Endless Love Letter (Love Letter Duet Book 2) (7 page)

I opened every cupboard and scanned her fridge for something to cook. After pulling out pork chops, I quickly realized Lyra also had no clue where Emilia kept anything. Dinner took longer than usual that night but when we sat at the dining room table to eat, even I was impressed with how good everything tasted.

Lyra’s hair had a few splatters of sauce in it when Emilia came to join us at the table. “Wow.” She bit down on her lower lip and looked at the table and then towards the kitchen.

There was a mountain of dishes on the counter top. Every spice had been pulled out of her spice rack. “Hey!” I tossed my hands in the air. “I know it tastes good, and that’s all that matters.”

Lyra giggled. I looked over at her and winked. I would spend hours cleaning the kitchen, but it was worth the mess since I had made the memory of cooking with Lyra.

L
ater that night
, after Emilia and I had both tucked Lyra into bed, I showered and noticed Emilia was sitting outside on her deck. The curtains in my room had been pulled open, and from my bed I could see her on the chair. Wanting to be near her, I threw a T–shirt on and walked out with my guitar in one hand. She was sitting near the fire pit, a glass of wine in one hand as she stared intensely into the flames.

“Do you mind if I sit?”

“No.” She sat upright on the chair. “Would you like a glass?” She raised her wine to me. I wasn't a wine drinker, but tonight, I'd be whatever she wanted me to be.

“Sure.”

She stood and went to get me a glass. I pulled my guitar out of its case and sat it on my knee. Tuning the chords, I watched as she poured me a glass and filled hers back up.

“I haven’t listened to you play in so long,” she said as she handed me the glass of wine.

I took a sip and placed the glass on the side table. To my surprise, it wasn't as terrible as I remembered wine tasting.

“Do you like? It’s Château Pétrus, one of the best red Bordeaux. It cost me over two thousand dollars a bottle but it was totally worth it, right?”

I blinked at her. “You spent
how much
?”

“I went into the liquor store the day I found out I had cancer. I'd never treated myself to the expensive liquors behind the glass case. It was a day from hell, so I said screw it. I never had the chance to drink it until today.”

“Well, I'm glad I got to be here with you.”

“Cheers.” She raised her glass to mine.

“To really expensive grapes,” I joked.

Emilia laughed as she brought her lips to the glass and took a small sip. “Play something for me.” She hugged her knees to her chest.

“I haven't been working on anything new.” I ran my fingers down the chords.

“I don’t care if you play me a Christmas carol. Sing something for me.”

I moved my fingers along the neck of the guitar and closed my eyes. The chords began to fall into place and I hummed the first notes of the song I wrote about Lyra.

You’re the holder of my heart,

The keeper of my soul, the light in the dark.

When I begin to roam,

Right from the start. Your love let me know,

That no matter what, I’ll never be alone.

Being your dad means the world to me,

You are my little sweet princess, my little sweet pea.

P
eeling my eyes open
, I looked at Emilia. Her head was to the side, resting on the chair, and her hands were on her heart. I didn't stop, but singing it at a slower tempo I continued to the very end. She shook her head slightly, a sideways grin appearing on her face.

“What?”

“Why do you have to be so good at everything?”

I chuckled and took another sip. “I've only sung that song once before. I think that was pretty rusty.”

“Really? Only once?”

“Yep.” I shook my head slowly, remembering the night. “It was my grand gesture to get you back. I only wish I had known about her before I sang about it in front of thirty–thousand people.”

“Do you think it would have made a difference?” She brought her chin to her knees. “If I told you about Lyra when you went to London, do you think we’d be here right now?”

I thought about her question. If she had called me when I was in London, I would have hopped on the first plane over. I would have thrown it all away. “I have no idea.” I let my fingers run through the guitar as a melody began to form. “I had a conversation with Pop a year ago and he told me,
What is today might not be a year from now
. You were married then, trying to have a baby, and I was lost without you”

“Now look were we are.” She inhaled the crisp air that was laced with ocean mist. “I’m a twenty–six–year–old divorcee with cancer. Wow, what a difference a year makes.”

“Yep, I’m your roommate and we’re drinking really expensive grape juice.” I winked at her. “The circumstances might suck, but
we
are at a better place than we were a year ago.”

“You don’t hate me as much?”

