44. Zoey
44
Zoey
F ive days after Noah’s football game, I climb out of my bedroom window and sit on the roof, watching the sun peek over the horizon. Today, my life will change, and for the next few months, I’m not going to know if it will be for better or for worse.
My hands shake in my lap as I try to hold myself together. Noah hasn’t left me for even a second since I told him my cancer returned on Friday night, even risking my father’s wrath to demand that he sleep here. Noah has always had the greatest respect for my parents and their rules, but there’s not a single line he won’t cross to remain by my side.
The morning rays are almost as bright as my determination used to be, but they give me hope.
Today, I start chemotherapy and the thought alone has me ready to double over.
I’m terrified.
I remember the day I started chemo over ten years ago, and I don’t remember feeling this way. I went in with my head held high, ready to fight. Perhaps that’s because I was so young. I didn’t truly understand what was happening to me. I didn’t know what was at risk, but now at seventeen, I know exactly what I want in life, and I’m terrified of slipping away and leaving this world behind before I’ve even really had a chance to live.
I sit out on the roof until the sun rises above the treetops, and as I turn to make my way back inside, I see Noah standing at the window, watching me with an unbelievable sadness in his eyes. I creep closer toward him, and as I come back inside, he steps into me, propping my ass on the window frame and brushing his fingers down the side of my face as though I were the most precious thing in the world. “Are you ready?” he asks.
I shake my head, trying to hold myself together. “Not even a little bit,” I admit.
He moves right in, pulling me into his warm arms. “You’ve got this, Zo,” he tells me. “Don’t think of how horrible it’s going to be, think of this as the start of the rest of our lives.”
My bottom lip pouts out, and I drop my forehead against his chest. “I wish you could stay today,” I tell him, hating how the treatment center only allows one person to remain with the patient during chemotherapy, and for today, that will be Mom.
“I know,” he tells me, his hand brushing over the back of my hair. “But the second you’re done, I’m going to be right there.”
I nod. “Are you heading back to college?”
“Yeah, as soon as you’re settled in your room, I’ll start driving back,” he tells me. “I’ve requested a meeting with Coach Sanderson and the Dean to see if there’s any kind of leniency they can give me. Coach isn’t going to budge on my training schedule, but he might allow me to log my gym hours in East View. As for my classes, I’m hoping they might allow me to livestream my lectures or take online classes so I can be here more often.”
I lift my head off his chest and meet his soft gaze. “I don’t want to put a strain on your schoolwork and training like that, especially if it’s going to get you in trouble.”
“I know, but that’s exactly what this meeting is about. I need to see where they draw the line, so I know not to cross it.”
A smirk pulls at the corner of my lips. “Just get right up close and personal with it, then?”
His grin is dazzling, making butterflies swarm through the pit of my stomach. “Exactly.”
I roll my eyes and let out a heavy breath when I see Mom appear in my doorway, her gaze coming straight to mine. “Are you ready, honey? We need to leave in fifteen minutes.”
Nerves pulse through my veins as I nod and glance toward the bags that are packed and waiting by the end of my bed. It’s going to be a five-week stay in the treatment center—five weeks of complete hell—but I’ll have a private room and get to make it my own during that time.
Mom contacted the school on Friday to let them know what was going on, so during the times when I feel alright, I’ll have plenty of schoolwork to do. Only in the big scheme of things, working out math equations barely seems like a priority.
I’ve always prided myself on being a straight-A student. My work is generally done on time, and I put a lot of effort into studying, only with the time I’ll be here in the treatment center, plus my next round of chemo in a few months, I don’t see how graduating is going to be an option. I’ll fall too far behind . . . That’s assuming I make it out the other end of this, of course.
Mom gives me an encouraging smile, but I see the pain behind her eyes. She walks away, and Noah takes my waist, helping me down off the window frame. I grab a pair of sweatpants and a tank before making my way to the bathroom, passing Hazel’s bedroom and peering in to find her sitting up in bed, hugging a teddy bear to her chest—the one that used to be mine.
