Chapter 13
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Truck stood in the middle of his destroyed bedroom with his hands on his head, panting. He’d gone a little crazy after Mary left, kicking things, turning over furniture, breaking shit. When he’d run out of things to take his frustration out on in his living room, he’d moved to his bedroom.
He was frustrated that he didn’t remember all the details about Mary being sick.
Frustrated that he couldn’t take away her pain.
Frustrated that he couldn’t shield her from having to make tough decisions like whether or not to have her breasts reconstructed.
But above everything else, he was frustrated that his memory wasn’t coming back as quickly as he wanted.
Taking out those frustrations on his belongings felt good.
Turning his dresser over. Picking up his mattress and flipping it up against the wall.
The lamp next to the bed had broken, but Truck didn’t give a shit.
There were clothes all over the floor and the one picture he had on his wall now had a fist-sized hole in the glass covering it.
Truck was irritated with his doctor and his teammates. He wanted things to be the way they had been…even if he couldn’t remember them. They might not have been perfect, but they had to be better than this.
How could he be with a woman if she wouldn’t even tell him how she felt?
The bottom line was that he wasn’t sure he could be. He needed the words as much as she did.
But the shit thing was, he knew Mary cared about him. She wouldn’t have defended him so staunchly at the bar if she didn’t. She wouldn’t have spent the last few weeks letting him get to know her if she didn’t. She wouldn’t have told him about her cancer if she didn’t.
Cancer.
She’d had fucking cancer. And he’d forgotten about it.
How in the hell could he have forgotten that?
The woman he loved more than life itself had suffered for months, and he’d fucking forgotten it.
And if the few memories that had flitted through his brain were to be believed, it had been one hell of a fight.
And he’d been there every step of the way. He had no doubt about that.
The truth hit him like a sledgehammer—and Truck backed up until he hit the wall and slid down it. He sat on the floor and stared blankly at his bed. The box spring was still in place, but the mattress was pushed up against the far wall.
Mary loved him.
She might not be able to say the words, but she did. He knew that as well as he knew his own name was Ford Laughlin.
He was an ass for even thinking he couldn’t have a relationship with her if she didn’t come right out and tell him her feelings.
She’d told him with her actions over and over that she cared.
More than simply cared. Even in the last month, he’d seen it.
The way her eyes lit up when she saw him.
The way she sparkled when they argued. The way she called him Trucker and smiled when she did.
The way she sat next to him and played with a thread on his pants.
The way she looked right at his scar yet didn’t seem to see it.
Truck closed his eyes and sighed. He’d fucked up tonight. He should’ve waited to tell her he loved her. He’d pushed her too hard. Had pushed for something she might not ever be able to give him. The question was…could he deal with that?
He opened his eyes and nodded. Yeah, he could deal with never hearing the words as long as he had her in his life.
Truck went to stand up, to start cleaning the mess he’d made of his apartment and his life, when something caught his eye. It was a notebook. A plain black and white notebook on the floor by the bed. It must have been dislodged when he’d had his temper tantrum and flipped his mattress.
Truck didn’t think it was his. He could be wrong, though.
Lord knew there were a lot of things he didn’t remember about his own life.
He walked over and picked up the notebook.
For some reason he had the weird feeling he was standing in front of a locked door.
On his side, it was dark and rainy. But on the other side, he just knew it was sunny and beautiful.
And the notebook he held in his hands was the key to getting to that other side. Of stepping out of the darkness and into the light.
Slowly, as if a snake would come out of the pages and bite him, Truck opened the cover.
He stared at the writing and instinctively knew it was Mary’s.
He couldn’t remember seeing anything she’d written before, but there was no one else he could’ve let have free rein in his home other than her.
No one else who would’ve had the opportunity to put a notebook under his mattress for safekeeping.
He read the words on the first page.
Mary’s journal
If your name isn’t Mary Weston and you’re reading this—stop it.
Seriously. I’ll find you, gut you, and make you wish you could turn back the clock and make a better decision.
