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“Go … home …” he whispers.
I crawl in bed, resting one hand on his back while my other strokes his hair. After his breathing evens out, I find the courage to speak. “Why do you love me?” I whisper, but not to him. I think—I hope—he’s asleep. “It’s been twelve years. I know why I still love you, but I don’t know why you still love me.” I close my eyes.
An hour or so later, just as I drift off to sleep, Price’s body jerks. He sits up with a grimace and flies out of bed, reaching for the wall and then the door as he stumbles into the bathroom and vomits.
I find a washcloth and wet it with cold water. When he collapses onto his butt, head tipped back to the wall, I blot his face and press the washcloth to his forehead.
“Have you thought about seeing someone? There are clinics that will supervise you. They can monitor you, make adjustments, and give you things for detox symptoms. And if you say you can’t afford it, I won’t believe you.”
With his eyes shut, he rocks his head from side to side. “Nothing good around here.”
“Again, I think you have the means to go anywhere. It makes no sense that you’re here.” I re-wet the washcloth with cold water and kneel beside him.
“It makes perfect sense,” he mumbles, opening one eye.
“How can you say that?”
After a hard swallow, he wipes the back of his hand across his mouth. “When I got my diagnosis and the grim reality of standard treatment options set in, I started researching. I didsomuch research. Countless books. Stories of people with unconventional views of cancer, what causes it, and how to treat it.” He swallows hard again.
“This one man’s journey resonated with me so much; it felt like my whole world turned upside down. He believes what saved him from the six-month death sentence he’d been given was removing all stress from his life and welcoming every feeling, everything his body was telling him it needed. He said he thought long and hard about his life and tried to remember the last time he felt free of stress and living in the moment with no stress. Blissfully content. No worries. Just … alive. And it was right before he started college twenty years earlier. A trip toMexico with his best friend. So he called that friend, whom he hadn’t seen in over fifteen years, and they went to Mexico and sat on a beach all day and watched funny movies at night. He slept in as long as he wanted and took naps. He listened to his body and reconnected to that feeling of bliss and contentment.”
Price rolls his head to the side, looking at me with as much of a smile as he can muster. “Scottie Rucker, when I thought of a time in my life that I felt free of stress and nothing but sheer bliss and contentment … I thought of you.”
Emotion burns my eyes, and I bite my quivering lower lip.
“So yeah, I can afford to go anywhere in the world, get any treatment one has come up with for cancer. And you may not be approved by the FDA for treatment …”
I laugh through my tears.
Price slides his knuckles along my wet cheek. “But I know being here, being in your world, is the best chance I have at living. So fuck the naysayers who think that I’m crazy, that there’s no proof anything I’m doing will keep me alive. I’m still here. And maybe I did one too many coffee enemas today or put too much castor oil on my abdominal pack, but I haven’t missed a single day of work yet.”
Again, I laugh despite the tears.
His grin gains a little more strength. “And I haven’t missed a workout with Koen. I’ve constructed six Lego sets, and not only can I touch my toes, but I can also do a wheel pose. I’m pretty much immortal.”
Everything inside of me screams,“Tell him!”
But I can’t because I don’t want to be anything but his bliss. “I’m proud of you.” I stand, setting the washcloth by the sink. “But being your blissandyour non-FDA approved cure for cancer is a lot of pressure.”
“Don’t…” his voice strains as he lumbers to standing “…sweat it. You’re working really well.” He rinses out his mouthand shuffles his bare feet back to bed. “Go home. Thank you for checking on me.” He pulls the covers over him.
“Do you want me to stay?”
“I like Koen. Go.”
“I’m not talking about him. I’m asking if you want me to stay.”
“Scottie,” he murmurs, almost slurring my name, “if I were marrying you and you offered to stay with another guy, I would be pissed off.”
“You have cancer.”
“But he doesn’t know that. Does he?”
“No.” I sit on the edge of the bed. “Because you didn’t want me to tell him.”
Price yawns, closing his eyes. “And you agreed it was best not to tell him. But if it’s causing issues between the two of you, then tell him.”
I straighten his sheets. “How long were you living here before we ‘accidentally’ ran into each other at the store?”
