The trunk? I let it go. I don’t know what it all means. The ‘Kathryn’ tattooed on his arm is his mother. She was murdered. I should be dead too. I pulled the trigger and theclickof not dying won’t stop replaying in my head. Even the stubborn daughter of the great Oscar Stone can admit when she is wrong. Pulling the trigger was wrong.
My purpose in life? I haven’t completely figured it out, but I’m getting closer to acknowledging my existence—albeit shorter than I’d hoped—means something. Dancing with death for months reveals many secrets of life. I don’t have kids or even that many friends, but if I did, I’d want my lasting impression on them to be this: Every life matters, but never one more than another. Sometimes silence holds more meaning than words. And love… it’s infinitely impossible to define, but unequivocally, without any doubt, the reason we are here.
“I’ll be gone for a few days,” Theo announces as he slides on his trousers, no underwear.
Sex has been a constant between us for the past few months. He didn’t pull the trigger either, but that night I swear he tried to fuck me an inch from my life. It was punishing, demanding, controlling, and life-changing. As much as he tried to hide it, I felt every ounce of his pain over what happened that day.
I can’t bring myself to address the depression that’s been brought on by my diagnosis. It’s not just the diagnosis; it’sTheo. Accepting death was easier after leaving Daniel and Oscar—severing the ties that fed my guilt over wanting to live out my days on my own terms. Theo makes me want to liveallmy days, even the ones I cannot have—more than I wanted to live them for Daniel or Oscar—and that is too much to take.
Still… it’s just been sex mixed with a growing web of lies that serves as a nice barrier to the truth. It’s fucked-up in so many ways, yet equally perfect. The one truth we share is that everything is a lie.
I slip on my shirt and pull up my knickers as I stand. “Where are you going?”
Theo glances over his shoulder, his bronze beard a bit longer, his blue eyes a bit softer but they still hold an edge of warning.
I shrug. “Lie to me.”
After studying me for a few moments, his focus returns to his zip, yanking it up while he clears his throat. “Kentucky.”
A chill slithers along my skin, awakening the curiosity that I’ve suppressed for months since finding the trunk. “Want company?”
He shakes his head. “Don’t you have a wedding to plan?”
My grunt echoes with sarcasm. “Yes. I need to firm up things with the caterer, do the final fitting for my dress, and stop fucking my bearded housemate.”
Theo runs a hand through his tangled hair, walking away from me. “Well check ‘stop fucking your bearded housemate’ off your list. We’re done.”
“Fine. I’ll call the caterer.”
“You don’t have a phone.” He slams the bathroom door.
“Fuck you.” I scowl at the door.
He’s right. I don’t have a phone. I don’t have a caterer or a fiancé either. I barely have a life.
*
My mum diedof ovarian cancer, but not before they nearly gutted her on an operating table, injected poison into her veins, and charred her inside and out with radiation.
Cut.
Poison.
Burn.
That was my earliest lesson in cancer, a firsthand account from Oscar. Maybe I haven’t seen enough miracles in my life to put my entire existence in the hands of companies whose livelihood depends on treating not curing cancer.
Mum was declared NED “No Evidence of Disease.” My father took her to Italy to celebrate while my nana watched me. I was eighteen months old.
Modern medicine cured her. Cue the confetti.
Six months later, they found cancer in her liver, lungs, and brain. Thirty-seven days later, she died. I don’t remember that but my mum’s death has played out in the depths of my father’s grief-stricken eyes since my earliest age of remembrance. He didn’t want her to have the chemo in the first place.
Cancer is the effect of weaknesses in the body, not the cause of it. My mum obliterated the last shred of her immune system with carcinogens. Someone—anyone with a spark of true intelligence—has to see the irony in treating cancer with carcinogens. My opinion is wildly unpopular. Does it matter? No. It’s just my opinion and it only should matter to me.
My mum wanted the treatment. As much as I feel cheated of a life with her, I could never blame her for taking the path in life she chose to take. It’s a bittersweet celebration of freedom.
“Scarlet Stone,” the nurse calls my name.