I stretched my arms over my head and leaned back on the chair. “I don’t know how to hate you, Em.” I run my hand against the grain of my beard. “I tried very hard to hate you, but after being unsuccessful for so long, I decided to stop fighting it. You’re the mother of my child. You’re my yellow gel.”

“I have my port surgery on Wednesday.” She shrugged.

“When do you start chemo?”

“The following Monday.” She reached for her wine and took a few sips. “Lyra starts ballet that Thursday and she’s been so excited about it. I don’t want to miss it.”

“I’ll be there through the whole thing.” I reached across and took her hand in mine.

I’d fight until my very last breath to give her anything she needed.

W
ednesday morning
, I woke up early to make breakfast and pack Lyra's lunch for school. I’d mastered where Emilia kept everything in her kitchen, quickly realizing it was the same layout as the one she had in her apartment many years ago.

I sipped my coffee, looking out at the dark ocean. The sun wasn't high enough yet to make much visible, but I knew it would be another beautiful, sunny day. I exhaled all my fears and prepared myself for the day we were about to embark on. Emilia was strong, and though she probably didn’t get much sleep the night before, she looked refreshed as she and Lyra joined me in the kitchen. 

“Pancakes!” Lyra skipped to the table. “Good morning, Daddy.”

“Morning.” I walked over to Lyra and kissed the top of her head. 

“You know, you're really starting to spoil us.” Emilia smiled at me as she pulled a water bottle from the fridge.
She smiled. That was a good thing. I would take a smile over tears.
Though the circumstances were terrible, I was finally living the life I wanted with the girls I loved most. “How'd you sleep?” I asked Emilia.

She shrugged and took a sip of her water, her eyes avoiding mine. “Good.”

“Are you nervous?”

“Not now.” She pulled out a chair and sat next to Lyra. “Sit. We have some time to kill and all this bacon won’t eat itself.” She played with her food, but she wasn’t allowed to eat after midnight. Lyra giggled and did the same thing.

Filling my plate with bacon, I said, “She’s like a mini you.”

Emilia’s smile grew wider. “And she has your eyes.”

“Aren’t kids supposed to look like their parents?” Lyra asked.

I chuckled and Emilia responded. “Yes, that’s very true. But a long time ago, way before you was born, your dad said how he wanted a little girl who looked just like me.”

“And your mom said she would have my eyes.” I opened my eyes wider and Lyra did the same. Emilia shook her head and rolled her eyes. When she didn’t finish the rest of the conversation, I finished it for her. “And here you are now. You look just like your mom and you have my eyes. And you know what?” I asked Lyra and gave Emilia a quick glance.

“What?” Lyra asked.

“Now I have it all.”

Emilia looked over at me from across the table. She swallowed back her emotions as she inhaled and closed her eyes. I wanted to tell her that I still loved her very much and that I had never stopped. I wanted to hold her and take away the fear she was having.

But I still had no clue where we stood.

A
fter breakfast
, we drove Lyra to school before heading to the hospital. Lyra sang in the back seat as she’d do anytime she was in the car. The sun was bright in the sky, and traffic moved slowly due to school congestion. I reached over the center console and cupped Emilia’s small hand in mine. She hadn’t spoken since breakfast and I didn’t know how to comfort her. I began to draw an invisible love letter on her palm. Emilia rested her head back on the seat, her eyes closed as she smiled. She would get through this obstacle, she had too. Life for me wouldn’t be complete if she wasn’t in it.

I parked the car and we walked inside Memorial Hospital. The sterile scent and cleanliness wafted through the air, the smell made me feel sick. It wasn’t comforting—it was a reminder of where we were. Emilia and I stepped into the elevator and I reached for her hand. I wanted to let her know that I was there for her without overstepping and hovering.

We stepped off the elevator and Emilia walked up to the nurse’s station to check in. I walked to the empty blue leather chairs and waited for Emilia to sit down next to me. She held a clipboard of paperwork to fill out and sign off on. Draining my nerves from one side of my body to the other, my fingers tapped on my knees. We sat in silence for a few minutes before her name was called by a nurse.

“Emilia Darcy?”

We both turned to the nurse who stood by the double doors. Emilia pushed off the chair and I stood with her.

“What are you doing?” She looked over at me, her eyebrows pushed together.

“I’m going with you.”

“Weston . . .” she whispered.

“Em, there is no way I can sit out here and not know exactly what they are doing to you. I’m going in with you. End of story.”

