Chapter 23
SAM
Thirty minutes earlier...
The cold air bites at my tear-stained cheeks, but I barely notice. My eyes sting, raw and puffy, as I stare blankly over the balcony railing.
Stupid tears. Stupid heart.
Stupid me for letting Izzie's words slice through me like they did. I didn't want to know. I didn't want to hear how she and Eli hooked up, but now the image is seared into my brain, playing on loop like some sick, twisted movie I can't shut off.
My body feels like it's being crushed under invisible weight. The fever I've been fighting all day burns hotter now, my joints aching like they've been pulled apart and hastily reassembled.
I should have left with Adam earlier. Should have listened to my body instead of my hopeful, idiotic heart. But I wanted—needed—to give Eli his present. The portrait I spent weeks perfecting, pouring my soul into every brushstroke.
The portrait that isn't even with me.
I press my palms against my temples, trying to squeeze the realization out. I left it in Adam's car. Of course I did. Just another perfect mistake in this perfectly awful night.
My legs wobble as I push away from the railing. The music from downstairs pulses through the floorboards, each beat hammering into my skull. I need to find Zach. Need him to take me back to my dorm where I can curl into a ball and disappear for a while. Maybe forever.
I turn around too quickly, and my world tilts. I stumble forward, directly into someone's chest.
"Whoa, easy there."
Adam's voice. Adam's hands steadying me. Adam, who I thought had left an hour ago.
"You're still here?" My voice sounds foreign, scratchy from crying.
His eyes search my face, concern etching lines between his brows. "I did leave. Then I came back."
"Why?"
He then hand me a large rectangular package wrapped in brown paper with a simple blue ribbon. My gift for Eli.
"Found this in my car. You mentioned it was for Elijah, and I figured it was important."
My arms strain as I take the package from him. The canvas inside weighs like an anchor, dragging at my already exhausted body. I stare at it, throat tightening with fresh emotion.
"Thank you," I whisper, clutching it to my chest. "You didn't have to come back just for this."
"Clearly I did." His voice softens. "You look like hell, Sam."
A harsh laugh escapes me. "Thanks. Just what every girl wants to hear."
Adam's hand moves to my face, fingers gently tucking a loose strand of hair behind my ear. The touch is so tender it nearly breaks me. His eyes carefully scan my features, lingering on the pallor I know must be there.
"You're burning up," he says, palm resting against my forehead. "Let me take you back to your dorm."
For a moment, I want nothing more than to say yes. To let him guide me away from this house, away from the image of Eli with Izzie, away from the pain that seems to radiate from every cell in my body.
But the package in my hands anchors me here.
"I can't," I say, hating how weak my voice sounds. "Not yet. Now that I have this, I need to give it to him."
"Sam—"
"I'm fine," I lie. "Really. Zach is here. He can take me back later."
"You sure?"
"Positive." Another lie.
He hesitates, then nods reluctantly. "Text me when you get back to your dorm, okay?"
"I will."
He looks like he wants to say more, but instead squeezes my shoulder gently and leaves. I watch him go, fighting the urge to call him back, to accept his offer of escape.
The portrait feels heavy in my hands as I make my way through the crowded hallway. I scan faces, searching for Eli, but he's nowhere to be found. My head throbs in time with the music, vision blurring at the edges. I need to sit down soon.
Maybe Zach knows where Eli is. I make my way back upstairs, each step requiring more concentration than it should. The hallway seems to stretch and contract like a living thing, walls breathing in and out. When I reach Zach's door, I raise my hand to knock, but pause when I hear sounds from within.
Moaning. Unmistakable, intimate moaning.
My hand drops back to my side. Great. Zach and Caroline are... busy. I can't disturb that. I'll just find Eli myself, or leave the painting outside his door and call an Uber.
I shuffle down the hallway toward Eli's room, each step sending sharp pains through my joints. When I reach his door, I lean against the wall for a moment, trying to steady myself. The world won't stop spinning. I close my eyes, count to ten, open them again. No change.
