by myself in the room as it all comes rushing at me.

I was three when I was diagnosed with cancer. Three. My earliest memories I have in life are of a hospital. I remember the chemo, the vomiting, the fevers, the way my bones ached so bad that I couldn’t sleep. I remember all the times I heard my mom cry in the hallway when she thought I couldn’t hear her. I remember Gabrielle curled up next to me in my hospital bed, whispering stories she made up to me until I passed out from exhaustion some days, and I remember how many times I came close to not making it.

I don’t want to do this again. I don’t want Gabrielle to have to watch me go through this again. She’s already been through so much on her own. She’s already seen too much. She shouldn’t have to bear this weight again with me.

This was the reason I stopped myself from finding her for all those years. I was so afraid of this exact scenario and didn’t want her to have to deal with it anymore. It’s like as soon as I think I’m in the clear and can go after what I want, we’re back to square one.

As I’m lost in my thoughts, Gabrielle walks back into the room holding two large hot chocolates.

“Good days call for hot chocolate,” She says quietly as she raises them up in the air.

“This bad day definitely requires it,” I tell her.

She curls up next to me, and we just sit with each other, sit with the overwhelming thoughts.

It’s dangerous, how badly I want to freeze time right now, how badly I want to let myself believe we have endless nights ahead of us still.

I take a slow sip, trying to commit this feeling to memory—the weight of her against me, the way she smells like her favorite perfume that hasn’t changed since we were teenagers, and it smells like home. She’s home. The way she’s always known exactly what I need without me ever having to say anything is why I’ll always come back to her—in every lifetime.

Yet beneath it all, beneath the warmth of this moment, something dark starts to take hold. The same urge to push her away like last time. To protect her peace.

She doesn’t deserve this, and I know I don’t deserve her. She’s too good.

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