Fresh tears well in my eyes, but I force them back. I need to be strong for her. She already thinks I’m dying.
I continue to the bathroom and get dressed, my gaze lingering on the port beneath my skin. I was right. It’s uncomfortable as fuck, but it’s going to help save my life, so I’m going to learn to love it.
After brushing my hair and teeth, I shove my hairbrush and toothbrush into my small toiletry bag and head back down the hall, stopping in Hazel’s room and sitting with her for a minute. Neither of us says a word, both just sitting with our thoughts and pain as she curls into my side. And then all too soon, it’s time to leave.
It’s a forty-minute drive to the treatment center, and my hands shake the whole way. By the time Dad’s bringing the car to a stop in the parking lot, I’m a mess.
Noah carries my bags in one hand and holds me in his other as the five of us make our way into the clinical foyer. I swallow hard, twisting my hands in the hem of my shirt.
An intake nurse leads me straight to my private room and quickly admits me, and before I know it, it’s time for Dad, Hazel, and Noah to leave. The panic really starts to set in, and Dad steps forward, pulling me into his strong arms. He presses a kiss to my temple and tells me how much he loves me before Hazel steps in and crushes herself against me, wiping her tears on my tank.
Dad pulls her away and then there’s Noah.
His gaze lingers on mine, neither of us wanting to make a move because, once we do, it brings us one step closer to saying goodbye.
I watch as he swallows hard, undeniable pain in his eyes.
Leaving me today goes against everything he is, and damn it, I’m selfish enough to beg on my knees for him to stay, but I know he can’t, at least not today. After my first few sessions, I’m sure there will be a point where Mom will happily allow him to take her place. Until then, I’ll see him in the afternoons, once visiting hours have opened up, and I’m sure he’ll be the first one through the door.
He finally steps into me, wrapping me into the warmth of his loving arms, his lips immediately coming to mine. His kiss is soft and full of passion as he cradles my face with one hand, his other wrapped right around me and holding me against his body.
When he reluctantly pulls back, he drops his forehead against mine, each of us breathing one another in as though we may never get this moment again. “I love you so fucking much,” he tells me, his voice breaking. “You know you can call me at any time, and I’ll answer, even if you don’t have anything to say.”
I nod, tears welling in my eyes. “I’m going to be okay,” I promise him.
“I know you will. You’re stronger than anyone I know,” he tells me, before slipping his hand into his pocket and pulling out an old phone. He hands it to me. “I want you to take this.”
My brows furrow as I glance up at him, meeting his stare. “What’s this?”
“Just something that got me through the really bad times after Linc died,” he tells me. “It kept me from drowning in grief, and if it can offer me just a little bit of peace, then hopefully it might do the same for you.”
I nod, pushing up on my tippy toes and brushing my lips over his. “Thank you.”
A knock sounds at the door, and I reluctantly steal my gaze away from Noah’s and turn toward the sound, finding Dr. Sanchez with a clipboard under her arm and a strained smile across her face. “Ah, you made it,” she says, striding into the room, her gaze shifting to mine. “How’s my patient today? Feeling good?”
I arch a brow and scoff. “I feel like I’ve been superglued to the middle of the road with bull ants biting my ass. There’s a semi heading toward me with failed brakes, and I’m just waiting for the collision.”
Dr. Sanchez nods and spares a quick glance toward my parents, probably concerned about my mental health. “That was, uh . . . oddly descriptive.”
“I’ll say,” Noah agrees with a grunt.
Dr. Sanchez glances toward him and holds his stare a second longer than necessary, watching him with a fierce curiosity as if trying to remember something. “You seem familiar,” she tells him before her eyes widen and she glances at me, then to my parents. “This isn’t little Noah, is it? The same kid who used to kick and scream outside Zoey’s door until I let him in.”
Mom grins wide. “The one and only.”
