Aidan (6 page)

She’s saying all the right things, and despite not understanding why, I don’t believe any of them. I’m being placated, and I hate that. But right now, I don’t have time to call her on it, and she knows it. I reach out and pull her back to me, enfolding her in my arms. “Don’t you fucking run from me, princess,” I murmur against the crown of her head. She stiffens before relaxing once again. Whether she knows it or not, that little tell confirms everything I already suspected. She has no intention of coming to me. Dammit, I know she wants to—I can literally feel her inner turmoil—so what is holding her back? I want to demand an explanation, but even if I took the time now, I know it wouldn’t get me anywhere. She’s locked up tight. If I corner her, she’ll do nothing but blow sunshine up my ass and agree to any plea or demand I make. So I tilt her head until I can take possession of her mouth. It’s a hard, deep kiss filled with my frustration. She returns the rough embrace without complaint. Her tongue clashes with mine as we wage some kind of silent war with each other. When I pull away suddenly, looking down at her, I see a deep sadness in her eyes.
Shit.
She’s already gone. The only thing that gives me the strength to finish packing and leave is knowing that I’ll find her. She has too many ties to my friends. She won’t be able to hide from me forever. She’s the first woman in my life other than Cassie who I’ve developed real feelings for. And I’m not going to let her turn her back on me just yet.

She tosses on her shirt and follows me out to my car, standing quietly as I stow my case in the backseat. “I hope your mom’s okay,” she says softly as her fingers twist nervously together in front of her.

I hand her the key to the house before dropping one last kiss onto her lips. “Don’t take too long to figure it out, Kara. I’ll be waiting.” I don’t bother waiting for a reply. I’m in my car and moving down the driveway before I see her glance up. She looks so lost and vulnerable. I desperately want to go back and demand she get into the car, but how much of a hypocrite can I be? It’s taken me a year and a family emergency to reach this point. Who am I to deny her at least some of the time she so obviously needs? There is a moment of dread so intense it makes my chest hurt. The last time I left a woman who I cared about behind, she died. I open my window and draw air into my suddenly burning lungs.
This isn’t the same thing
I repeat to myself as I stare straight ahead. As the miles between us begin to lengthen, I slowly relax. When I’ve found out what’s going on with my mother and things are settled there, I’ll find Kara. Instinctively, I know she won’t be at home, and she’ll leave the beach soon. I’m a man with resources, and I’ll use them. And if she doesn’t like it? Too fucking bad.

As Aidan’s car makes the turn onto the highway, I drop to my knees. He’s gone. I’m always the one to leave first in the morning, yet this time, he does. I don’t know why I’m acting like the love of my life just dumped me. This was the end of the road for us anyway; I’d already made the decision. My emotions are raw, and I feel as if I’ve been abandoned, which is absurd considering he asked me to go with him.
He wants more time with me.
And I lied to his face as I assured him I’d be back in Asheville soon.

The cool beach breeze sends a chill through me, and I get to my feet and walk wearily back into the house. There’s so much of Aidan here that I almost can’t stand it. Maybe it’s my imagination, but the air seems heavy with his scent, which both comforts and repels me. A part of me wants to pack and follow him immediately, but I can’t. If it hurts this much to lose him now, allowing myself—and possibly him—to form further attachment would be devastating.

I make my way to the bedroom and curl up on the top of the covers. I should leave now, but I allow myself to have these last hours in the place where Aidan Spencer came so very close to stealing my heart. Before I know what I’m doing, I’ve cupped my reconstructed breast in my hand. It’s ridiculous, but I blame it for so much. This imposter that has taken over my life and sent me into a tailspin of depression and despair. For one insane moment, I feel the almost overwhelming urge to find a knife and hack it off as if everything will go back to normal after that.
I hate it. Hate. It. I want my life back. If only cutting it off would give me that.

But it won’t. I’ll never be the girl I was before breast cancer, and this carefully constructed breast that I hold such disdain for did nothing wrong. It simply keeps me from feeling like less of a woman. And God forbid I go around with only one breast. That might make everyone around me uncomfortable.
Poor Kara Jacks. She only has one good tit now.
My thoughts are so irrational that I can’t help but laugh. It’s a crazy sound in the silent room. I’m a survivor; I’m supposed to be stronger than this. I should be speaking about the power of positive thinking at events. Visiting the hospitals to encourage others battling cancer and handing out those little pink ribbons. Sometimes, I think the fact I lived was a mistake. Shouldn’t remission be reserved for someone who would make the most of their life instead of cowering away from the world? Just how long is this pity party going to last before I am forced to admit that I’m plain fucking nuts now?
Yes, that’s right, God, you wasted your healing power on me. I can’t figure out how not to be a victim.