I can't wait for Eli to appear. I'll just leave the painting outside his door. I carefully set it down, propped against the wall. As I straighten up, a wave of dizziness hits me so hard I nearly crumple.
I need to sit down. Now.
I stumble down the hallway, trying doorknobs. They're locked. I turn another—it opens, and I step inside only to freeze in horror.
A couple on the bed, tangled together, both naked and very much in the middle of something I definitely shouldn't be witnessing.
"Oh god, I'm sorry!" I blurt, backing out quickly and pulling the door closed. My face burns with mortification. "Jesus, lock your doors, people," I mutter to the empty hallway.
The dizziness is getting worse. Black spots dance in my vision. I'm going to collapse right here in this hallway if I don't find somewhere to rest.
My eyes fall on Eli's door again.
No. I can't. He's made it abundantly clear his room is off-limits to me. Always has been.
But my legs are trembling so badly now I can barely stand, and the thought of sprawling unconscious in the hallway for everyone to see is even worse than breaking Eli's rule. Just for a minute, I tell myself. Just until the dizziness passes.
I grab my painting and turn the knob. The door swings open, revealing his neat, minimalist room. I step inside, guilt immediately washing over me. This feels wrong, invasive in a way I hate myself for. But my body is giving me no choice.
I place the painting carefully on his desk, then sink onto his small couch, just intending to sit for a moment. The relief of being horizontal is immediate and overwhelming. My eyes feel impossibly heavy. I'll just close them for a minute. Just until the room stops spinning.
Just for a minute...
"What the fuck are you doing in my goddamn room?!"
The roar rips me from sleep, disoriented and confused. Eli's voice, harsh with fury. I jolt upright too quickly, and the world tilts violently. My feet hit the floor, but my legs won't hold me. I lurch forward, grabbing desperately for something to stop my fall.
My hands find Eli's shoulders.
"E-Eli... I," I stammer, cold sweat beading on my forehead. My hands tremble against him, but he doesn't see—doesn't notice anything is wrong with me. All I see in his eyes is rage, pure and terrifying.
He wrenches my hands off him and shoves me away. I stumble back, barely catching myself against the couch.
"Didn't I tell you before?" he snarls, words slightly slurred. His face is flushed, eyes glazed with alcohol, hair mussed. "You are not allowed in my room under any circumstances. Did you think I was joking?"
I shake my head, squeezing my eyes shut against both his fury and the pounding in my skull. Stupid, stupid, stupid. I only meant to rest for a few minutes. I didn't realize I'd fallen asleep.
When I open my eyes, his piercing gaze cuts right through me. Even through his drunken haze, his anger is precise and lethal.
"I'm really... s-sorry," I manage, my voice strained and barely audible. "I didn't mean to co...come in here, but—"
"But what? Huh?" he demands.
"I'm really sorry that I came to your room. I know it wasn't right—"
Eli laughs, a mocking sound that makes me flinch. He lowers his head, dragging his fingers through his hair in frustration before throwing me another enraged look.
"Oh, so you know it wasn't right, you just don't care. Got it." His voice rises again. "Am I just a joke to you, Samantha? That you don't even bother pretending you have any ounce of respect left for my privacy anymore?"
"Eli, that... that's not it." My voice cracks.
Before I can say anything else, his hand clamps around my wrist, fingers digging in hard enough to bruise. He drags me from the room, my feet stumbling to keep up. Once we're in the hallway, he releases me with a little shove that sends me back against the wall.
"I'm sorry," I plead, struggling to stay upright. "I really didn't mean to... I... I just... I must have fallen asleep. I didn't know—"
"Sam?"
My brother's cautious voice sounds from behind Eli. I look past Eli's shoulder, mortification heating my cheeks as I realize Zach is witnessing this.
"And you expect me to believe that shit?!" Eli bellows, making me flinch again and cower against the wall.
"Whoa, hey... what's going on?" Zach cuts in, his voice steady but tight with tension.
