Not a dream, but anightmarethen, huh?
I take my bloody time turning to face him, panic clawing at my throat as the reality of the situation settles in. I’d been in such a daze when he confronted me on the Tube, and again after I asked him to come with me, that none of it had fully sunk in. The silent walk here only deepened my dissociation from his presence, and now that I’m confronted with the full force of his weighted gaze, I want to run.
His sage-green eyes lock on mine, grounding me with their desperation. “Please,” he whispers, the plea cracking what little resolve I have left.
I don’t answer for a long while, staring at him, unmoving and unblinking.
Are you really going to keep up this charade, Adhira? Just tell him.
I have no fight left in me to keep lying.I hate lying. Not that anyone would know it right now, with the way I’ve been piling lies on top of lies like dirty baskets of laundry rather than tainted words that chip away at my soul.
I avert my gaze, gathering myself before peering back up into those all-knowing eyes of his. I have to crane my neck to meet his unrelenting gaze, which isn’t easy with him towering over me and standing entirely too close.
His intoxicating, clean, and masculine scent swirls around me, making me dizzy, a tad nauseous, and a whole lot confused.
I’d have called myself a cologne snob before chemo, but now? Fragrance of any kind makes the nausea flare up.
I take a step back, and my heart clenches at the concern etched into his furrowed brow. But more than anything, it’s the way he simply stands and waits—letting me set the pace—that makes my pulse gallop.
“I’m sorry.” I breathe. My lip quivers, and I notice thealmostimperceptible way he steps forward but restrains himself, allowing me to have my space. I swallow hard. “I hate lying,”I whisper, holding back tears as some of the denial I’ve been clinging to begins to lift.
“You don’t have to lie to me. I promise I’ll keep your secret close to my heart, but please, let me bear some of this weight with you.”
His eyes are glassy as my gut clenches, and more than anything, I want to give in. To share this secret with someone so I don’t feel so alone. With someone who won’t give up on all his own dreams to make me comfortable.Someone like Elijah, who has far too many responsibilities for that to ever be an option.
A tense moment passes between us before I give him a curt nod, giving in to his request and my need to have someone on my team aside from my doctor and the geriatric Scot with his bloody crosswords.
“I’ll explain once we’re inside,” I mumble, unable to stand the sight of his sympathetic gaze any longer. I trudge forward, listening for his footsteps, and when I hear them behind me, I’m struck with the confusing realisation that I’mgladhe’s here.
He says nothing as he walks beside me, his presence acting as a comforting blanket I want to snuggle into, though maybe not in the literal sense.
I check in at the desk. “The nurse will be right with you, dear. You can have a seat and wait for your name to be called,” Belinda, the dark-haired receptionist, tells me.
“Thanks.” I head to the furthest corner of the waiting area, where there are fewer people.
Elijah takes a seat beside me, careful not to encroach on my space, and I breathe a sigh of relief that he doesn’t do what so many others would. Right now, I’m grateful that, whether he realises it or not, his mere presence is bringing me comfort.
I grind my molars, searching for the right words, but when nothing eloquent comes to mind, I let it all out. Well, notallofit, but enough. I tell him about the day I found out, my diagnosis and treatment plan, and why I’ve been lying.
“My parents already lost one child, and I’m statistically unlikely to die from this, so I figure there’s no reason to have them worry and throw everything away to move here and take care of me or try to move me in with them in Gujarat.” I shake my head, picking at what’s left of my sage-green polish.Statistically unlikely.Those two words play on repeat in my mind, always countered by the what-ifs that follow.
Elijah keeps his voice low. “I find it difficult to believe that your parents wouldn’t want to know, and I’m certain it’s going to hurt them even more when you eventually tell them. Youareplanning to tell them, right?” he asks, a thick blond brow quirked in question.
“I am.AfterI’m in remission.” I fidget under his intense gaze.
“And your friends? Why not tell them so they can support you?”
“They’re all busy with their lives. If I told them, they’d baby me and put their wants aside for my needs. I can’t feel like a burden on top of everything else.”
His eyes soften, and his head tilts, blond waves a purposeful mess on top of his head. His facial hair is beginning to poke through the skin along his jaw, creating a shadow that appears even sharper than usual, and my fingers twitch to reach for him—to feel the warmth of his flesh beneath my fingertips and ground myself in him.
“And Elise’s mum?”
It’s no surprise he knows that her mum passed away from breast cancer when Elise was sixteen, given that Elise’s dad is Elijah’s coach and has likely mentioned it, especially if he knows about Elijah’s mum.
“And there’s that,” I confirm.
I appreciate that he doesn’t rush to speak. He considers each response. It’s not somethingIdo well, but it’s an admirable trait.
