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My world felt like it was free-falling, spinning out of control all around me with each new facet of devastating information I gleaned.
It was a death sentence. A slow, cruel death sentence.
Ten years?
The average life expectancy was three to ten years.
Three years. In three years, she could be gone. If not in body, then in mind. Because whatever she was experiencing now, it would get worse. Much worse. She wouldn’t just forget information—dates, events, recipes—she’d forget how to perform basic cognitive functions. Like eating, walking, talking.
She’d need round-the-clock care. She’d probably have to go into a nursing home or care facility. She wouldn’t recognize me, or Bella.
She wouldn’t even know she had daughters. It would be like we never even existed.
All the air seemed to suck from the car, leaving me gasping. The phone slid from my grasp, falling to the footwell.
Without thinking, I pushed down on the gas and started moving. Streetlamps illuminated the inside of the car every few seconds, sharp flares of light flashing over my tightly fisted hands.
I hadn’t considered where I was going until the car screeched to a halt on the gravel parking area next to the cornfields. I thrust into park before swinging the door open, then I took long strides through the trees and stalked toward the flickering light of the roaring bonfire.
“Liss?”
My gaze spun to the low voice, then to the bottle in Jackson Bateman’s hand. I pivoted toward him, snatched the beer, and tipped my head back, emptying the contents down my throat. Jackson’s hazel eyes widened when I pushed the bottle back into his palm.
“Whoa. Hey, hold up,” he said, jumping forward and taking a grip on my forearm when I turned to walk away.
I stopped and lowered my gaze to where his long fingers encircled my arm. He let go and took a step back, and I noticed the thick gilet he was wearing over his hoodie. I looked down at the thin, cap-sleeved shirt and magenta workout leggings I wore. It was December. Neither were appropriate for the weather. I hadn’t even felt the cold, but goose bumps suddenly sprung out across every inch of visible flesh. I wrapped my arms around myself and rubbed the bare skin on my arms, my teeth chattering lightly.
“You’re not staying? It’s NYE, baby! There’s a party back at Clive Gleeson’s after.”
I trained my gaze to the dirt beneath my sneaker-clad feet.
“I’ve got more booze,” Jackson offered.
My head raised. “Good.”
A low laugh drifted from his lips as he smoothed a hand over his hair, mussing it on top. “It’s good to see you, Liss. You went to Florida, right? Any good?”
Face blank, I exhaled slowly then said, “Get me a drink, Bateman.”
He hiked both brows. “O-kay.”
An hour or so later, empty bottles littered the muddied patch of earth around me while I sat slumped against a tree trunk. I narrowed my gaze to try to bring my surroundings into focus, but it was dark, and I was a few drinks past tipsy.
“You want another?”
My lashes fluttered, and I blinked across at Jackson.
He was an idiot, but he wasn’t a bad-looking guy. Shaggy brown hair, hazel-green eyes. Before I’d registered what I was doing, I was on my knees and dragging his face toward mine.
“Shit,” he muttered a second before I smothered his mouth with mine. He offered no resistance when our lips met.
It was sloppy and awkward, strangely noisy. But I kept kissing him. My brain seemed to spasm after a few minutes, shocking with some kind of delayed reaction and a sliver of awareness. My movements slowed as I tried to process what the hell I was doing.
Kissing. Jackson Bateman. The moron. In a field. On the ground.
His hand sliding under the hem of my shirt, up…
“Stop.” The word came out muffled under the increasing pressure of his mouth.