I’m only writing this shit down because my doctor told me it would make me feel better.
I’m not sure about that, I mean, I have breast cancer for fuck’s sake.
How is writing my feelings down going to make me feel better?
It’s certainly not going to magically cure me. Whatever. Here goes nothing…
The words made Truck smile. They were quintessential Mary.
Taking the journal with him, Truck left his bedroom and went back into the living room.
Taking a seat on the couch—which was thankfully still in one piece, albeit shoved halfway across the room from where it had been before his temper tantrum—Truck didn’t even hesitate to turn the page and start reading.
It might be wrong, but he was desperate to understand the woman he loved. Wanted to know everything about her. To figure out the missing pieces of his memory. This might be his one and only shot to get answers. He wasn’t going to pass it up, even if he was trespassing on her private thoughts.
Mary hadn’t dated any of the entries. She’d just started writing, as if she couldn’t get the words on the page fast enough.
The cancer is back. The motherfucking cancer is back.
I can’t do this again. I can’t put Rayne through this again.
This must be payback for me being a bitch my entire life.
Having a whore of a mama wasn’t enough punishment.
Being screwed over by men time and time again wasn’t enough either.
Whatever I did in a past life, I’m sorry.
Do you hear me, I’M SORRY! Fuck. Damn it all to hell.
Her pain was easy to feel. They were only words on a page, but Truck could physically feel her terror.
She was scared to death and that gutted him.
Truck had an inkling of what she felt. Not that he’d ever been told he had a deadly disease, but when the doctor in Germany had informed him that he had amnesia, and that he might never remember the last three years of his life, he’d had many of the same thoughts Mary did when she’d heard her diagnosis. It wasn’t fair. Why him?
The next entry was just as emotional as the last.
I’ve decided. I’m not going through chemo and radiation again.
I can’t. It almost killed me last time. I’d rather die on my own terms than go through that again.
I’m also not going to tell Raynie. She’ll put her entire life on hold for me again.
She’ll browbeat me until I agree to treatment.
But I’m tired. So fucking tired. She doesn’t understand.
I might have considered treatment if I knew my insurance would cover it, but after spending so much money on the treatment before, I’m pretty sure it won’t all be covered this time.
They said something about a payment cap, which is bullshit.
I might make pretty good money, but it’s not enough to pay for all the treatments without insurance help.
Hell, one damn anti-nausea pill costs $300.
It’s ridiculous. So I’m just going to go about my life and when it’s my time, it’s my time.
I won’t put Rayne through the pain of watching me die.
I’d never do that to her. It’d scar her for life.
When I get too sick, I’ll quit my job and head to the beach somewhere.
Some hotel maid will come in one day and find my body.
And that’s okay. Better her than my best friend.
Truck felt sick. The thought of Mary going off to some damn hotel to die made him want to puke.
He was not surprised in the least that Mary had wanted to spare Rayne.
He knew how close the two women were. But he also had a feeling if Rayne had known what Mary was thinking, she would’ve pitched a royal fit. He quickly kept reading.
This sucks. I was supposed to be babysitting Annie tonight and I got so sick I couldn’t. Everyone was down in Austin at an Army Ball, and I had to call Truck and tell him I needed help. I hate asking for help. I hate that I’m sick. I fucking hate cancer!
Truck came, of course he did. He’s freaking perfect in every way, but I’d never admit that to him.
Of course, instead of bundling up Annie, taking me home, then bringing Annie back to her house and staying with her, he made me stay at her house with him.
And of course I ended up puking all over the bathroom floor because I didn’t make it to the toilet in time.
And it figures I was too weak to get up so I got it all over my clothes.
I hate my life.
I try to be so fucking brave and tough, but it’s hard. So hard.
And it’s even harder when the most perfect man I’ve ever known comes into the bathroom and sees me lying in my own puke and has to not only help clean me up, but has to clean up the bathroom too.
I wouldn’t wish cancer on my greatest enemy. Not even Mama.