Uncovering You: The Complete Series (Mega Box Set) (179 page)

Slowly, all the control I so covet is being taken from me.

I try to catch Summer at the end of the day. But she gives me the cold shoulder.

After a few hours in the library deliberating what I’m going to do, I make up my mind.

***

“Oh, fuck me,” I mutter when I walk into James’s apartment.

Right there, spread in front of me, are all my belongings. Literally
everything
from my old place.

And I thought all he’d grabbed were my clothes.

Dammit, he must have hired movers for this!

What the fuck do I do now? I can’t go back to my place. I sure as hell can’t bring all this stuff back myself.

I guess, for better or for worse, I’m stuck here.

It still pisses me off that James would do it without my permission. Though a small, tiny, teensy part of me… kind of likes being the damsel in distress.

I come to with a start. No—I do
not
need James taking care of me. I don’t need anyone taking care of me.

And yet, despite my trepidation, that’s exactly what’s happening.

I plop down on the sofa and take out my phone. I text James.

Me:
I’m here. Waiting for you. We need to talk.

His reply comes a couple of minutes later.

James
: Good.

***

James comes home looking very much the prodigious young professor that he is.

I haven’t thought of him as
Professor Landon
for a very long time. But the way he’s dressed now, in tan slacks, a crisp white button up, and navy blue blazer, reminds me of who he is.

I stand to greet him. “I dislike this little stunt you pulled,” I tell him curtly, motioning at my things. I cross my arms. “It isn’t funny, appreciated, or cute.”

“I wasn’t going for the first or the last,” he tells me calmly. “And the one in the middle, appreciation? That wasn’t expected, either.”

“Well, good then,” I grunt. I cross my arms.

We have a good old-fashioned stare-down.

He takes a few steps toward me. “Tell me, Celeste,” he says. “Are you being difficult just for the sake of it? Or is there something more? What am I missing?”

“I’m not being
difficult,
James,” I tell him. “It’s you, on the other hand, who’s being infuriating.”

“Infuriatingly endearing,” he clarifies.

“Hah!” I laugh.

He crosses the floor and ends up right before me. It looks like he’s going to try to kiss me.

“No.” I push him away by the shoulders. “None of that. Not until we establish some boundaries.”

He quirks an eyebrow at me. “Boundaries?”

“Yes. Boundaries. Here’s how it’s going to work. You set your rules the first night I stayed over. Those didn’t exactly pan out. That’s fine, because they’re in direct conflict with the ones I’m going to lay out… if you expect me to stay.”

“I’m listening,” James tells me.

I step around him and march toward the massive window wall. “First,” I say. “If we’re going to do this—if there’s going to be anything between us, then you can’t develop feelings for me. I don’t want emotions involved.”

James opens his mouth to speak, but I jump in before him.

“And if you’re going to protest, I’m walking straight out. These are non-negotiable.”

His mouth clamps shut.

“Second,” I say, holding up two fingers. “You are not allowed to get sentimental over me. I don’t want to be coddled. I don’t want to be hugged. The only thing I want from you, James, is to be
fucked.
Can you handle that?”

He nods. I note the growing bulge in his pants.

“Next,” I continue, surprised with how well he’s taking it, “If we’re going to have this, it’ll be
just
this. Nothing more. When I go—not if I go, James, but
when
—you cannot chase me. Do you understand?”

His mouth forms a firm line. He nods again, but doesn’t speak.

“Last,” I finish. “You have to respect my privacy. I don’t know how you found me in the hotel. I don’t care to know. All I want is for it to never happen again.”

“Done,” he grunts. His hands are clenched into tight fists.

I turn and walk toward him. My lips curl up in a hint of a smile. “Physical intimacy is what I want with you, James.” I run a finger over his chest. He clenches his jaw and watches me intensely. “Psychological?” I shake my head. “No. I’m not going to stand here and tell you I don’t have secrets. I do. But you will never know them. Because what I want, what I can agree to—it doesn’t transcend the physical. Are you hearing me, James? Do you understand?”

