Pretty Pink Ribbons (27 page)

“That’s because you’re a pussy.”

“I am not,” I scoff, ramming my elbow into his side when I push myself up to glare at him. “I’m tough as nails.”

“Sure you are, babe.” He pats my arm like I’m a petulant child then tugs me back down. His eyes drift shut and I nuzzle into his chest with a sigh of contentment, relishing the fact that I’m here—in Levi’s arms—and this isn’t a dream. I’m not sure how long we lie here, but Levi’s steady breathing and the strong beat of his heart are quickly lulling me to sleep. Right when I feel myself dozing off, Levi whispers my name.

“Yeah?” I yawn, stretching my arm across his chest.

“That night I first saw you again, you told me you came back here for me and another reason.” I nod my head; I remember that night all too well. “You said I wasn’t ready to hear the other reason. Was it because of the cancer?”

“Yeah,” I sigh, rubbing my hand down his toned stomach. “I wanted to come home for my chemotherapy. This is where Luke and Benny are”—my fingers lazily trace around each defined muscle—“and this is where you are. I wanted so badly to tell you sooner, but I needed us to be in a better place. Does that make sense?”

“It does.” He pauses for several beats and then takes a deep breath. “How did you find it . . . the cancer?”

“I was taking a shower, washing my body, and there it was. It felt like a rock under my skin, and I freaked out because I remembered my dad telling me that when mom found her cancer, she’d said the same thing.” I squeeze my eyes shut and push out the rest of the story. “I called the doctor and within the hour I was at the hospital having an ultrasound and mammogram. I remember sitting in that cold room all by myself—”

“Mia wasn’t with you?” he asks.

“Nope.” I shake my head. Then I spend the next hour telling him every little detail about my diagnosis, all my options and everything leading up to the surgery.

“Why did you choose the mastectomy over the lumpectomy?”

“I wanted it gone. I was so scared, and all I could think about was getting whatever was growing inside of me out. So I had the surgery, went through six weeks of recovery, and moved home.”

“Are you scared now?” he asks. I’m sure it wasn’t easy for him to ask me that. Hell, it’s not easy for me to answer that, but I’ll try. Because keeping anything at all from him, even my fears, is no longer an option. When it comes to Levi Beckford, I am an open book.

“Terrified.” His arm tightens around my shoulders and his chin drops to the top of my head. “I’m terrified of what I might miss out on.”

“Does it hurt?” he asks softly.

“The cancer?”

“No . . . yes. I don’t know. The chemo, your scar—all of it. Are you in pain?” I love that he’s asking these questions because it shows me that he cares.

“No, no pain. There are certainly other things going on with me, but right now pain isn’t one of them.”

“Will you tell me about it?”

“It’s weird,” I start off, trying to put my feelings into words. “There are days when the cancer is all I think about. It consumes me to the point of exhaustion, and I feel like I’m going to go insane from worry. And then there are days when I’m able to forget and my life seems completely normal.”

“When it consumes you—what’s that like?” Levi’s hand is tracing circles on my arm, but when he asks the question, his fingers stop.

“Keep doing that—with your fingers,” I demand, wriggling my arm. He chuckles and starts tracing again. “I just get a jumbled mess of thoughts that I can’t seem to work through, and I’m constantly battling to stay strong and not feel sorry for myself. A lot of times I find myself thinking about things I want to do before I die . . . just in case.”

“Your bucket list.”

“Yes,” I nod. “But more than anything, it scares me to think that at any given time I could be gone from this world—forever—and never be able to come back. I’ll never get to hug Mia again or fight with Luke and Benny or make love to you. Essentially, I would be like a face in the background of a forgotten photo. A blip on the radar. And that scares the hell out of me.” My voice gets scratchier with each word and tears well up in my eyes. “I’ve never said that out loud to someone before. It’s much harder to say than it is to think.” Tears drip from my eyes, landing on Levi’s chest, and he wipes them away tenderly. Then he pulls me up his body so we’re face to face.

“I didn’t mean to upset you, Lane. I just need to know what we’re up against.”

“What
we’re
up against?” I clarify. Levi brushes his nose against mine and then kisses me softly.

“Yes,
we.
Us. Me and you,” he mumbles, his lips brushing over mine with each word. “You’re not doing this alone, not any of it. Absolutely everything you go through, I will go through with you.” My heart flops over in my chest as I soak in his words.

“That’s a lot, and I would never ask you to do that.”

“That’s the thing, you don’t have to ask me. Because that’s just what you do when you care about someone.” Levi’s thumb runs a slow path across my bottom lip before brushing my bangs out of my eyes. “I couldn’t imagine not doing this with you.”

“I’ll warn you, it’s not pretty. There are days when I get so depressed just thinking about things that I can barely get out of bed. And eating? Not happenin.’”

“That’s why you didn’t eat much when I took you on the picnic.”