“My goodness,” Dr. Sanchez says. “Time really does fly. It’s good to see you two have stuck it out all these years and are still best friends.”
A smile pulls at my lips, and I don’t bother to correct her. I’m sure we’ll have plenty of time to catch up on the drama that’s been mine and Noah’s lives over the next five weeks. Hell, over the next few years.
A nurse comes in, ready to prep me for the day, and as if on cue, Dr. Sanchez glances at my parents and starts going through everything that’s going to happen today. As she explains the things we need to look out for, the nurse ushers me over to my bed.
I climb in, and before she can hook me up to machines, Noah walks over to my side and leans down, pressing a kiss to my lips as I clutch his old phone in my hand. “I’ll see you soon, okay?”
I nod, trying to be brave for him, knowing if he sees me break, he’s going to spend his whole day sitting outside my door, kicking and screaming until someone lets him in, just like when we were little. “I’ll call you as soon as I’m done.”
With that, he strides out of my room, stopping by the door to glance back at me. A million messages pass between us, but with Dad and Hazel walking out, he has to keep moving.
The nurse starts documenting my vital signs and doing all of her checks as Dr. Sanchez stays with us, going over everything that’s going to happen today and giving us the rundown of any reactions I may have to the drugs.
She explains how we’ll start by drawing blood and running some tests. The second those results are back, and everything looks good, I’ll receive some anti-nausea medication and be hooked up to a chemotherapy cocktail that will take me right through the afternoon and toward dinner time. Following that, my IV will be flushed with saline, and I’ll be free to spend the rest of my night how I’d like . . . within the safety of my room of course.
“Now,” she continues after all the nitty-gritty stuff is out of the way. “We have our treatment room, and there are a few other girls your age who will be receiving their treatment in there today. You’re more than welcome to go in there, or you can opt to remain in your room.”
I glance at Mom, who’s made herself comfortable in the chair beside my bed, knitting needles, magazines, a book, and her laptop protruding from the top of her bag. She just stares right back at me, leaving this completely up to me. “I, um . . . I think I’ll stay in here,” I tell her. “At least until I know how my body is going to react. I don’t want to be hurling all over everyone in there.”
“That’s perfectly fine,” she says before nodding toward the nurse. “Once Nurse Kelly is done drawing your blood, we’ll get it tested and hopefully have you started within a few hours. Do you have any questions?”
I shake my head, somehow feeling the kind of questions running through my head right now aren’t exactly appropriate, and considering what I’m about to go through, I should try to avoid being scolded by my mother.
Dr. Sanchez gives me a smile before stepping right up beside my bed and showing me the small remote. “If you need anything or have any questions, just press this button and someone will come,” she tells me. “All your meals will be delivered right to your room. Now I know food is going to be the last thing you’ll want, but it’s important that you eat, even if it’s only a little here and there. Keep yourself hydrated as well.”
I nod, knowing Mom will shove it down my throat if it might help me get better. “I can do that.”
“Wonderful,” she says, giving my foot a gentle squeeze. “I’ll come check on you later, but remember, I’m just one button away if you need me.”
I give her a real smile, liking how she makes me feel so at ease about something so terrifying. She gets on her way, probably to check on another patient, and before I know it, two hours have passed, and I’m all set up with my medicine hanging from my IV stand and slowly making its way into my body.
The nerves are like nothing I’ve ever experienced, and it’s not long before I feel queasy. I can only imagine how bad it would have been had I refused the anti-nausea medication. I get a constant flow of texts from Noah, Dad, and Hazel, and I do what I can to respond to them all, but I feel so heavy, and the sleepiness quickly overwhelms me.
I close my teary eyes as Mom holds my hand, her thumb brushing back and forth over my knuckles. She’s done what she can to try and stay positive, to comfort me through the worst of it, but it’s so damn hard.
