I could have sworn I heard him humming the melody of “Hey There Delilah” as he disappeared down the stairs, hands in his pockets, as if nothing at all had happened.
I could not believe how unaffected he seemed. I was a mess. I teased him all night, then practically threw myself at him, and he just walked away. What kind of superpower did this man possess to have that much self-control? I wanted to yell after him, please take advantage of me. But that would have made me seem desperate, which I was, but he did not need to know that.
I had seen the feral animal behind that prince charming façade, and I wanted to rip that mask off and let him take whatever he needed from me and use me up until he was satisfied.
The cruel part is that I still want him now, seven years later, just as much as I did then. My body simply cannot keep up anymore. Even if he is gentle, I am too fragile now, weakened by chemo and radiation.
I fell for him quickly and deeply. My feelings took over completely, pulling me in with an unstoppable force, like gravity.
In the early days, he used to call me his dream girl. We got engaged a year later, and seven months after that, we were married. Deep down, I wanted to rush into it before something terrible could happen to him, the way it did with Danny.
Time changes everything. Seven years later, the two people sitting in this car are no longer who they were when they first met on the dance floor.
Still, we had five solid years of happiness. Five perfect years of laughter, holidays, mind-blowing sex, romantic dates, trips, and love. Real love. Nothing can take that away from me, not even cancer.
We tried to have children, but it never happened. Two years ago, we found out that cancer had claimed my womb. That was the first diagnosis. Ovarian cancer at thirty years old felt like a cruel joke. The results came back just days before my thirtieth birthday. Nothing says happy birthday quite like surprise, you have cancer. Still, I refuse to wallow in self-pity. As terrible as my life has become, I cannot bear what my diagnosis has done to Jared.
That is all I can think about. Not the operation in a couple of hours. Not the very real possibility of dying. Only how much loving me has cost him. If I am honest with myself, part of me hopes I die on the operating table just to set him free. He would never leave me. I would have to be the one to do it.
“I have a good feeling this time,” he said with a smile, breaking the silence.
Though he kept up the act of optimism, I could sense the truth beneath it. Jared never admitted to anything but hope and happiness, but I knew the pain hidden behind his words. He reached for my hand, lacing his fingers through mine, tracing gentle circles across my skin.
“Everything is going to be okay,” he said softly.
I had spent weeks quietly getting my affairs in order, just in case today was the end. I wanted my death to be as logistically easy for him as possible. That part, at least, was within my control.
I offered him a small smile, then retreated back into emotional stillness. We spent the rest of the drive in solemn silence, hands intertwined. I wondered if these were my last few hours with the man I loved so deeply. The weight of that thought was almost unbearable.
We arrived at the hospital. A nurse brought me a gown and explained that I needed to undergo a few pre-surgery scans and tests. The hospital had a spacious waiting area with comfortable chairs, snacks, and televisions, so I suggested that Jared wait there instead of squeezing into the cramped pre-op room. He kissed the top of my head and said he would be back after the tests.
I gave my usual forced half smile and nodded. The nurse told me to change into the gown and wait for a wheelchair that would take me to the next floor.
“Do you need help getting undressed?” she asked kindly. I shook my head. “No.” She smiled and left the room.
I changed and stood in front of the long mirror, taking in my reflection. My frame was thin, my ribs too visible. The sunken look of my eyes and the sharp lines of my collarbones made me barely recognize myself. My gaze drifted to my only tattoo, a red heart pierced by a downward sword, low on my hip. A cliché, maybe, but it always makes me smile. It always makes me think of Danny.
CHAPTER 2
Danny
DELILAH
Danny was like an uncontrollable blaze in a fragile world. Everywhere he went, chaos seemed to follow.
He craved adventure and thrills just as much as he needed basic necessities like food and water. Danny was always the life of the party, the kind of guy who might land himself in jail after a wild night out. It was that bold, reckless spirit that first drew me to him.
Hannah and I first met Danny at Saint Maria’s Home for Young Adults. After aging out of the foster care system, we both graduated from high school. With no employment, no family support, and no financial resources, we relied on Saint Maria’s, a Catholic charity home dedicated to helping teens transition into independent adulthood.
The day we moved in, Hannah and I carried our sad trash bags of belongings, one each, up the stairs of an old red brick building beside the church. From the shadows cast by stone pillars wrapped in creeping vines, a confident, rugged, auburn-haired young man leaned back, puffing arrogantly on a cigarette.
He was the epitome of the cool bad guy you see in every high school TV show. He wore a tight white T-shirt that made his tan biceps bulge, and I could not help but gawk. Slowly, he lifted his chin, his eyes meeting mine from beneath thick,straight brows. They were the most alluring shade of brown, so dark they were nearly black, yet still full of depth. Like a forgotten, bottomless well, that I found myself drowning in.
Suddenly, I collided with a No Smoking sign, sending me stumbling backward. I fell and dropped my trash bag, its contents spilling across the crumbling stairs. Clothes and toiletries scattered everywhere, while my jar of pickles, miraculously unbroken, rolled to his feet. He glanced down briefly, flicked his cigarette away, picked up the jar, and walked toward me with effortless confidence. Still on the ground, I looked up at him, struck by just how tall he was.
Hannah rushed over to help me up. “Oh my God, are you okay?” she asked.
I rubbed my aching cheek as embarrassment flooded through me, far more painful than the actual sting. I struggled to find my words.
