Chapter 25
SAM
Zach appears in my doorway like a ghost in sweatpants – exhausted, and looking like he's aged five years in one day. I can't blame him. We all look like we've been dragged backward through an emotional cheese grater. Dad's death anniversary has that effect on us, turns us into hollow versions of ourselves with red-rimmed eyes and forced smiles that crack at the edges.
He musters a smile that doesn't quite reach his eyes. "Hey, angel."
"Hey," I respond, dog-earing the page of my romance novel that I haven't actually been reading for the past hour. It's just been sitting in my lap while my mind races in seventeen different directions, none of them leading anywhere pleasant.
"How's Mom?"
"Sleeping."
Mom had been crying since we left the cemetery, inconsolable for hours. Zach finally let her drown her sorrows in her favorite red wine, Chateau Margaux—that special bottle of Bordeaux Dad had always saved for their anniversary.
It's her annual ritual, this controlled descent into wine-soaked grief, and we let her because somehow that bottle serves as Dad consoling her even though he's been gone for years. She drinks herself to exhaustion only on this day, and we've learned not to intervene.
Zach sits on my bed, "I just tucked her in and came to check on you. Today was..." he pauses, searching for a word that could possibly encapsulate the emotional marathon we've run, "rough. I want to make sure you're alright."
"I'm okay, Zachy." I reach for his hand and squeeze it gently. "I'm actually more concerned about you. You've looked after us all day, worrying about Mom, worrying about me. I just want to make sure you didn't forget to take care of yourself too."
He offers me a weary half-smile. "I'm fine."
"That's the worst lie I've heard since Mom told us that hideous sweater Aunt Maggie gave her last Christmas 'really brings out her eyes.'" I nudge his leg with my foot. "Come on. Talk to me."
Zach rubs a hand over his face, stubble rasping against his palm. "It's just... does it ever get easier? It's been five years, angel, and it still feels like someone's carved out a piece of me."
"I think that's how it's supposed to feel," I say softly. "Like, imagine if one day we woke up and it didn't hurt anymore. Wouldn't that be worse? Like we'd forgotten him?"
"Yeah." His voice comes out rough. "Yeah, I guess that would be worse."
"Besides," I add, trying to lighten the heaviness settling between us, "if grief followed normal human patterns, therapists would be out of business, and then who would listen to people complain about their mothers for $200 an hour?"
That earns me a genuine laugh, small but real. "You're ridiculous."
"It's my charm."
We sit in comfortable silence for a moment but my eyes keep drifting to his hand, to the raw skin across his knuckles. I grab his hand again, this time turning it palm-down to expose the scrape. "Can you tell me about this? Did you... hit someone?"
He lifts his hand slowly, studying it as if he's only just remembering it's there. For a second, I think he won't answer. That he'll brush it off with some half-baked excuse about the gym or the locker room.
Instead, he rolls his lips inward, exhales, and looks at me with a flicker of something that looks like hesitation—and guilt. "I, uh..." He clears his throat. "I punched Elijah. A few days ago."
"What?" My eyes widen, my heart thudding hard against my ribs. "What do you mean you punched him? Why?"
I'm flabbergasted because what the hell does he mean he punched his best friend? Eli and my brother have never fought. They're thick as thieves, practically sharing a brain cell since they were kids. So, why—
My spiraling thoughts screech to a halt. I suck in a sharp breath. "Was it because of me?"
The mortification must show all over my face because Zach immediately reaches for me, cupping my cheeks with both hands like I'm still twelve and scraped my knee. "No... No, angel. It's just... the prick deserved it."
I see his jaw tightening as though he's recalling what happened. "Elijah's been acting more snappy and cranky the past few days. Keeping to himself, which isn't exactly unusual for Mr. Broody McBrooderson, but it was different. Worse."
"And?" I prompt, because I know there's more, can see it in the way his eyebrows draw together.
"And he said something last Thursday night that crossed the line."
"Which was...?"
Zach's nostrils flare. "He said it's been nice not having you around. That he's finally getting some peace. That he can actually breathe."
That actually stings... knowing that the person you love thinks of you as nothing but a nuisance.
But can I really blame him? If I were him, I'd probably crave some breathing room too. A break from the constant presence of someone who's just... too much.
It hurts, yeah. My chest squeezes like someone's wrapped a belt around my ribs and pulled it three notches too tight. But what can I do? That's what he feels.
"I get it," I murmur, staring at my hands. "I mean... I can be a lot."
"Don't you dare excuse him."
"I'm not excusing him," I say quickly. "I'm just saying... I understand why he snapped."
"And I understand why my fist snapped into his face," Zach shoots back instantly.
I can't help it—I huff a breath that's half laugh, half exasperation. "You shouldn't have hit him."
"As your big brother? Yeah. I should've," he fires back without hesitation. "I had to. He crossed a line. I don't care if he's my best friend. Nobody talks about you like that."
