Chapter 3
Now
Asteady beeping accompanies the pounding in my head and the heaviness of my eyelids as I struggle to open them.
It takes me a few moments to register that I’m in a hospital bed. And I’m clearly not alone because my right hand is warm and someone is holding onto it for dear life.
I slightly turn my neck and am surprised to find someone is hunched over with his head in his hand that isn’t holding onto mine. And I’m even more shocked to realize that someone is not my manager, Kyle. No, this man before me has far too broad of shoulders to be Kyle.
“What happened?” I ask him, my voice hoarse.
He jerks his head up, and even though deep inside I’m not surprised, I’m still startled to see him next to me—holding my hand, no less—after all these years.
Jackson Wilson’s mint green eyes lock on mine after almost a decade, and I’m stunned speechless by the desperation in them.
“Tae,” he breathes my name as he takes my hand in both of his, bringing it to his lips, and then resting his forehead on our joined hands, before letting out what sounds like a sigh of relief.
Placing one more chaste kiss on my hand, he meets my gaze again.
“I was so worried. You were singing at my brother’s wedding, and then you collapsed as you came off stage. ”
My brows furrow as the recollection sets in. What I’m still confused about is how I wound up performing the first dance song for his older brother’s wedding in the first place.
“I thought the wedding was for a Mr. and Mrs. Carlisle?” I question.
“Yeah, Bennett decided to take his wife’s last name,” he clarifies, and I don’t miss the slight twitch in his cheek as if he wants to smile. If he did, I know I’d get a glimpse of that gorgeous crescent dimple on his right cheek.
“That’s sweet. I’m still not sure why I was asked to perform,” I admit, albeit sheepishly. There’s something about being in Jackson’s proximity again that has me spinning.
“I’m honestly not sure why you were asked yet either. I didn’t have any time to ask him before you collapsed.”
“Yeah . . . about that—” I start but stop short when I realize he is the person beside me right now. “Where are Kyle and Braidy?”
“I’m going to guess that Braidy is your bodyguard who tried tackling me to the ground when he got to the hospital with your manager Kyle?” Jackson questions, brushing his hand down his jaw.
I take a moment to really take him in after all this time.
His light brown hair is trimmed shorter on the sides now, but the top is still longer with tousled curls styled in a way I’m sure no one else could pull off.
Instead of a clean-shaven face, he now sports neatly trimmed scruff that complements his features even more.
His frame is broader, his muscles more pronounced after years of dedication to his sport.
He looks sinfully handsome in a black tux with the bow tie undone, hanging around his neck.
But those eyes, those piercing green-blue eyes, haven’t changed.
They’re still framed by long, thick lashes most women would kill for.
And they’re still staring at me, pleading like they were when I ruined everything all those years ago.
“Braidy is still a bit green when it comes to the job—he’s only been with me for about a week.
I told Kyle a trip abroad probably wasn’t the best orientation,” I explain but bite my lip when I realize what I’m doing right now—making conversation with the one person I used to swear would never become a stranger, and yet, here we are.
A man in navy blue scrubs and a white jacket comes into my room and greets me, cutting off our reunion. “Hello, I am Dr. Dubois. How are you feeling, Taevin?” he asks with a French accent.
Swallowing past my dry throat, I tell him, “I won’t lie, I’ve been better.”
He nods and asks, “Do you know why you possibly fainted?”
I bite my lip and take a deep breath, trying to calm my nerves, though nothing seems to do that these days, or at least not since I received the news over a week ago.
“Yes, I know why.” I pause, clearing my throat and trying my hardest not to sneak a glance at Jax as tears prick my eyes.
“I was recently diagnosed with endometrial cancer, and I believe I may have fainted due to the pelvic pain I’ve been experiencing, along with possible side effects from a new medication my gynecologist started me on. ”
I don’t miss the strangled gasp coming from where Jackson sits beside me.
The doctor nods pensively in acknowledgement. “I’m sorry to hear that. Do you have an oncologist you’re seeing back home? I see you’re from the United States. I’ve got a colleague who is a world-renowned gynecological oncologist.”
“Thank you, but I’m scheduled with an oncologist in Nashville right when I get back,” I inform him.
“Okay. Let me know if you’d like her information for a second opinion. She works out of Mayo Clinic in Minnesota,” the doctor offers.
This all feels so clinical, almost making me feel detached from the reality at hand.
“We’ll take her information, please,” Jackson surprises me by joining the conversation, his voice gravelled with emotion.
My head snaps to look at him, and I don’t miss the way his shoulders have stiffened and there’s a look on his face I haven’t seen in years, though I can’t quite place it at the moment.
The doctor gives Jackson her information and then asks if I have any further questions. When I tell him I don’t, he excuses himself, and as soon as the door clicks shut, I turn on Jackson.
“We’ll take her information? No, we will not. You heard the doctor, he said his colleague works in Minnesota.” I huff in exasperation.
Jackson’s penetrating gaze meets mine. “Yes, you’re right, I heard him correctly. And isn’t it a great thing that you have family who live in Minnesota?”
