And suddenly, I can’t keep the horrible memories at bay.
“You’re such a fucking whiner!”
“Justin, just watch the road.”
I despise riding with him on a good day, but today is rainy, and this road is twisty. I don’t know why he insisted that I come with him to the beach. He hates it there. Lately, he hatesme.
“Don’t fucking tell me what to do.” He shakes his head and jerks on the wheel. I swear he does it just to scare me.
“Look, I think a separation is for the best. You don’t evenlikeme anymore, J. We live in the same house, but that’s it. You’re in remission. You’re in a good place and you don’t need me.”
“You have no idea what you’re talking about.”
My stomach clenches. Justin talked me into marrying him eight years ago because he told me he had terminal cancer, would only live for less than a year, and he wanted to spend that year with me.
Yeah, I have issues with telling people no. Clearly. Because I married him, but then his cancer miraculously got better. The medical issues come and go, but there’s no threat of him dying anytime soon.
As horrible as it sounds, I didn’t sign up for this. Don’t get me wrong, I’m so incredibly happy he’s going to live a long life, but I don’t want to be the one to spend it with him.
Being married to Justin hasn’t been a walk in the park. Gone is the man who I was best friends with for so long, and in his place is a mean, horrible bully I don’t even recognize.
“You’ve been in remission for a while,” I remind him, trying to keep my voice calm. “I think it’s time for me to move on, Justin.”
“Look, I was going to wait until we were at the beach to tell you this, but the cancer is back, Jules.”
Fuck.
“I start chemo again next week.”
“Where is it this time?”
He slides a look over at me. “Are you implying that I’m lying to you?”
“No, you’ve had several different types of cancer, and I’m asking what kind it is this time.”
He rubs his hand over his mouth, as if he’s agitated. “It’s pancreatic.”
I frown. I’ve done a lot of research on this over the years. Justin never lets me go to the hospital with him for treatments because he says he doesn’t want me to see him like that, but I’ve done a lot of searching around online, reading medical journals.
“What stage is it?” I ask.
“Four.”
I shake my head. “Justin, you had stage four pancreatic cancer when we got married. I don’t?—”
“Are you calling me a fucking LIAR?” He screams it, bangs his fist on the steering wheel, just as we’re about to go through a turn, but his hand slips, and he doesn’t turn in time. The car fishtails, and I scream as we careen straight toward a tree, hitting it so hard that the airbags deploy, and I’m stunned as I try to breathe and look around, the silence deafening.
“Justin?”
I glance over and feel my heart stop. He’s leaning forward, and blood is flowing down his face.
Frantically, I search for my phone, which had been in my hand, but I dropped it during the crash. The rain is pelting down in sheets around us, so ear-piercing now in direct contrast to just seconds ago.
And the ringing in my ears is suddenly all I can hear.
I find my phone and manage to call emergency services, but I can’t hear whoever is on the other end of the line, so I just scream for help and hope they can trace the call.
My neck hurts, and my shoulder is screaming.