Zach's expression shifts, something almost like amusement crossing his face. "The funny thing is, he's been asking about you constantly since you've been away. Waiting for you to show up at the dorm, at the rink. He thinks he's being subtle about it, but subtle isn't exactly in Elijah Deveraux's skill set."
My heart does a traitor's leap. "What do you mean?"
"I mean," Zach says, "that he's been constantly looking for you. And then he has the audacity to say he's enjoying your absence? It's bullshit, Sam. He loves you, and he's just too damn coward to accept it."
"Zach—"
"His parents messed him up," he continues, on a roll now. "They only showed him the ugly side of what love can do. And I get that. I do. I love Elijah, and I really wish he could be the right man for you. But if he's not brave enough to be true to himself and admit that he has feelings for you, then he doesn't deserve to be with you. So, fuck him!"
I hold my brother's hand tightly. "Zachy... I love how you always have my back and the whole knight-in-shining-armor routine, but you can't just deck your best friend because he said something mean about me. Especially how much he tolerated my antics and I've been basically stalking the poor guy—you have to understand that he has limits too. Please don't let me be the reason you two fall apart. You've been friends for over a decade and just because of me, you're just gonna throw it away?"
"Just?" Zach's stormy eyes—carbon copies of my own—darken like storm clouds. The muscle in his jaw twitches, but his thumb moves gently across my cheekbone, the tenderness contradicting his expression.
"You are my sister, angel." He puts emphasis on every word. "I am not gonna let anyone—including him—talk about you like that."
He presses his forehead against mine and sighs, his breath warm against my face. "I stayed out of it for so long, Sam. Watched you chase after him, watched him push you away over and over because I thought it wasn't my place. But seeing you lose that sparkle in your eyes every day, watching you hurting—" His voice cracks.
"I should have stepped in sooner. I should've tried harder to persuade you to walk away, to protect your heart from someone who clearly doesn't deserve it."
"You couldn't have persuaded me, Zachy," I say softly. "No one could have made me stop loving him. No one but myself."
"I know..." He pulls back, studying my face. His thumb brushes my cheek again, gentle but insistent. "But honestly, Sam, how much longer are you going to let yourself suffer while he figures out if he really wants you or not?"
I attempt my usual megawatt smile—the one that used to convince him I was fine—but my lips barely curve upward at the corners. "Forever if I have to..."
Zach's exhale is long and defeated. The furrow between his brows deepens, but he doesn't argue further. He recognizes that look in my eyes—the same one Dad had whenever he'd made up his mind. The Westbrook inheritance none of us can escape.
His jaw tightens. "Look, I can't just pretend everything's cool between us. Not after what he said." He holds up a hand when I open my mouth. "And don't defend him again. I'm done with that conversation." His expression shifts, softens around the edges as he leans forward.
"What I do want to talk about is your appointment tomorrow. With Dr. Wilcott. Do you want me to take you?"
His voice wavers slightly, the way it does when he's pretending to be casual about something that terrifies him. I catch the micro-expression that flashes across his face—that tightening around his eyes that appeared when he first heard that I had cancer three years ago.
Dr. Wilcott has been my hematologist/oncologist from the South Florida Comprehensive Cancer Institute since I was eight.
I told Zach this morning that I managed to book an appointment with Dr. Wilcott tomorrow—thank God she found a way to squeeze me into her already packed schedule—just for a routine check because of the fatigue that won't seem to leave me alone. I kept it light when I said it, like it was nothing more than being overworked or run down, like college and late nights and too much caffeine could explain everything.
I didn't tell him about the bruises. I didn't mention the other things either—the ones that have been quietly stacking up in the back of my mind no matter how hard I try to dismiss them. There's no point in setting off alarm bells when I don't even know what they mean yet.
And that's also why Mom has no idea I'm seeing Dr. Wilcott.
I'll wait for the test results to come back before I tell her anything. She's been through enough.
Still, the mere mention of Dr. Wilcott was enough to flip some invisible switch in my brother, just the idea of me sitting in another exam room is enough to send him spiraling into worry mode and straight into protective overdrive.
"I prefer to go alone, if that's okay."
"But I wanna be there for you."
"I know but I know you, Zachy," I say gently. "You're gonna hover until you drive me crazy. Besides, they're just simple tests. They'd be done right away and I'm gonna call you right after."
"You promise?" His brow furrows, mouth twisting into an almost-pout that makes him look about five years old, despite the stubble and the lingering bruise from last week's game shadowing his jawline.
"Promise," I say, drawing an X over my heart like we used to do as kids. "Cross my heart, hope to—" I stop myself abruptly. "Uh, let's not finish that one."
Zach's laugh is short but genuine. "Yeah, let's not."
He leans forward and presses a kiss to my forehead. "Goodnight, angel. I love you."
"Love you too," I whisper as he rises from the bed.
He pauses at the door, turning back. "Sam?"
"Yeah?"
"You'd tell me, right? If there was something really wrong?"