"Your sister came into my room when she knows damn well she's not supposed to," Eli snaps. "I've told her that from the very beginning."
I wipe cold sweat from my forehead, keeping my head down. My legs feel like they might give out any second. Each breath is shallow, insufficient.
"Angel, just tell me what happened. Is that true?" Zach asks gently.
"Of course it's true!" Eli snaps before I can respond.
"Man, can you please let her talk?" My brother's voice is now laced with anger.
Eli exhales hard, dragging a hand through his hair. He takes a few steps back, and I feel Zach's warm hand on my shoulder, trying to coax me to speak.
"I... I wasn't feeling good earlier," I stutter. "And then my head starts spinning and I wanted to lie down for a bit... but every room was occupied except for... Eli's."
I glance up at Eli briefly, my face burning with embarrassment before lowering my head again.
"You could have gone to your brother's!" Eli snaps.
"I... I know," I quickly wipe my forehead again with the back of my hand. There's a sheen of sweat there. "But he was with Care, and I didn't want to bother them. I just needed to rest for a few minutes until I felt better." I swallow hard, my voice shaking. "I didn't even realize I fell asleep."
He makes a sound in the back of his throat—something between a laugh and a growl—that sends a cold shiver down my spine. "Bullshit," he snaps. "If you were sick, you could've gone back to your dorm and slept there. Don't feed me that crap. You went in there because you saw me earlier with Izzie and couldn't stand it, right? You just had to ruin another night for me again."
"No—no, Eli, that's not what happened," I say, reaching out toward him, my hand trembling as I try to touch his arm.
He jerks back instantly, swatting my hand away like the thought of me touching him sets him off even more.
"Don't."
I recoil as if slapped, my arm falling limply beside me. My voice cracks as I try again, desperate. "Please, believe me. I know I've done a lot of things you didn't like—crossed lines I shouldn't have—but I swear this isn't one of them." My voice breaks as I force the words out. "You told me never to go inside your room, and I took that seriously. I really did. I never broke that rule. Not once." I swallow hard, tears welling in my eyes. "Until tonight."
Caroline moves instantly, stepping forward to my side. She wraps an arm around my shoulders, murmuring something soft, trying to comfort me. I can barely stand—the color's gone from my face, my breathing's shaky, and my shoulders keep trembling no matter how hard I try to pull myself together.
"Yeah, right," Eli mutters, shaking his head. Then he turns, storms into his room, and slams the door behind him so hard the frame rattles.
I flinch at the sound. For a second, I just stare at the closed door, tears slipping down my cheeks. "I'm sorry," I whisper.
"Hey," my brother's voice is soft and gentle. "Let's go to my room, okay? You can rest there for a bit."
I shake my head weakly. "No, I... I think I just want to go back to my dorm." I glance at Caroline. "If that's okay."
"Of course. I'll take you back, Sam," Caroline says softly, still rubbing my back. "I'll text you once we get there," she adds, looking at Zach.
"No. I'll drive you both. It's late," My brother insists.
Zach holds me as we walk out of the hockey house. When we finally step outside, the cold air hits us. I lean into him a little, my steps small and unsteady.
"I'm really sorry, Zachy."
"No need to apologize, Angel. I believe you." His words ease the heaviness in my chest a little.
My lips press together, trembling faintly. "Then... can you help me make Eli understand?" I ask quietly. "He's really mad at me this time, and I don't want him to hate me even more."
I feel like my knees are giving out. My forehead creases when I feel a strange, warm trickle from my nose, sliding over my lip.
"I will—" Zach's sentence trails off when he looks at me with horror. "Sam—hey," he says quickly, frowning as he tilts my chin up gently. "Shit, you're bleeding."
I blink, confused for a second. Then I touch my fingers to my nose, and when I pull them back, they're smeared with blood. "Oh," I murmur, almost dazed. "Nosebleed."
Caroline's already digging through her bag, panic flashing in her eyes. "Hold on—I think I have tissues—" She pulls out a handful and presses them into my hand.
