Page 98 of What Should Have Been Ours

His skin is pale and damp with sweat. There’s a deep crease between his brows, like even in sleep, he can’t escape the pain. His IV pole is cluttered with bags—fluids, chemo, anti-nausea meds, and pain relief. The machines beep every so often, monitoring every fragile part of him.

His mom is perched on the edge of the chair beside him, exhaustion etched into her every feature. She looks up when I walk in, offering a weak, grateful smile.

“He’s been in and out of sleep,” she says quietly, pressing a damp cloth to his head. “But when he’s awake, it’s been pretty rough.”

I swallow past the tightness in my throat and move to his bedside. “Go grab a bite of real food,” I tell her softly. “I’ve got him.”

She hesitates, her eyes flicking to her son, but eventually nods. “I’ll be back soon,” she tells me, squeezing my arm before stepping out.

The second the door closes, I kneel beside the bed, brushing my fingers over his warm, clammy skin. “Cam?”

His eyelids flutter, then barely crack open. His normally bright brown eyes are glassy and distant. “Hey,” he whispers, voice hoarse.

My chest clenches as I force a smile for him. “Hey, you.”

“You’re here.”

“Of course I’m here.”

His lips twitch like he wants to smirk, but he’s too exhausted.

I reach for the washcloth, dipping it in cool water before dabbing it against his forehead, watching him shiver slightly at the temperature change, but he doesn’t protest.

His body is worn down—from the chemo, the fevers, the constant assault on his immune system.

“Your mom said today was pretty bad,” I whisper.

He closes his eyes. “It’s been a real party.” His voice is weak, but he still tries to joke.

“You don’t have to pretend around me, Cam. The comedian can hang his hat up for a little while, okay?”

“I feel like crap, babe.”

I nod, shifting closer, rubbing slow circles on his arm. “What do you need?”

He barely shakes his head. “You.”

I blink back tears, trying not to get choked up.

I wish I could fix this. I wish I could take all of his pain, all of the sickness, and carry it for him. Instead, I do the only thing I can—I just stay. I keep running the cool cloth over his skin, keep rubbing slow, soothing patterns into his arm, keep whispering to him, telling him about my day, about the stupid things Kinsley did at work, anything to distract him.

Eventually, his breathing slows, and his muscles relax. His fingers twitch slightly, searching for mine, and I lace them together, bringing his knuckles to my lips.

“You’re doing so good, Cam,” I murmur against his skin. “You’re my real hero, you know that? And you’re gonna beat this again, just like last time.”

He doesn’t respond, but I feel his fingers tighten just slightly, like he’s telling me he heard me.

Like he’s telling me he believes me.

Even if I don’t know if I believe myself.

38

Cameron

I’m going home today.

It should be a good thing. A relief. A victory even.