AllFreeNovel
Share Us
“And what exactly would that accomplish?”
“Menothaving to marry her?” I grunt.
Carmine grins widely. “Well, maybe after you two are officially hitched and you tell her she can do whatever she wants because it’s all for show, I could beherside piece, you know?”
My jaw grits, and a feeling not all that different from the one I felt at the idea of me “hiring a gardener” creeps over my skin, turning my nerves raw and my blood hot.
“I mean she’s got crazy written all over her, and man, crazy chicks?” Carmy whistles wolfishly. “Those bitches will fuck your dick raw—Dante?”
I blink and snap out of my daze, realizing I’ve been glaring a laser hole right through Carmine. He frowns, cocking one brow.
“You, uh, you good, man?”
“Yeah,” I shake my head. “Yeah, fine. Just a lot on my mind.”
He smirks at me. “Well, I do have a cure for that. It starts with a B…then an A…”
“If it’sbachelor party, my answer is no.”
“Itisbachelor party!” he crows. “And your answer is hell yes.” He reaches over, clapping me on the shoulder. “I mean,” he winks. “Throw as many hissy fits about as you want. But you’re getting married, Dante.”
7
TEMPEST
I fucking hate hospitals.
I mean, it’s not like most peoplelikethem. But ever since that night of blurred horrors and silent tears—the night Nina died—when I was brought to one, stunned, numb, naked, and wrapped in a paramedic’s jacket, I’ve fuckingloathedthem.
I think it’s the antiseptic smell that gets me, as if the building itself is trying to destroy anything living within its walls. That chemical smell of bleach and rubbing alcohol that leaves your nostrils singed and your skin raw.
To me, it’s the scent of probing, invasive tests, of swabs rubbing against sore, torn, and vandalized flesh. A scent that says life is never, ever going to be the same again.
The scent of death.
The smell diminishes a little when Dr. Han shuts the door to his office behind me. But there’s no blocking it out entirely. Maybe it’s psychosomatic. Or maybe the chemical toxicity is so deeply ingrained in the floors and walls of this place that there’s simply no escaping it.
Dr. Han clears his throat in that professorial manner that he has and walks around his desk to sit facing me. He frowns, thumbing a file folder full of my tests in his hands.
I’m not sure why he looks so defeated today. It’s not like either of us have had any illusions that this current round of examinations and tests would change anything about what’s wrong with me.
Dying sucks. The only thing worse is dyingslowly.
It’s not going to be today. Or tomorrow. Or even the day after that. It won’t be next week or next month, either. But it’s an odd, empty, bizarre sensation knowing your last Christmas has already passed you by.
I discovered all this two months ago, when my GP couldn’t figure out what was going on to explain my lethargy, lack of appetite, and, sometimes, general confusion. I figured it was some fucked up manifestation of my trauma seeping back into my life, or maybe insomnia or something. But Dr. Han, the specialist I was referred to, found something else.
It’s called severe late-onset methylmalonic acidemia, and it’s a rare liver disorder usually found in infants. What it means is that my body has stopped being able to break down fats and proteins effectively, which creates a buildup of something called methylmalonic acid in my blood.
The lethargy and lack of appetite are going to get worse. So is the brain fuzziness, and there’s a good chance I’m going to start having random seizures sooner rather than later. In the next few months, I’ll probably need to go on dialysis as the toxicity in my blood begins to shut down my kidneys.
And then, after all that, to add insult to injury, it’s going to kill me.
That’swhy I did what I did.That’s why I put myself in front of that Dante-shaped bullet. Because Maeve’s got her whole life ahead of her.
I’ve got…eight months, at best. And they’re not going to be pretty.
“So,” I lift the corners of my mouth as I shrug. “Guess I’m still on the hunt for a miracle?”