I fade in and out of sleep before having to haul myself up in bed, scrambling for my little blue vomit bag, and damn it, I’ve never felt so sick in my life. Mom pats my back as I throw up. “Good girl,” she soothes, sounding as though she’s about to burst into tears. “Try and get it all out.”
“I can’t do this,” I cry. It’s only day one, and it’s already too much.
“You can do this,” she tells me, glancing at the clock on the wall. “You’re nearly halfway through your first dose. You just need to power through it, and it’ll be over for the day, and you can relax.”
Resentment pulses through my cancer-riddled veins. Easy for her to say. She’s not the one with leukemia. She’s not the one who has drugs pumping into her body that make her want to die.
Lying back on my pillow, I try to get comfortable, snuggling up on my side as tears roll down my cheeks. When my lunch is delivered, the smell of it instantly makes me queasy again, and as I take deep, calming breaths, I spy Noah’s old phone on the small table beside my bed.
Quickly grabbing it, I unlock the screen, grinning to myself when I find it has the same passcode as his locker combination at school last year—my birthday.
A smile pulls across my lips finding an old picture of the two of us as the wallpaper. I was nine or ten, and Noah was just a year older. His arm is around me, both of us grinning like idiots at the camera, completely unaware of the hell we had waiting for us.
I search through the phone, wondering why he gave it to me. It’s practically empty. No texts. No emails. Not even a few boring games to keep me busy, but when I open the gallery and find my and Noah’s whole life together, documented in pictures and videos, I finally get it.
My heart swells, and I scroll all the way to the bottom, passing years of images before finally reaching the ones from right after I was born. The first time Noah ever met me. He’s peering over the edge of my bassinet, his big eyes so wide.
I scroll to the next and then the next, each one filling me with such joy that I forget the way the potent chemo pumps through my body. One after another, I follow the journey of our lives, loving the videos the most.
Hours pass, and I watch as we grow, watch the way Noah’s friendly gaze shifts into something more, something I never really understood until we were older. There’s a video of the day I forced Noah to propose to me out in the yard, our moms were sitting out on the deck watching us, both of them crying, and I realize that must have been when Mom first told Aunt Maya about my leukemia.
It goes on and on, all of our weekends spent together, all of the times we got into mischief, and the times he pulled me into his arms and held me so tight when he thought no one was watching.
It’s everything. Our whole world is right here in this little phone, and the fact he held on to it, that he needed it in those dark years after Linc died, speaks volumes. Noah has always been my whole world, but seeing the way I’ve been his only makes me want to fight harder.
I want that future with him, I want a life, I want to build a home and have a family with a million little Noahs running around because nothing else would make me happier.
Before I know it, there’s only two hours left of my first treatment, and I find myself sitting up in bed with a new inspiration. “What are you doing, honey?” Mom asks, looking up from her book as I pull out my laptop.
A stupid smile pulls at the corners of my mouth as I open a blank document. Warmth spreads through my chest, making me realize that no matter what, I’m going to be okay because I have Noah by my side. “Nothing,” I murmur, almost feeling shy about it. “Just wanted to write something down.”
“Okay,” she says, her gaze dropping back to her book.
Only it’s not enough for me, I can’t just move on without saying something, and I find myself handing over Noah’s old phone. “Have a look at this.”
Mom takes the phone from my hand, and as she gazes down at the screen, seeing all the incredible memories from my childhood, a fond smile stretches across her face. “Oh my. I never knew he held on to all of these,” she murmurs, scrolling through the pictures one after another, laughing and sighing at all the right times. “You were always so precious to him—the sun in his whole sky. He’s never stopped looking at you like that.”
“I know,” I say, my cheeks flushing.
“He’s going to marry you one day,” she tells me as though it’s already set in stone.
My smile widens, and not knowing how to respond to that, I focus my attention on the blank document before me and start writing.
“Zoey Erica James,” he says, not daring to take his eyes off mine as the soft spring breeze catches in my hair, blowing my chestnut locks around my face. “Will you marry me?”