He answers me by dropping his head and sealing my mouth with a scorching kiss.

41.

I wake up early the next morning beside James. He’s sound asleep, unperturbed as usual.

I get out of bed softly, even though I know I can make a racket and he still wouldn’t stir.

At the doorway, I stop and glance back. I’m struck by a vision.

The sun is shining through the shuttered blinds onto his body. His chest rises and falls with the deep, content breathes of sleep.

He looks stunning. Absolutely perfect. Even with his best feature—his eyes—hidden, he is a sight to behold. His skin looks smooth and soft beneath the finely trimmed hairs. I know it
feels
even better beneath my hands.

He has the most luscious lips. I love being kissed by those lips. I love the way they make me feel. I love how when they’re on me, I forget everything else.

My heart breaks seeing him like this. I’m not his girlfriend—I can never be. He hasn’t seen my ugly side. He doesn’t know about the weakness that pervades every fiber of my being.

I’m not blind to who I am or what I come across as. I know how people see me, because that’s the face I put on.

But beneath the mask? I
am
very much a scared, weak-willed girl.

I’m okay with that. So long as I am truthful to myself about it, it doesn’t harm me.

I’m a bit like an addict pumping drugs into her body. I know the chemicals are bad, but they are part of my existence. Stubborn as I am, I refuse to give them up.

So, seeing James asleep like this… so innocent, so pure, so unguarded… makes me just a little bit sad. I’m sad because the vision before me is fantasy. It’s something that can never be truly
real
because of who I am.

Right on the dot, as if in reminder of that fact, a wave of dizziness overcomes me.

I clutch the doorway to keep from falling. But my knees buckle anyway. I slide down.

Terror fills me. What if James wakes up and sees? What if he notices, what will he think?

But then it passes. The vertigo’s gone. Just like that: I took a breath, and it was over.

Quick as I can, I pull myself up. James is still snoring. Thank God.

If I’m going to live with him, I’m going to need to do everything I can to cover up my sickness. It means episodes like this
cannot
happen where he can see.

I’ll check with the doctor if I can get motion sickness pills when I start chemo.

***

Saturday morning I’m sitting in the cancer clinic, dressed in one of those green hospital gowns, waiting for the doctor to come talk to me.

I’ve already received my dose of chemotherapy for the day. It took about twenty minutes. They poked a needle into my spine and injected the drugs straight in.

It’s the most effective way of treating a brain tumor like mine.

Now they’re just keeping me here to see if I experience any immediate side-effects.

Dr. Robinson shows up and smiles. “Hey, Celeste,” he says. He checks the charts the nurse left clipped to my bed. “How are you feeling?”

“Not bad,” I say. I glance at my thin shift. “A little cold.”

He chuckles. “I’d offer you a blanket, but you won’t be here much longer. Now, I see here,” he taps the clipboard, “that you didn’t put down any emergency contact information.”

“No,” I say.

“It’s important we have that in case something goes wrong,” he says.

“I don’t want anybody to know.”

He pauses. “Family? Friends?”

I shake my head.

“You should know we have an excellent support program here. You connect with other patients. You share what you’re all going through. It’s not a requirement, but I think you might find it beneficial.”

“Thanks doc,” I say. “But I’ve been through this once or twice before. I know what to expect. And I mean, no offense to everybody else, but I’d rather not be reminded I have cancer every waking moment of every day.”

“Fair enough. Shall we discuss the remainder of your treatment?”

I sit up a bit higher. “Yes. Let’s.”

“Well, the drug you’ve been given today is called methotrexate. It’s one of the most efficient treatments for a tumor like yours. I’ll also be giving you Temozolomide tablets to take orally, every day, in between these weekend treatments. That way you can continue your studies.”

“Excellent,” I say. “That’s exactly what I want.”

“You’ll come back the same time every week. In about a month we’ll take more scans of your head to see how you’re responding. With luck, we’ll see a regression by then. The tumor’s not overpowering. I’m hopeful.”

I’m not, I think.

“You know about the side effects of treatment?”