The spinning I'm feeling is worsening, so I don't register what's happening. My body sways like I'm in a boat, big waves making it rock too much. The pain in my joints intensifies—sharp, shooting, unbearable.
God, I just want to go back to bed.
Everything starts to blur.
Sounds become distant, like I'm underwater. Zach and Caroline's voices grow muffled, warped. My limbs feel impossibly heavy yet strangely disconnected from my body.
I try to say something—to warn them—but my tongue won't cooperate.
The last thing I feel is weightlessness, my body no longer under my control as the ground rushes up to meet me. Then nothing but darkness swallowing me whole.
*****
Over the next few days, my fatigue worsened.
My body feels like it's borrowed from someone twice my age—heavy, reluctant, a constant reminder that something's not right. So, Mom drove all the way from Naples to Miami just to bring me home.
I fought it at first, insisting I could manage a few days of bed rest in my dorm, but my brother—ever the overprotective worrywart— threatened to check me into a hospital if I stayed. The mere thought of hospitals made my skin crawl.
I hate hospitals.
So here I am, back in Naples, where Mom has turned my bedroom into a five-star recovery suite. Fresh flowers appear every morning, and the food—God, the food. My mother cooks like she loves, with abandon and attention to detail. Soups that steam with herbs and comfort, bread still warm from the oven, fresh fruit arranged in patterns too pretty to disturb.
It's better than any resort, but it comes with a price: the weight of her worry, visible in the shadows under her eyes.
It's only been three days since I arrived home, and I'm already feeling better, or at least I tell her I am.
And I'm actually glad to be home this week.
Because this week is especially hard for her. In two days, it will be the fifth anniversary of my father's death. Five years since cancer took him, leaving behind a hole in our family that nothing can fill. I hear her at night, when she thinks I'm asleep. The muffled sobs that seep through the walls, the occasional whispered conversation with his photograph. She grieves like it's fresh, like he just left yesterday instead of half a decade ago. Her pain is a living thing, as real as he was.
My heart breaks for her on these nights.
I hear a soft knock at my door, pulling me from thoughts too heavy for the morning.
"Come in," I call.
My mother enters with a smile that would fool anyone who hasn't spent a lifetime studying her face. It's bright and radiant, practiced to perfection.
But I see it—the slight puffiness around her eyes, the red rims that not even her careful makeup can completely hide. The usual sparkle in her eyes is dimmed, like stars behind clouds. So young to be a widow, my mother, she was only thirty-seven when Dad died. My heart constricts at the thought.
"Good morning, honey. Breakfast in bed for my favorite patient," she sings, carrying a wooden tray laden with morning offerings.
"Mom, I told you, I can go downstairs to eat. No need to bring me food here," I groan, but there's no real frustration behind it. It's our morning dance, these protests and her gentle insistence.
She giggles, the sound like wind chimes in a soft breeze.
"Oh, nonsense," she waves a dismissive hand after carefully setting the tray on my nightstand. The motion catches light on her wedding ring, which she still wears. "You need to conserve your energy."
The tray is a work of art. A small vase with a few stalks of lavender—my favorite. A glass of fresh-squeezed orange juice, pulp floating at the top just how I like it. A bowl of steel-cut oatmeal, topped with a sprinkle of brown sugar, sliced almonds, and fresh berries arranged in a pattern. Two slices of sourdough toast, golden and buttered to perfection. A soft-boiled egg in a blue ceramic cup, the top already removed, waiting for the tiny silver spoon resting beside it.
"Mom, this is too much," I say, even as my stomach growls appreciatively.
"Nothing is too much for you," she says simply, perching on the edge of my bed. "How are you feeling today?"
I take a spoonful of oatmeal, savoring the mix of sweet and tart from the berries. "Better," I say, "Less... hit-by-a-truck-ish."
She laughs.
"Good. Your brother nearly gave me a heart attack on the phone."
"Zach is dramatic," I say, rolling my eyes. "He acts like I'm made of glass."
