Chapter 53
CHAPTER
FIFTY-THREE
I wake up for the first time in days feeling safe.
My eyes are practically swollen shut from all the tears I shed last night, but I can hear the steady, comforting rhythm of Elijah’s beating heart beneath my ear, and his warm, thick arms cradling me against his chest. I wriggle against him, stretching out my limbs, and slowly work my lids open.
His pulse quickens, his hand smoothing over the top of my head and down my spine, landing softly just above my bum. “Good morning, sweetheart,” he whispers in a husky voice, sending tingles through my whole body.
I peer up to find his sleep-mussed waves and glasses-less face, and it hits me just how much I feel for this man. My heart stops in my chest—maybe it’s just a palpitation, but either way, I’m lost in the endless abyss of his eyes, held hostage by the comfort I’m finding impossible to resist there.
“Good morning, princess,” I say when oxygen has found its way into my lungs and my heart has had a chance to restart.
“Is it alright that I’m holding you like this?” he asks, and the idea of leaving the warmth of his arms right now has me feeling like an absolute mess.
“I, regrettably, sort of love it,” I admit, my entire face flaming. This must be how he feels with all that blushing he does.
His dimples make an appearance alongside the most gorgeous, glowing smile that lights up his face and the little haven he’s created for us in this pillow fort. He squeezes me tighter, and I let out a puff of laughter when he loosens his grip.
“I’m happy to finally see you smile again,” he whispers, and the air surrounding us feels like it’s been sucked out through a straw. “I missed you while you were gone.”
“I missed myself too,” I admit, my lungs heaving for air. “And you, of course,” I tease, though the words lack the underlying humour they should carry.
He reaches out to stroke my cheek with the pad of his thumb, the touch impossibly soothing. “Are you ready to talk about why you reacted the way you did? I’ve experienced a lot of grief in my life, and everyone grieves differently, but your reaction felt…unusual for you.”
I’m not sure I like that he can see right through me.
As much as it makes my skin crawl, I do think talking about it would be a relief. And I owe him this much.
“I’ve done a decent job of leaning into my own denial the last few months,” I say, lowering myself onto my side so half my body is flush with his and my ear rests over his heart, giving me the strength I so desperately need to get these words out.
“I’d distracted myself with my shows, taking on new hobbies, reminding myself of the statistical outcomes of my condition, pushing out the logic that I am human and anything can happen. ”
Elijah hums his understanding.
“When my hair started falling out after I learned I needed another cycle, it hit me that I wasn’t invincible, and that statistics don’t reflect every possible outcome.
Losing my hair wasn’t the problem—it was seeing my illness manifest itself in a way I couldn’t deny.
I was, and still am, sick. And when Archie—” A sob threatens to strangle me, climbing up my throat, but I manage to push it back down, steadying myself before continuing.
“When I found out about Archie, it was just another reminder that life is fleeting, and we can be taken from those who love us, no matter how hard we fight that reality.”
We sit in silence for several minutes as I regain control of my ragged breathing and swim through the thoughts I’ve spent days unable to unravel.
I draw in a final, revitalising breath and speak the words I’ve been unknowingly terrified to say: “I’m afraid to die, and Archie reminded me that I could die as a result of this disease. ”
“Adhira,” Elijah whispers, his voice bleeding with heartbreak as he tugs me closer, pressing a kiss to the top of my head. “I can’t even imagine what you’ve been going through these last few months, but I’m always here to talk about it. Any of it, sweet girl.”
“You’ve been such a huge support these last few months, but I don’t want to put all of this heaviness on you either.” I don’t want him to continue taking on this caretaker role he never signed up for in the first place. Not with me, not with his mum, his sisters, or his gran.
He doesn’t protest. His arms fall to his sides, his clenched jaw softening.
I want to share things with him because it’s becoming clear that’s what he prefers, too, but he can’t be the only person I talk to. “Have you ever considered therapy?” he asks, as if reading my thoughts, and I’m not sure I’ll ever get used to that. With any luck, I’ll have the time to try.
“Briefly, but then I was afraid to be faced with the things that bother me,” I admit, feeling so freaking weak for even having had that thought.
“That’s a normal response. We don’t often willingly open ourselves up to our trauma, and truthfully, therapy sucks,” he says with a light chuckle.
“It has a way of making you think deeply about why you react the way you do and helps you overcome it, but it’s also beyond draining, like a mental workout from hell.
Some days are super enlightening and leave me feeling like I’m ready to tackle my problems head-on, and others have me needing a three-hour nap after the emotional exertion. ”
“I didn’t realise you were in therapy,” I say dumbly, because of course I wouldn’t know that unless I’d asked. I’ve had my head so far up my own arse these last few months that there’s no way I’d have even thought to ask about how he handled his mum’s diagnosis beyond what he’s shared with me.
“I went a lot more often after Mum went into remission, but now I speak with my therapist a couple of times a year, or if something comes up and it’s crushing me.
I think it could be really helpful for you if you’re open to giving it a try.
My mum started near the end of her treatment to cope with her fear of receiving bad news, and then after that, she was hit with a heavy wave of survivor's guilt. In general, she felt guilty for needing me so much.”
“And it helped her?” I ask, hesitant but hopeful.
“It did. I probably wouldn’t have been able to leave at all if it weren’t for therapy, if I’m honest. She was not adjusting to her role as a mother very well at first, and it took time for her to work through it.
Even now, she still struggles sometimes, but she made a few close friends at a group therapy session her one-on-one therapist suggested, and they’ve been a big help to her. ”
“I’ll look into it,” I agree, knowing he needs to hear me say it, and really, it’s not a bad idea.
The thought of digging into my trauma again had been so terrifying that I’d avoided even considering it after working with a few counsellors who hadn’t known what to do with me. Maybe one more shot is what I need.
“Thank you,” he whispers, as if my agreement was all he required to breathe again. “Do you think you’re ready to talk to your friends?”
I shift, my brows knitting together as I scoot down his long body and arch my neck to get a better look at his face. “What do you mean?”
He releases a laugh, shaking his head. “You’ve been MIA for a week. I’ve been texting them updates on how I thought you were doing based on the rare glimpses I’d gotten of you, but I’m not sure I can hold them off much longer.”
Embarrassment swirls through me at how poorly I’ve handled this whole situation. “I’m sorry they’ve been bugging you,” I practically groan.
“They’re not bothering me at all. I like your friends,” he says, shrugging and rattling the precariously placed cushion walls surrounding us. “Just text them with an update and maybe proof of life so they don't show up before you’re ready.”
After a while longer, pretending the world doesn’t exist, and listening to Elijah update me on his week and the girls’ football game this weekend, we take down the fort, resetting the living room.
I text the group chat and am not the least bit surprised when they demand to come over after I refuse to send the proof of life Elijah suggested.
And maybe that’s because I’m a brat. Or maybe it’s because I knew they’d come over anyway, and I sort of needed that.