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“Please, look at me. Goddamn it, look me in the eyes and tell me you don’t wantme.”
She appears almost frail while slumping down on the bed. “I understand you’re upset about our baby, but please don’t try to act like you’re hurt because I’m asking for space. We would’ve never worked because you’re not ready to open your heart tome.”
“Glad I know where I stand with us.” I push off the railing on the bed. “I need someair.”
I speed out of the hospital without stopping to talk to anyone else, get in my truck, and slam my fist against the steering wheel, taking all of my anger out on it. The pain hits me like a brick. I let the tears fall freely, and I’m certain my heart is dying in mychest.
My tears were finally starting to dry from losingLucy.
I’m back at squareone.
My life keeps fallingapart.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Dallas
Eleven Months Ago
You don’t knowwhat you have until it’sgone.
It’s a bullshitcliché.
But fuck me if the reality of those nine words isn’t smacking me in theface.
I knew what Ihad.
I cherished what Ihad.
But I sure as hell didn’t plan on it getting ripped away from me at thirty-one yearsold.
The beeping of the machines next to Lucy is the only noise in the room. I have a love-hate relationship with them. They’re her helping hand, her strength, but they won’t be here muchlonger.
And neither willshe.
A relentless surge of panic rips through my veins like a drug when I grip my hand around hers. Watching someone you love die is like your flesh torturously being stripped from your bones, inch by agonizing inch, baring the most vulnerable parts ofyourself.
I wipe away my tears with the back of my arm, pissed at them for blurring my limited view of her. I haven’t cried like this since I was inPampers.
I’m a Barnes boy. We’re known for our resilience, for our strength in the most desperate times. Emotions don’t bleed through our skin. We hide them underneath and let them eat usalive.
At least, that’s what I thought until I had to shoot myself with the truth. She is going to die, and there is nothing I can do. No one I can fight. No amount of money I can pay to stopit.
That shit does something to aman.
I tilt my head up to painfully stare at the tiled ceiling and wish it’d cave in on me. Her lips are a bruised blue when I bore my eyes back toher.
Metastatic breastcancer.
It spread fast, too fast, and was caught too late. There was nothing we could do. Chemo didn’t work. Praying didn’t work. Her liver is failing. Her body is shuttingdown.
I’ve followed her wishes. This is where she wanted to do it—not at our home where our daughter lays her head. Here, with just the two of us, so that’s what I’m givingher.
“Take me,” I plead to the good man above. “Take me, goddamn it!” My chest aches, my lungs restricting airflow, and I pound my fist to my chest. “Let her fucking stay! Take my last breath and give it toher!”
My throat is scratchy and sore, like I’ve been screaming my pleas, but they’ve merely been coming out as awhisper.
I tighten my grip on her, wishing I could be her lifeline, as she starts to let go. I gulp down the urge to beg her to hold on, beg her not to leave me, but the thought of her enduring more pain kills me just as much as losing her. I have to let her go in peace even if I selfishly don’t wantto.