I’m startled out of my dark thoughts by the text tone on my phone. I fumble around on the nightstand and hit a button to light the screen. When I see that it’s a message from Aidan, I eagerly open it.

Damn you. Missing you already, princess. How is it possible that I miss him too?
I’m not a princess. I may have once thought I lived a charmed life and could leave my ivory tower on the rare occasion, but I’d never been a snob. I’d never held myself above others. Right now, my crown has well and truly slipped.
I sniff and know that yet another round of tears are imminent. Why couldn’t he be the playboy he’s reputed to be? He could have fucked my brains out and then moved on. But nooo, he had to turn into this perfect man along the way. Sweet, funny, dirty, and possessive. I doubt there’s a woman out there who doesn’t have most of those things on her wish list. I picked him up that first night thinking he’d make me forget everything. The man was supposed to be a god in the sack, and I’d been attracted to him since our first meeting at Luc and Lia’s wedding. That had been right after I’d finished my chemo and had decided to dye my naturally blond hair almost black. There had been a moment that day when our eyes had connected and lingered for just a second longer than the standard greeting. He had been so solemn, so sad, even though it was his best friend’s wedding day. I’d laughed at all the right moments and smiled when I had to, but I’d felt the same. Shortly after that, I’d heard through the family grapevine that he’d left town for an unknown amount of time. Even then, not knowing his entire story, I’d understood his need to flee because I’d been fighting the same urge. Who would have ever guessed that a year later our paths would cross many miles from home? Again, the word fate or even destiny comes to mind. Which is probably pretty accurate because that bitch isn’t finished with me yet. Dangling someone like Aidan in front of me knowing I can’t keep him is about as cruel as the fear I have that my cancer will return . . . Only that time I won’t be one of the “lucky ones.”

T
he sun is just beginning
to rise when I drive down the street I grew up on. It’s an old, established neighborhood with some newer houses beginning to replace ones that had seen better days. People rarely wanted to spend the time or money to refurbish anymore. It was an impatient world, and everyone demanded immediate results. Of course, it didn’t matter that a new build took longer. That didn’t really enter into it. The modern one-size-fits-all was better to most than its drafty, classic counterpart.

I spot my parents’ white Victorian surrounded by, of course, a white picket fence. Its style has been featured in countless movies, and it’s been the inspiration behind fairy tales and love stories. The porch light glows in the early morning light as if it had been expecting my arrival all along.
Home
. Our initials are carved in the oak tree out back, and under it, two dogs that had died of old age are buried. I rub a small scar under my chin and grin as I remember Luc and I having the bright idea to ride our bikes off the steep porch. Luc’s had been fine, but mine had made a sideways flip that had ended with me in the emergency room. I’d proudly told everyone at school about my five stitches. It had actually been two, but that hadn’t sounded as badass, so I’d embellished just a tad.

I step out of the car, closing the door behind me quietly, loathe to disturb the peace of the moment. I know that as soon as I make my presence known, it will be gone. Despite feeling right that I’m home, I’m almost fearful of moving from the spot I’m frozen in. My mind is urging me toward the front door, but fear is holding me captive with one hand still on the door handle as if preparing for a quick escape. I’m still mired in doubt when I hear footsteps behind me. I swing around and am shocked to see my father walking up the driveway toward me. His hands are buried in his pockets, and his gait is heavier than I’ve ever seen before. With lines in his face that were not previously there, he looks as if he’s aged several years since I’ve been gone. I also notice that for all of my shock, he doesn’t seem surprised to see me. “Son,” he says simply, as he closes the last of the distance between us and pulls me into his arms. “I’ve missed you,” I hear him mutter as I return his embrace.

When we part, I speak the obvious. “You knew I was on my way.”

He shrugs before giving a single nod. “I had no way of knowing for certain, but I felt sure that Luc would contact you. Your mother likes to sleep a little later these days. Why don’t we walk down the street to Joe’s and get a cup of coffee? She’s going to be so excited when she sees you that this may be the only alone time we get today, and I’d like to spend a little time with my son.”