I scoff at his audacity. “I can’t live with my dad to receive treatments. I have a plan back in Nashville, one that involves me living in my own home while I go through treatment and recover.”
“I wasn’t referring to your dad, Tae. I was referring to your husband. You can live with me—”
Now it’s my turn for a shocked gasp to escape. “My what?” I shout, cutting him off.
“Husband,” he repeats matter-of-factly.
My head spins, and I feel as if I’ll be sick. “That’s not possible. I signed the annulment paperwork nearly ten years ago,” I whisper.
“Which would’ve been fine had I filed the paperwork. But considering our wedding was completely legal, without any mental incapacity or intoxication, we didn’t qualify for an annulment in Minnesota,” he explains in a monotonous tone.
“So what you’re trying to tell me is that you and I are still married?”
“It would seem so, which means I’d like my wife to move in with me so she can receive the best care at our disposal.” He flexes his hand as if he wants to reach for mine again.
I don’t give him the chance as I toss mine in the air. “You expect me to just upend my life and move in with my estranged husband after not being together for the past decade?”
When he speaks again, his tone is softer. “How long have you known? Do you know what stage yet?”
Wringing my hands together nervously, I tell him, “I was diagnosed a little over a week ago. From the testing and biopsies they’ve done, they’ve diagnosed me with stage two endometrial cancer.
They’ve confirmed it has spread to my cervix, but otherwise, it seems to have been contained.
I’m scheduled to have surgery in two weeks, and then I’ll begin chemotherapy after I freeze my eggs.
It’s going to be okay. I’m going to be okay.
I’ve got a plan, and that treatment plan will be carried out in Nashville, not Minnesota. ”
He takes a moment to rake his fingers through his hair before he sighs and says, “I’m glad you have a plan, but respectfully, I think you should seek a second opinion.
How about this, if you come back to Minnesota with me and you see this world-renowned oncologist, I’ll give you the divorce no questions asked after you finish treatments. ”
Narrowing my eyes on him, I ask, “Why after I finish treatments?”
Jax sighs, closing his eyes as if he’s trying to regain his composure.
When he opens them, I feel his serious gaze burning into me like a brand—one I was once proud to bear.
“Because I’ll respect your wishes to their full extent while you’re receiving treatment.
As your husband, I’ll be able to make decisions on your behalf if need be.
And if we were to divorce now, those decisions would likely fall on someone else’s shoulders. ”
“You’d respect all of my wishes, no matter if you agree with them or not?” I question, my tone riddled with disbelief.
“Aside from you seeking treatment alone in Nashville, yes, I will respect all of your wishes.” He says the words so simply, though if he’s anything like the guy he used to be, I know Jackson Wilson is the most stubborn man alive, and he will ask me to bend to his will.
“What if trying to see this new surgeon delays my treatment?”
“I think the fact that you’re a famous country star and I’m a professional hockey player may help us pull some strings.”
“Why are you so hellbent on me moving in with you? You understand I’m going to have a major surgery and will need to recover, right?”
“Meaning you’ll need someone there to help you while you’re recovering. That someone will be me.”
I fold in on myself at the thought of needing someone else to care for me. It makes me feel weak and desperate—feelings I’ve recklessly run from over the past decade. “But it won’t be. Don’t you start your season soon?” I question, a little put out by his insistence.
He sighs heavily and pinches the bridge of his nose. “I’ll have to report to preseason training camp in mid-September.” He drops his hand and continues, “But I play professionally for Minnesota now, so I’ll work out a schedule. If I need to take a leave of absence, I can do that too.”
Jax tells me this as if I haven’t followed his career since he left for Harvard.
“No. Jackson, no,” I say firmly. “A leave of absence won’t be necessary. If this world-renowned surgeon is still able to do my surgery the first week of August, I should be back on my feet like normal before your training camp.”
He gives me a tight-lipped nod and focuses on his folded hands in his lap. “I’ll go make some calls and see if I can’t get an appointment scheduled for Monday morning.”
“That’s not going to work, J. The medical field doesn’t bend to your whim.”
“My father has a lot of influence in Rochester,” he explains, and my stomach sinks and twists just thinking about the senator.
“No, please don’t use his name. If you have to throw around ours, be my guest. Just not his,” I plead.
He lifts his head and narrows his eyes at my pinched tone. I feel naked under his searching gaze until he finally nods curtly in acknowledgment before asking, “Can I get you anything?”
God, and there he is. The sweet, caring guy I fell head over heels in love with at eighteen. How, after all this time, is he affecting me in this way? My stomach somersaults at the thought of being in his proximity again. Of living with him.
But it’s also the perfect reality check that I’m far from the innocent, put-together girl he loved back then.
So as I shake my head, I remind myself: no matter how successful I’ve become, I’ll always be an empty shell of the girl I once was.
Too much has happened—keeps happening—for him to ever see me as he did at eighteen under the stars in the back of his pickup truck.