“That night it was the nausea. But my appetite, in general, is fading. I’m just not hungry, and most of the time when I do eat, it’s so that you, Luke and Benny don’t ask questions.”

“I won’t push you to eat, baby, but you have to keep yourself fed so that you can stay strong and fight this,” he says with conviction. “I’ll start cooking for you.”

“I’d love for you to cook for me.” I kiss him gently and smile. “I just don’t want you to get your feelings hurt if I don’t eat much.”

He purses his lips and nods, his eyes searching mine. “Stay with me tonight.” That’s Levi . . . never one to ask, only tell.

“I was already planning on it.” I slink down on the bed and wrap my naked body around his, and it’s the single best feeling in the world.

As it turns out, Levi makes one hell of a pillow. I don’t think I’ve ever fallen asleep as quickly as I did last night. Unfortunately, as per usual lately, I woke up way before I wanted to, so I’ve spent the past several hours watching Levi sleep. I can’t count the number of times I’ve wanted to touch him or kiss him, but he just looks so peaceful and I’ve missed being with him like this. Awake or asleep, he has a calm presence that somehow soothes my soul.

My bladder finally forces me to sneak out of bed and pad down the hall to the bathroom. I glance around the room as I take care of business, noticing that somehow my clothes made their way from being strewn across Levi’s bedroom to being folded and stacked neatly on the bathroom counter. I smile, wondering when he did this.

Right before I jump in the shower, I spot a clock on the wall. It’s only eight a.m. and I recall Levi saying he doesn’t have to be up at any certain time today. As I wash up, I think about what I’ll make him for breakfast and I find myself smiling again.

In and out quickly, I grab a towel from the bathroom pantry to pat myself dry. I slip on my shorts from yesterday, hating that I don’t have a clean change of clothes and forgoing underwear altogether, and I walk back into Levi’s room to rummage through his closet. Grabbing the first t-shirt I find, I pull it over my head and return to the bathroom. I rinse my mouth out with some mouthwash and then run my fingers through my hair.

I’m standing in front of the mirror when it happens. A chunk of hair is tangled around my fingers, and the sight of it makes my stomach drop. Panic sets in and I reach up, running another hand through my hair, only to come up with more chunks. “No,
no no no,
” I whisper, frantically pulling the stray hairs from my hands. “This isn’t happening. It’s too soon.” I shake my head furiously and, without warning, tears start falling down my face. My hand comes to mouth and I hold back a sob.

I can’t do this here; I need to be at home. I
want
to be at home. All the articles and pamphlets in the world can’t prepare you for what it’s like to actually lose your hair. They can tell you it’s going to happen and when it’s going to happen, but in the grand scheme of things, there’s no way to prepare for the way it rips you apart.

I tiptoe quietly into Levi’s room, dig an old receipt out of my purse and scribble a quick note to him.

I lay the note on the pillow next to him so he won’t miss it, then walk out of his bedroom, quietly shutting the door behind me. I’m barely holding on by a thread, and I just need to be alone right now.

I DON’T REMEMBER THE drive home or walking in the house, and I certainly don’t remember how I ended up standing in my bathroom in front of the mirror with a pair of clippers. But here I am, staring at my reflection, daring myself to get it over with.

I look like hell. My eyes have dark circles under them and my cheekbones are prominent, a product of the weight I’ve slowly been losing. I rub a chunk of hair between my fingers and watch as several loose strands fall to the floor.
Who in their right mind would find this attractive?

My lip quivers, followed by my chin, and I squeeze my eyes shut, vowing that I can do this. Not that there are many options. I could let my hair fall out slowly, but that’s not how I want this to happen. My plan was to do this gracefully, and I had always told myself that when my hair started to fall out, I’d simply shave it. Well, I’d been fooling myself because that is much easier said than done.

I don’t want to lose my hair.

I don’t want to be bald.

“Fuck,” I cry, throwing the clippers on the counter. I sink to the floor, a pile of loose limbs and tears. A deep sob rips from my throat and I bury my face in my hands. My mind is racing, battling itself at every turn, one minute telling me to stay strong, and the next telling me to let it all out. My cheeks are flushed and my body starts trembling as self-pity washes through me. My sobs turn into gasps as my lungs fight against the screams that have been clawing to get out.

This isn’t fair. This isn’t fair. This isn’t fair.

Those three words cycle in my head over and over again, until I get so fed up with my own damn brain that I grip my hair in my fists and pull . . . hard. I growl, pushing up from the floor. A chunk of hair falls from my hand and I look down to see dozens of strands scattered across the tile floor. I’m yanking on my hair and reminding myself how unfair life is when the doorknob to my bathroom starts rattling. I stop dead in my tracks, hands in hair, eyes red and puffy, hot tears streaking down my cheeks, and I stare at the wood, waiting to see what’s going to happen.