We both have this incredible feeling rooted in the very marrow of our bones, and we’ve decided to give in to it, falling into the ecstasy of hope cradling us. I mean, I'm certain there's quite a bit of denial mixed in there, too, but for now, we've agreed to play tag with the avoidant parts of our personalities.
“It’s my last bloody day!” she shrieks back at me, doing a little shimmy as she fills two small bowls with cornflakes and tops them with yoghurt and berries. She picks them up, and I plop a small spoon in one and a large spoon in the other for me. With a little twirl, she sets them down in front of our respective spots at the kitchen counter, but before she can climb onto her stool, I get carried away in the joyous feeling racing through me.
I pull her against me with what turns out to be too much force, and she stumbles into my chest. My eyes snap to her burnt-caramel ones, and my breath gets caught in my throat.
She doesn’t mind my touch.
The realisation hits me in the chest, and just like that, I’m pulling her closer, lifting her just enough to plant her on the tops of my feet. I spin us around the small kitchen, sheets of her dark hair fanning out as her laughter fills the space.
She reaches up and winds her arms around me, the motion feeling at once so damn right and so entirelyus.
She gazes up at me with an expression I can only imagine mirrors mine: one full of want and pure, unadulterated joy.
“Maybe we shouldn’t jinx it,” she says, tugging her full bottom lip between her teeth. The crooked tooth draws my attention, and I find myself wanting her teeth buried into the flesh of my shoulder as I thrust into—wow,okay, that took a turn.
I clear my throat, refocusing my eyes on hers, forcing myself to drag them away from her mouth. “I don’t think we’re jinxing anything, sweetheart,” I whisper, brushing a tendril of hair from her face. “It’s okay to let yourself be happy, and more than that, I think it’sgoodto put positivity into the universe. Especially on a day like today.”
The contents of my heart threaten to spill right out of my chest at the thought of the alternative outcome, so I push them away, determined not to dampen her good mood with my overwhelming fear.
She responds with a resigned nod, and I carry us to the stools, lifting her onto hers and climbing onto mine beside her.
We eat, keeping the conversation light, sticking to pleasant things, like how excited the girls were to receive their first porcelain tea set, gifted to them by Adhira for Lyla’s birthday. I don’t mention that her birthday isn’t for another month, thoughdeep down I recognise what this is: Adhira tying up loose ends, as if she might not be here in a month, as if today won’t really be her last treatment.
Our light, joyous mood has shifted to something heavier, pressing down on my shoulders as we finish cleaning up and make our way outside, towards what I’m hoping, praying, andpleadingwill be her final treatment.
As we walk through the crowds, music and horns blaring, lights flashing, a little boy running into me for my autograph, and chatter clogging the air, that weight lessens, erased by the jaw-dropping smile lighting up Adhira’s bronze cheeks.
She points across the street at a sign for the romance-only bookstore she’d mentioned weeks ago, and her expression alone lets me fall back into hope. “We should go after treatment,” she says, beaming at me with a carefree grin she’s been aiming my way more and more lately.
“Anything you want,” I promise, more than happy to let her pick out the raunchiest books she can find if it keeps those smiles right where they belong. Hell, I’ll even read them to her.
I am little more than a needy, helpless man whose only craving is earning this woman’s joy, and I’ll gladly submit to her any day.
We continue the short distance to the lobby of the infusion centre. I yank the door open and hold it for her, followed by a sweet elderly couple who thank me with giant, gratitude-filled smiles.
Adhira gets checked in, and Jenna pops her head out to call us back. She doesn’t make small talk like she usually would, and when I glance at Adhira, it’s clear in the way she’s side-eyeing me and the rigidity of her posture that she can feel the shift too.
We make it to the end of the long, plain corridor with its cream-coloured walls and distinct lack of photos or art, all life snuffed out of the space.
Adhira stops in her tracks, and I nearly collide with her back, catching myself just in time.
I watch her head tilt, eyes darting from chair to chair, cataloguing the faces seated in each one. All the usuals are there.
All but one.
The men and women we’ve come to know these last few months watch us with pitying looks. Several shift in their seats, wringing their hands out in discomfort, and my heart grows heavy.
The bags filled with crosswords, Scottish lollies, giant pens and pencils, party hats, and anything else that had made Adhira laugh when we purchased them go crashing to the ground, the handles slipping right out of her grasp.
“Wh-where is he?” she asks, her words quivering as they pass her lips.
My heart starts its descent, and I do my own assessment of the room, hoping she’s wrong.
The grief-laden silence acts like a noose around my neck, everyone’s eyes on us as we stand motionless, awaiting the confirmation I don’t want to hear.
Jenna straightens her spine, turning to face us. Her throat bobs with a heavy swallow, her lips tight, hazel eyes swelling with unshed tears as they flick between us, landing on Adhira. She holds her gaze for another mournful beat before uttering the last words I’d thought I’d hear today.
“I’m so sorry, Adhira, but he’sgone.”