A million questions are on the tip of my tongue, but I push them back. My dad has never been one for blurting anything out, and that hasn’t changed. I know he wants to talk about Mom while she’s not around, so I fall into step with him. I’m thankful for the small talk about the neighbors as we walk toward the old café at the end of our street. The air inside is thick with the smell of coffee and grease as we take a seat across from each other on the stiff and sticky vinyl. I can’t help but grin as I see the miniature jukebox on the table. I’m tempted to pop in a quarter just to see if it actually works, but figure it’s a little too early for Elvis or Patsy Cline. A quick glance shows that Joe hasn’t bothered to update his music selection in years. A gum-chewing waitress, who looks bored with life, sets our hot cups of coffee down and takes off before we change our mind about ordering food. I take a cautious sip and wince. Just as strong as I remember. Hell, for all I know, this is the same damn pot from a year ago. “So what’s going on?” I ask my dad point-blank. I think we’ve covered the casual chitchat portion by now. “Your mother has uterine cancer.” He doesn’t bother to act ignorant. He’s always been the direct sort and now is no exception. “She had surgery, and they performed a complete hysterectomy, along with removing the ovaries and her tubes. There are so other medical terms thrown in, but that’s the gist of it. It has also spread to the lymph nodes in that area so they were taken out as well. Now, she’s in the middle of her six months of chemo.”

And for the second time in a year, the bottom has just fallen completely from my world.
She’s in the middle of her six months of chemo. She’s had three months of chemo, and
I
haven’t been here. Fuck!

My mother has always been invincible in my eyes. I can hardly fathom her sick with the flu much less fucking cancer. I feel the urge to run away from it all again, but I can’t. Doing that in the first place may have well cost me precious time with the woman I love more than life itself. On the heels of that is anger, and even though I know I have no one to blame but myself, I still find myself lashing out. “Why in the hell didn’t you tell me? You said she’d had some tests done ages ago. I kept asking about it, and you glossed it over, even blamed it on hormones at one point. Were you just planning to eventually send me an email and say, ‘Merry Christmas. Oh, by the way, your mother died of cancer last week.’?” The few other customers turn to stare as my voice rises, but I couldn’t give a fuck. Let them have a show with their breakfast this morning.

He pinches the bridge of his nose then looks up to return my stare. I see it then.

Complete and utter devastation.

But it’s the fact he appears so lost that scares the hell out of me. He’s the man with all the answers. If I’d listened to him years ago, I’d have avoided a world of hurt with Cassie. I see none of that calm confidence now, though. “I’m sorry, Aidan,” he finally says. “I wanted to tell you so much, but your mother was against it. She wanted you to have this time for yourself. She knew how much you were hurting and didn’t want to cause you more stress. I promise you I tried to get her to reconsider so many times. She flat out threatened to leave me at one point if I betrayed her confidence. And even though I don’t think she meant that, it did show me how strongly she felt about her decision.” His hands shake so badly that coffee sloshes over the rim of his cup. “But I’d been wavering lately. It killed me each time you asked about her, and I had to pretend things were fine. When we ran into Lucian yesterday, I wanted to drop to my knees and thank God for showing me a way to contact you without breaking my word to your mother.”

My shoulders slouch forward as the anger drains from my body. He’s hurting; it’s clear to see. My parents are the true embodiment of soul mates. Of course, this is hitting him hard, and
I’m
throwing a tantrum because I abandoned them and they didn’t beg me to come back when something happened. The blame here is mine, and it’s unfair to pretend otherwise. I need to be part of the solution now, instead of the problem I’ve been for so long. I place my hand on his arm, giving it a squeeze. “I’m sorry, Dad. That was an asshole thing to say, and I didn’t mean it.”

He puts his hand over mine, squeezing it tightly. “I know, son. She didn’t want you to return home to this. I believe she kept hoping it would all be over, and she’d be well again before you came back. You know how damned stubborn she is. She’s just been waiting for the tide to turn and that exact thing to happen.”
Yes, I am fully aware of her stubbornness. I am most definitely her son.

“What are her doctors saying?” I ask, almost afraid to hear the answer. What if there’s no hope? I’ve heard of people who find out they have cancer and are dead a month later. She’s my mother, for fuck’s sake, not some sad statistic to be recorded in a book somewhere.

“As we told Luc, we both really like her doctor. They’ve been aggressive in her treatment and are optimistic about the outcome. Right now, we’re doing everything we can to keep her healthy and minimize everyday risks such as her catching a cold or the flu from someone. Little things like that are her biggest threat at this point. The chemo has lowered her immune system so much that she’s at risk every time she leaves the house. Hell, I can bring it home from work, Walmart, or anywhere, and not even know it.” Giving a thin smile, he adds, “Needless to say, we’ve gone through a lot of Lysol.”

I hate to ask this next question, but it will tell me so much more than the facts he’s presented so far. It will also be the most difficult, probably for both of us. “So I know her doctor’s opinion now, but what do YOU think? You know Mom better than anyone does, and you’re privy to more than they are in those brief appointments. How is she really doing, Dad?”

