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I’m lost inside a dream. It’s dark—a dark gray mist where things and faces move, appearing and disappearing. Sometimes my eyes are open, sometimes they’re closed. Sometimes I think I talk, but maybe I’m just thinking. Sometimes I hear words, but they don’t make a lick of sense. The sounds come from a distance, distorted and twisted.
Emma is gone. Dakota is leaving, and I need to find her. That’s all I know. All that matters.
I look for her, but I can’t locate her. I call for her, but I can’t see her. So I step back into the dark, let it close over me.
Except this time I’m not allowed to sink again. Small hands press on my cold face, shocking me with their warmth.
“I’m not dying,” a voice says, warm like the hands, a familiar voice.
Her voice.
You are, I think, or say, not sure which. I know you are. I got the message. You’re dying. You’re leaving me, too, and I don’t know how to keep you with me. I don’t believe in miracles.
Her touch feels so good, so fucking good that my breath catches in my throat. Her scent rises around me, familiar, delicious, fascinating. I want to touch her, but all I manage to do is curl my fingers on the covers, snagging them on the thin cloth.
Then softness presses on my mouth, warmth spreads through my lips. She tastes of caramel and salt—blood and tears. Sugar and bitter almonds. She tastes of all the hope I’ve ever held inside me, and I want to believe it.
My hands curl and uncurl. They shift on the covers.
She breaks the kiss and draws back. “Zane.”
I blink. The gray parts, thins. I can see her face, her wide blue eyes. The mist lifts, and reality rushes back. “Dakota.”
She nods and smiles. She has tears in her eyes. “Hey.”
Seeing her hurts. It hurts like a bitch, because I know she’s dying, but it also hurts in a good way, because I missed her. I can’t stop leaning toward her, needing her, wanting to be with her forever.
“What are you doing here?” I rasp, my throat like sandpaper. I glance around, at the drawn curtains and the machines. “You hate hospitals.”
She laughs, the sound turning into a sob. “You’re here. Of course I came.”
I let out a long breath. “I know you’re sick,” I say and my chest feels so tight I think my ribs might break. “I don’t care. I wanna be with you. If you want me to.” I close my eyes. This is like chewing nails.
“Zane. What are you talking about?”
Why is she denying it, making it harder for me? “I got the message,” I force the words out. “I know.”
“What message are you talking about?” Her voice breaks. “I’m not sick, Zane. I’m not dying. What do I have to say to get it through to you?”
My eyes snap open. “Voicemail. On my cell phone. This man… he said the results were in, that you…” My throat is so damn dry it aches with each word. “That you have cancer. I just…”
I just lost it for a while. Went kind o
f mad. But I can do this. For you.
“Oh my God.” Her eyes go round, and her hand tightens around my arm, her fingertips digging into my flesh. I welcome the tiny pinprick of pain. “Zane, that was my dad.”
Here it comes, the confession. Her dad called me to let me know because she wouldn’t tell me herself.
“I gave him your number because my phone has been acting up,” she goes on. “Oh God, now I understand.”
“Okay.” I’m so tired. I don’t understand anything anymore. “Why didn’t you tell me you were sick?”
“Zane.” She’s shaking me. “It’s not me who’s dying. It’s my aunt. Aunt Carolina.”
Her words go through me like bullets, and I jerk. What?
“My mom’s sister. She has cancer. She’s in hospital. She’s the one who’s sick, not me. It’s not me, Zane.”