She raises a brow. "You fainted, Samantha."
"Minor detail."
She chuckles again, shaking her head, and for a moment we're just mother and daughter having breakfast. Talking about neighbors. About the ridiculous new dog down the street that barks at butterflies. About how she overwatered the orchids again.
We talk like this for nearly an hour, and after she takes the tray away, promising to come check on me later, I decide a shower might wash away some of the heaviness that's settled into my bones. The water pressure in our house has always been perfect—another detail my father insisted on when designing the place.
He used to say that a good shower could solve half of life's problems. The irony that it couldn't solve his isn't lost on me.
I stand under the hot spray until my skin turns pink, letting the water pound against my shoulders. Steam fills the bathroom, fogging the glass door and mirror.
After toweling off, I wrap myself in my old robe—soft blue cotton that's seen better days but feels like a second skin. I wipe a circle in the fogged mirror and begin the process of blow-drying my hair.
I lift my arm to reach the back of my head, and that's when I see it.
A bruise. Not just any bruise, but an angry sprawl of purple and red, spreading across my armpit like spilled wine on white carpet. It's big—bigger than my palm.
My hand freezes midair. The blow dryer continues to roar, but I can't hear it anymore. My heart stutters once, twice, then begins to pound so loudly it feels like it's trying to escape through my throat.
No.
I lower the dryer slowly, the cord swaying like it's moving through syrup. I step closer to the mirror, lifting my arm higher, twisting slightly to get a better look, and the bruise doesn't disappear. It doesn't shrink or lighten or politely reveal itself to be something harmless. It just sits there, grotesque and unapologetic, as if it's been waiting for me to notice.
It's not the first one. That's the part that makes my stomach drop.
The ones on my thighs last week—I blamed them on bumping into the coffee table. The faint yellowing marks on my hip—I told myself I bruise easily, that I've always bruised easily, that maybe I'm just clumsier than I thought. The fatigue? Exams. Stress. Lack of sleep. The way my bones ache at night like they're older than the rest of me? I told myself it was the cold. The change in weather. Anything but this.
But this bruise is too big. Too ugly. Too familiar.
A cold dread begins creeping through me like a hand sliding around my throat and tightening inch by inch.
Leukemia.
The word I've been avoiding even in my own thoughts takes shape now, impossible to ignore. The cancer that's already stolen two chunks of my life might be back for a third. The thought makes my knees weak, and I grab the marble sink for support, my knuckles turning white with the effort of holding myself up.
I can't go through it again. I can't.
I stare at my reflection and for a split second I don't see a college student standing in her childhood bathroom; I see a hospital room, white and sterile and suffocating, I see IV lines taped to thin arms, I see the sharp chemical smell of antiseptic and something metallic and wrong clinging to the air like it never leaves.
The constant, gnawing fear that this time, the treatment might not work.
I can't sit through another conversation where doctors speak in careful tones and my mother nods too quickly like if she agrees fast enough the words won't hurt as much.
I can't watch Zach try to be strong while his eyes betray him every single time.
I can't feel that poison sliding through my veins again, burning everything in its path, stealing my appetite, my hair, my reflection in the mirror.
And I cannot—cannot—be the reason my family fractures under the weight of it again.
My breathing turns shallow. The room feels smaller. The walls inch closer. My reflection looks pale, almost translucent, like if someone pressed hard enough they'd see straight through me.
I press my forehead briefly against the cool glass of the mirror, closing my eyes as tears spill before I can stop them. They slide down hot and insistent, tracing the curve of my cheeks, gathering at my jaw.
My lips tremble, and I bite down on the inside of my cheek to keep from making a sound because the last thing I want is for Mom to hear me and come running with that brave, brittle smile she wears when she's terrified.
I refuse to let her see this fear. I refuse to let her watch me unravel.
"Oh God," I whisper, the words breaking apart as they leave my mouth, my fingers digging harder into the sink as if I'm holding myself in place against a tidal wave. "Please... not again."