“Fine.” She huffed and turned toward the nurse. I smiled at the nurse as I followed behind. I stood in front of the closed curtain while Emilia undressed and made herself comfortable on the bed.

“I’m decent,” she said quietly.

Pulling the curtain back, I was greeted by the sight of her sitting on a hospital bed. She was in a blue gown and had her hair pulled back.

This was real.

She was really sick.

“How are you feeling today, Emilia?” a doctor spoke from behind me, pulling me out of my own thoughts. He walked toward her bed with two others trailing behind him.

“Nervous, but I think Weston here is a bit more anxious than I am.”

“Weston Carter.” I reached across and shook his hand.

“Dr. Scott Marino.” He shook my hand firmly and smiled. He introduced the orderlies with him and looked Emilia over. “Do you have any questions for me before I have them wheel you back into the OR?”

Emilia frowned, looked to her knitted hands and slowly shook her head.

I cleared my throat. “Actually, I have a few questions for you.”

“Okay.” Dr. Marino nodded “Go right ahead.”

“How many of these procedures do you do a day?”

Emilia snapped her head toward me. “Weston.”

I walked closer to her bed and rested my hand on her shoulder. “And what kind of port will you be using?”

Dr. Marino pulled a chair over, sat and crossed his leg over his knee. A small, kind smile greeted his face. “You're concerned. I would be, too. This isn't fun.” He leaned over and asked a nurse to pass him a plastic box. “This is the port that we will be implanting today.” He pulled back the protective seal and held the port up for me to see.

My fingers gripped Emilia’s shoulders as I looked at the round plastic with the long tube that would be placed in her chest. I tried comforting her as best I could. Emmy reached for my hand and gripped it tighter. I knew she had no questions, but I couldn't help myself. I needed to know exactly what they were doing to her.

“There will be two small incisions placed just to the right of where your left bra strap lays. Sadly, I've done too many of these procedures, but it's better for you to get this done than for the nurse to constantly look for a vein while you're receiving chemotherapy.”

Dr. Marino sat and explained to me in detail what the procedure would be like once in the operating room. My nerves shot through the roof at the realization of what they were about to do. As Dr. Marino spoke, I glanced over at Emilia. She inhaled slowly, and surprisingly seemed less scared. I reached for her hand and squeezed it.

“Did I answer everything for you?” Dr. Marino asked.

I looked down at Emilia, who was looking up at me. She nodded.

“Yes.”

“You don't have to worry about a thing. She's in good hands.”

The orderlies moved behind the bed to wheel her out. I gripped her hand one last time and leaned forward to place a chaste kiss on her forehead.

“I'll see you as soon as you're out of surgery.”

“I'll see you soon.” She nodded, reassuring me she was okay.

Emilia was in surgery for over ninety minutes.

It was the longest hour and a half of my life.

I counted every single second that passed, and in those ninety minutes, I realized that doing this, just the two of us, would be impossible. We needed help.

I sat on a chair and pulled out my cell phone from my back pocket. My fingers dialed the one person I could always rely on.

“Hello?”

“Mom.” I closed my eyes, anticipating the conversation I was about to have. 

“What's the matter, Weston?” she asked. I paused, my voice lodged in my chest. “What is it? Is something wrong with Lyra?”

With one simple word, my mother knew something was wrong. “It's Emilia.” I inhaled slowly before I spoke. “She starts chemo next week.” My mother gasped on the other side of the phone and I closed my eyes as the ache in my chest began to throb.

“Oh, sweetie . . . What kind of cancer?”

“Uterine cancer like her mother. She’s in surgery right now getting her port put in.” I pinched the bridge of my nose. “Mom, I don't know what to do.” My voice cracked.

“She'll be fine.” My mother cleared her throat. “She is young and healthy and I'm telling you she will be fine.”

I couldn't speak. If I spoke, I was afraid I would cry.

“What can I do, honey?”

“I need you to come down.” I needed my mother here. Emilia thought she could do this by herself, but I knew we would need all hands on deck. “I'll know more soon, but I'd really love if you could come down for a few months. I want to be by her side as she goes to chemo, so we’ll need help with Lyra.”

“Lyra.” My mother gasped again. “Have you told her?”

“We haven't gotten that far yet. I found out late last week and I've been focused on getting her the treatment she needs.”

I couldn't mentally prepare myself for that conversation.

“I know . . . I’ll be there as soon as I can.” My mother paused. “If there is anything else you need, please don’t hesitate to ask. I'm only a few hours away.”

