CHAPTER 1
Jared
DELILAH
When I woke up today, I knew it would probably be my last. Drowning in my thoughts, I gazed at the morning sunlight strobing between the lush treetops as we drove our modest car down the highway toward the city. The hospital near our small town was not going to cut it this time.
The silence between us was becoming impossible to ignore, but neither of us knew what to say. We were both exhausted and had not slept last night. The emotional bomb was going to detonate today, and we were mentally bracing for it in a shared quiet.
Today, I was scheduled to undergo an experimental surgery to remove the big “C.” Yep, cancer. I have cancer in my brain this time, of all places. We both knew this was the final “Hail Mary” attempt to save my life, the last piece of hope that might give me a fragment of a chance at a normal life.
I looked over at my husband in the driver’s seat and studied the heaviness on his face. I cannot believe how much he has aged in two years. Tired eyes. Pale skin. Lines etched into his face. I did this to him.
It is no secret that over the past two years his role in my life has shifted from spouse and lover to full-time caregiver. Heeven took a pay cut so he could work from home, choosing to take care of me himself. I know how pathetic I am, how parasitic I have become. I do not deserve him. He is the quintessential “golden retriever” of husbands. He has been by my side through all of this, never wavering, never faltering. If he was unhappy, he hid it well. He has always been good at suppressing difficult feelings, but I have watched his glow dull over the past couple of weeks. He is near his breaking point. I can feel it, and it is killing me more viciously than the tumor in my brain.
He has seen me in states no husband should ever have to see his wife in. There is no fathomable way he could possibly find me sexy ever again, not after what he has had to do for me.
His life once consisted of meeting his buddies at the gun range, followed by quality time at the brewery. During the workweek, he leisurely typed away in a cozy office in the city, surrounded by colleagues who adored him. He would end his workday lifting weights in the company fitness center.
God, I miss those muscles. He had the physique of a Greek god. He is still a good-looking man, just not the version he prefers.
I cannot even remember the last time we had sex, real, hot, satisfying sex. My body has become so frail and weak this past year that even simple tasks, like walking up the stairs or bathing, feel overwhelming. I told him he could cheat. As awful as that would be, at least I would know his needs were being met, that I had not taken that away from him too. But whenever I bring it up, he always refuses.
Now he works from home for half the salary, utterly isolated, aside from helping me when I soil myself. Watching the man I love become a shadow of his former self devastates me. My body is a prison, cancer is the warden, and Jared is my cellmate.
Life was not always this way. I would give anything to go back to how things were before. How we met is one of my most cherished memories.
It was at my foster sister’s wedding seven years ago.
The other bridesmaids pulled me onto the dance floor for the bouquet toss. I reluctantly joined, standing at the back with my arms crossed and a bored expression on my face. I agreed to stand out there, but I was not going to catch that thing. I was not even going to try.
At the time, mentally and emotionally, I could not stomach the thought of being with another man. I did not want any bridal juju rubbing off on me from that bouquet. Even if it were just superstition, I could not take the chance.
My foster sister, drunk, whispered loudly in my ear, “You know, the best way to get over a guy is to get under a new one.” She giggled, then turned to face me. She held my hands and continued, “It’s been almost two years. The least you can do is participate in my bouquet toss.” I responded with a dramatic eye roll, followed by a half smile.
She really looked beautiful. I thought after my engagement with Danny, well…fell through, that her wedding was going to sting a little, but it didn't. I love Hannah, she is the closest thing I have to a relative.
The DJ began counting, “One… two…” and on three she whipped around and chucked her bouquet straight at my face with such force it nearly knocked me off my heels. Unbelievable. I looked down at my arms, mortified, staring at the mangled mess of red roses and evergreens now in my grasp. She stood on the stage laughing her ass off. Typical Hannah.
Suddenly, it was announced that the bouquet and garter catchers would have a solo dance together. I could not believe it. I had not even seen who caught the garter. I was at the bar. It did not matter, because I absolutely refused to participate. Thebouquet toss was one thing, but a solo dance with a stranger was out of the question.
It was not that I was insecure. Back then, I was confident and rocked the hell out of that black bridesmaid dress. It hugged the curves cancer would later steal from me. My issue was a different kind of fear. I was terrified of being in the embrace of a different man and liking it.
There was grief. So much grief. Guilt and anxiety, and then the intimacy part. But mostly, I was afraid of developing feelings for someone else, someone new. Allowing myself to love again after Danny felt like the ultimate betrayal. Danny was all I had ever known. We were so young when we started dating.
She ran to me and wrapped me in a please-forgive-me kind of hug.
“I am not dancing with whatever horny, frat fuck boy caught your garter, Hannah,” I declared.
Her eyes flicked nervously to the left, then back to me. The look on her face was a mix of oops and shut your stupid mouth, Delilah. From the direction her eyes pointed, a strikingly handsome man approached.
“Hello, I’m Jared, but horny frat fuck boy is fine too, although not entirely accurate.” His voice was low and sly, and his grin sent a jolt of excitement straight through me. I was almost left speechless, completely caught off guard by this stunning man with the warmest eyes I had ever seen.
Danny was the boy who had stolen my heart years ago, but this Jared guy was a fucking man. He stood tall, his broad shoulders defined by layers of muscle.
Hannah mouthed the wordshave funwhile beaming from ear to ear with a mischievous smile, one I knew all too well. I had to hand it to her. She knew my type.
He held out his hand, and I could have sworn I saw a trace of nervousness flicker across his face. Almost instinctively, I placed my hand in his, and he led me onto the dance floor.