“Yes,” I say. “The nurse went through it with me. Hair and weight loss if I’m lucky. Weight gain if I’m not.”

I try to make a joke of it—who wants to get fat?—but it falls flat. Dr. Robinson grunts.

“Right. There are others, too, but we’re starting you off with a conservative dose. We have the freedom to do so, since we caught the tumor relatively early.”

“You told me last time I have a fifty percent chance,” I remind him. “I thought that meant we were late.”

He takes a sharp breath. “I don’t want you dwelling on that. Everything’s up in the air right now. Fifty percent was a worst-case prognosis. It depends how you respond to treatment. We’ll know more at your next check-up.”

“So it could be better than that?” I say, feeling optimistic for the first time since my prognosis.

“Sometimes these types of cancers can be treated in a very short time frame. That’s what I’m hoping for.” He winks. “But really, there’s no way of knowing until you’ve had at least a month of chemo.”

“What if nothing improves?” I ask. “What if I don’t respond to treatment?”

“There are other options. I don’t think it’s necessary to discuss them at this point, however.”

“I want to know.”

He exhales. He’s clearly reluctant to talk.

“There are other drugs available, Celeste. Harsher ones, in terms of side-effects. We can up your chemo dosage and frequency. Surgery could also be an option.”

“I don’t want that,” I say immediately. Involuntarily, I touch the faded scar on my chest.

“Okay,” he smiles. “That’s a long way off anyway. We’ll take it a week at a time and work from there. Deal?”

“Yes,” I agree.

Dr. Robinson glances at the clock. “You’ve been here almost an hour. I’ll get the nurse to do one last round of checks and you can go.”

42.

I leave the hospital quickly, keeping my head down the entire way home.

It’s stupid, but I don’t want anybody recognizing me. Only when I’m a safe distance do I look up.

The sun is shining, and the city looks wonderful. Silver buildings gleam in the light.

I turn my phone on for the first time since leaving James’s apartment. I didn’t want interruptions at the hospital.

I check my texts. There’s nothing from Summer. Ditto with James.

I feel a slight disappointment about the latter. I mean yes, I saw him just a few hours ago. I have no right being disappointed with him.

Still…

It’s me giving in to my weakness again. The same weakness that desperately wants me and James to be
real
.

We are real, I tell myself firmly. As real as I allow.

And a hell of a lot more real than I could have hoped for back when I stuck to my rules.

I guess life has a tendency to change you. Everything has an ebb and flow. You have to adapt to the rhythm.

***

I stay at the library late that night, working hard to catch up on all my overdue assignments.

I lose myself in the work. I actually like literature. I know, I know—big surprise, right? But my mom was a voracious reader when I was young. Books were her escape from the reality of a sickly daughter and two minimum-wage jobs.

Books became my secret passion. “Secret,” because it wasn’t fashionable to read Mark Twain or Joyce Carol Oates when all the other girls were playing with Barbies or making dollhouses or trying on their mother’s makeup for the first time.

Besides, I had nearly unlimited time to read when I was in the hospital as a kid. Back then, I dreamt of becoming a writer. Not a famous writer, not even a successful one, but just a “writer.”

I thought it’d be cool to grow up, go to the library, and see my name on a book.

In secret, I‘ve always kept a diary. I’ve written out snippets of story ideas or character sketches or bits of conversation here and there. But I’ve never taken it past that.

Joking with Summer about having no career prospects after graduating was all very true.

Writing became
especially
appealing after my first bout with cancer. I came to the realization that I felt no great ownership over my body. It was defective, it was broken. I didn’t choose it, so it wasn’t
me.

But my writing? That was an extension of my mind. The very essence of who I am.

That’s how I could go and get drunk and have sex with dozens of guys and not feel a single tendril of guilt.

I couldn’t do the same with anything I wrote. Words are precious. Once they’re on paper, there’s no taking them back. They’re on record, they’re there for good. Physical…
transactions
… can be forgotten. A night of fun turns into a memory the next day.

Writing remains forever.

Maybe that’s part of the draw I feel from James. I respect what he’s done. I respect his books and his success.