“Tell me she's going to be okay, Mom.” I ran my fingers through my scalp. My mind constantly running on the fear of losing her.

“She's going to be just fine, Weston.”

I filled my lungs with air. “Thank you, Mom.”

I hung up the phone and stared at the black screen. My mind wouldn't stop running, my thoughts drowning me with each passing moment.

“Weston?” I heard my name being called.

Snapping out of my own hell, I stood. “Yes, that's me.” I rushed to the nurse who was standing by the same double doors as when they called Emilia in for surgery. “Is she okay?” My heart pounded as I asked.

“She's fine. She's in the recovery room, and she’s asking for you.”

I let out a relieved breath. Thank you, God.” We had crossed another bridge.

She led me to the recovery room where Emilia sat on the bed. She looked groggy from the anesthesia. When our gazes connected, she shrugged. A look of defeat washed over her face.

“Hi.” Grasping her hand in mine, I brought the back of it to my lips. “You okay?”

“A little sore, but I'm okay.”

I sat next to her as the nurse explained how to clean the port and how to change the dressing. Emilia never asked any questions, simply nodded when the nurse asked her any questions. The fighter I'd seen earlier that morning had dwindled down. She held my hand firmly as I asked every question I had. I wanted to know the proper way to clean and flush the port and what kind of blood test they would run the next time we visited the oncologist. The nurse instructed us to visit the oncologist’s office one last time before her first chemo treatment and then discharged us. 

Emilia walked with her head lowered as we walked to the car. “Hey.” I wrapped my arm around her shoulders, avoiding her incision, “What's going through your mind?”

“Nothing.” She shrugged. “I'm fine.”

“Em . . .” Her eyes never lied. Something in her had changed. I moved to stand in front of her. “Talk to me.”

“I don't want to talk.” She shook her head, swallowed and fresh tears pooled in her big brown eyes. 

“Something is bothering you. Are you in pain? Talk to me.”

“What do you want to talk about?” Her voice was shaky. “I'm pissed that this happened to me. I'm angry. I am violently angry! I now have this object hanging out of my chest. I'm going to lose my hair. And I'm supposed to be strong for Lyra.” The first tear fell.

“I know that I'm supposed to put on a brave face. And I know that I'm going to sit here and fight this terrible disease that has taken every woman in my family.
Every
woman. I have to sit here and fight and pray to fucking God that it won't take me too because I have a little girl. I have a child who needs her mother.” She gasped for air.

“But I don't want to sit here and talk because I'm not happy. I'm fucking pissed. I know you're trying to help, and God can only know how appreciative I am for all of your help and support. You changed your life to be here with me. And I truly appreciate that, Weston. But I can't talk right now because I don't want to talk. I want to hit things. I want to throw things. I want to punch things.”

Emilia shook her head and looked up to the sky. “I'm supposed to be strong, Weston but I'm really fucking scared. I'm so scared. This disease destroyed my family. It took everything away from my mother and then took her away from me. It took my father away from me when he couldn’t deal with losing my mother. I'm so scared.” 

I wrapped my arms around her body and pulled her close as she cried. Kissing the top of her head, I spoke, “You want to be angry, babe, let's be angry. You're pissed off, you want to throw things, so let's do it.” My hands ran up her back. “I love you, Em. And I'll do and be whatever you need.”

Emilia looked up at me with teary eyes, her lower lip quivering. Framing her small face in my hands, I lifted her face to mine. Slowing brushing my lips on hers, I hoped the world stopped for her as it had done for me. It was the first time I'd kissed her since she left my hotel room that one day so many months ago. She pulled back from the sudden touch, her eyes scanning mine for some type of question or answer. Exhaling, she closed her eyes.

“Kiss me again,” she whispered.

My hands framed her face, then moved back to coil her hair around my fingers. Gently, I pressed my lips to hers. The mixture of salt from her tears and the sweetness from her strawberry ChapStick mixed together. It was what we both desperately needed. It was tender at first, but my body threw caution to the wind when my mind remembered her taste. Our kiss grew hungrier and she opened her mouth, letting me in.

Heaven.

In the midst of all the fear and tears, this was heaven. A taste of better days to come.

I gently bit down on her lower lip and she moaned. The soft whimper sparked a fire deep inside of me, a fire that had been dormant. Her frail arms laced around my neck in a vice grip. Opening her mouth wider, she deepened our kiss.