"Of course I would."
He nods, looking only half-convinced, then slips out, closing the door softly behind him.
I stare at the door for a long moment, my fingers unconsciously tracing the fading bruise on my arm hidden beneath my sleeve. I'm fine, I tell myself. Everything's fine. The symptoms don't mean anything. They can't.
Because I can't do that to my family. Not again.
*****
It's been a week since my check-up with Dr. Wilcott, seven endless days of my brain playing horror movie director with my life. I've gone through blood work, scans, more blood work, the whole familiar routine—the sterile rooms, the polite smiles, the "we'll call you soon."
And now I'm stuck in this awful in-between space where nothing is confirmed but nothing feels safe either. Every morning I wake up thinking, maybe today, and every night I go to bed with my stomach in knots because it wasn't.
To make matters exponentially worse, Zach, my loving but extremely annoying brother, texts me approximately eight thousand times a day asking me if the results are back yet. Every time I tell him no, not yet, I can see the tension settle deeper into his shoulders. Which only makes the waiting heavier.
Like I'm not just carrying my own fear—I'm carrying his too.
The cafeteria around me is a blur of movement and color. I can see mouths moving, forks scraping against plates, someone in the distance throwing a French fry that arcs through the air like a tiny potato missile. The noise seems distant though, like I'm underwater and everything is muffled by my own thoughts.
"...and then Jonas said that Khol was being ridiculous about the whole thing, but you know how those football guys are when they get an idea in their heads..."
Willow's mouth is moving. I can see her lips forming words, her hands gesturing animatedly in that way she does when she's excited about something. But it's like someone turned her volume down to zero. My thoughts are drowning her out. They won’t shut up.
What if she says it's back? What if you have to do chemo again? What if this time it's worse?
Another voice, smaller but stubborn, pushes back.
What if you're fine? What if you're being dramatic? What if you walk out of there feeling stupid for spiraling this hard?
"...so will you?"
I feel a sharp nudge in my arm.
"Huh? You said something?" I ask, blinking rapidly as reality crashes back into focus.
Willow rolls her eyes, but there's affection behind it. "Uh, yeah, I've been telling you that there's a party at Alpha Sigma Awesome tonight," she says, the sarcasm in her voice when she says the frat name making it clear what she thinks of those guys. "And Khol's been bugging Jonas to ask me to ask you if you're coming... so will you?"
My phone vibrates in my pocket, and my stomach drops like I'm on a rollercoaster. For a split second, I think it’s the hospital—finally calling with the kind of news that could either let me breathe again or completely derail my life. Again. But it's not them.
"Sam... Hello? Earth to Sam?" Willow's voice cuts through again, and I realize I've zoned out for the second time in as many minutes. Her hand waves in front of my face like she's trying to clear smoke.
"Huh? Oh sorry, what did you say again?" I mumble, trying to force my brain to focus on this conversation and not the appointment looming over me.
Willow's blue eyes narrow with concern, her head tilting slightly as she studies my face. "Are you okay? You seem pale-ish... Want me to take you to the clinic?"
I give her a wry smile, "I'm okay, I just have a lot of things on my mind today. Sorry."
"Today?" Willow snorts, pushing her tray of half-eaten cafeteria lasagna to the side. "You mean like the entire week! Ever since you came back to class, you've been walking around like a zombie with a philosophy degree—all existential and vacant-eyed." She leans forward, her voice dropping.
"Is this about Elijah again? I swear I'm gonna march right down to the Pond and kick his giant hockey-playing ass into next semester. I may only be five-foot-three, but I contain multitudes of rage and I'm not afraid to deliver justice directly to his face."
For the first time today, I laugh because picturing Willow kicking Eli's ass is genuinely hilarious. Eli's built like a redwood tree that spends all its spare time in the gym, while Willow looks like a slightly angry fairy who got lost on her way to an indie rock concert.
"I'd pay good money to see you try," I say, moving my head side to side as I chuckle. "But for a change, it's not about him."
"Then what is it?"
"It's nothing," I lie. "Just stressed about finals."
"Finals are two months away. Try again." Willow says flatly. "Look, I know something's up. You don't have to tell me what it is, but don't lie and say you're fine when you're clearly not."
I feel a pang of guilt. She deserves better than my half-hearted deflections.
"I'm sorry," I say, and I mean it. "I promise I'll tell you everything later. I just... can't right now."
"Okay. But I'm here when you're ready. And my offer to kick Eli's sexy ass."
This pulls another genuine laugh from me. "Your loyalty is both terrifying and appreciated."
"So... the party?" Willow asks, clearly trying to steer us back to lighter topics. "Should I tell Jonas to tell Khol that you're a maybe? An 'ask me later'? A 'depends on how many tequila shots I've had by then'?"
"Tell them I'll let you know tonight," I say, which seems like a safe non-answer. By tonight, I'll either be in the mood to celebrate or in the mood to hide from humanity forever. Fifty-fifty chance.