His eyes fall, and he appears to wilt before me. If I thought he looked several years older before, I now think it’s more like ten years. “I’m not sure, son,” he admits. “She’s so damn strong that what would break some people barely slows her stride. But I’ve never seen her this tired or this frail. She looks as if a stiff wind would blow her over. You need to prepare yourself for the fact that she’s lost a lot of weight.” Then swallowing audibly, he adds, “And most of her hair.” His eyes glisten with tears at this point, and I know it has nothing to do with vanity. He wouldn’t care if my mother were bald, short, tall, heavy, or thin. What must pain him is seeing her change so drastically due to the beast living within her. His voice is hoarse now as he fights to control his emotions. “I want to say that everything is going to be okay because that’s exactly what she’s going to tell you. And I hope to God she’s right. But this has hit her hard, and each day, I see her lose a little more of herself to this fucking disease!”

With first my profane outburst and now his, we’re attracting attention in the dingy diner. My father isn’t one for the F-word, so it says a lot about his frustration and fear over my mother’s condition. I pull my wallet from my pocket and toss some bills on the table. “Why don’t we head home and see if Mom is up yet?” We both get to our feet; I throw my arm over his shoulders, giving him a side hug, and we make our way back to my childhood home. I don’t miss the irony—for the first time in my life, I’m the one offering moral support, and he’s the one leaning on me. But despite his dire warnings, ten minutes later when I’m folding my stick-thin mother in my arms, I’m reeling.
Fuck. Fuck me. How? God, this hurts so much. Why her? Why fucking her?
I’m grateful her head is somewhere around my chest, and she can’t see the look of agonizing disbelief on my face. When I left home, she had thick brown hair and a healthy glow. Now, she’s hunched over, bald, and saying she weighed a hundred pounds would be generous. I have a sinking feeling that she’s below that. Her once vibrant blue eyes, which always sparkled like sapphires, are now a muted color, and her few laugh lines have been replaced with wrinkles that look as if they’re relentlessly claiming every remaining smooth curve of her face.
Where in the fuck is my mother and who is the shell that has replaced her?

But then she cups my face and strokes my cheek as she’s always done and I see her there. Cancer is laying waste to her body, but the woman I love is still alive and buried under it all.
Don’t cry,
I chant in my mind over and over. She knows me so well, though. She sees that I’m struggling as she pulls away to study me. I have no clue what to say. What is the appropriate way to make conversation with your dying mother? Because as morbid as it may sound, that’s exactly the conclusion I’ve formed. Like Dad, I can’t see a rainbow with puppies waiting at the other end here. Granted, I don’t really have any experience with people who are going through chemo. Maybe they all look like this, and then later on, they go back to normal. I simply can’t wrap my head around what’s happening here, though. “My baby,” she says softly, and that’s it. I crumple at her feet and sob exactly like the infant she just called me. She lowers herself to the floor with me and pulls me close, stroking my hair as she’s always soothed me when I was upset. “Shhh, don’t cry, sweetheart. You’re home now, and this is a happy occasion. I’ve missed your face so much.” The guilt I feel at her last words is strong enough to suffocate me. Having been absent, I may have very well missed the last good parts of my mother’s life.

My father has left the room. After our emotional talk, I’m sure this was more than he could bear. “I’m so sorry, Mom,” I manage to get out as she rocks us both back and forth with her frail body. I have no clue how she even has the strength to move herself, much less me. “Why didn’t you tell me what was going on? I would have come back right away.”

We settle back against the front of the sofa with our hands clasped tightly together. “One day, you’ll understand, honey. But parents, especially mothers, have a need to protect their children. You’ve been through so much in the last year, and you needed the time to grieve.”

“But what if that had cost me the chance to see you again? To spend time with you?” I ask, still frustrated that no one told me something so important. This wasn’t like missing a birthday or a job promotion.

“I would have never left this earth without saying goodbye to you,” she says as if it’s the most logical answer in the world.

I roll my eyes and drop my head back against the sofa cushions. “You know sometimes you don’t get to make that decision, right?” I point out wryly. “Even you’re not the Almighty, all powerful every day.”

“Who says?” She laughs as she leans her head against my shoulder. “When it comes to you, my will is stronger than anything this universe can toss at me. Of course, it did throw Luc directly in our path yesterday so maybe it got tired of my delays.” We talk for a while longer before I notice the lengthening lapses between her words. I turn my head and see her eyelashes fluttering before a big yawn escapes. “Sorry,” she says sheepishly. “You just got home, and I don’t want to take my usual morning nap, but it looks like my body has other plans.”

“I’m a little tired too from the drive,” I admit even though I would have gladly stayed. I get to my feet and help her up. Her weight is so slight that it again drives home to me how precarious her condition is right now. “How about I come by this evening and bring dinner with me? I can pick up your favorite Italian from Leo’s.”