Chapter 29
SAM
I wake to agony.
It spirals through my gut like barbed wire being slowly pulled through my intestines. My skin is damp, clammy with sweat that feels ice-cold against the heat radiating from my core. The darkness of the dorm room presses against my eyes as I lie paralyzed for several heartbeats, trying to remember how to breathe through pain this familiar, this unwelcome.
My hand trembles so violently I can barely control it as I reach for my phone on the nightstand. My fingers brush against the cool metal, then knock it to the floor with a dull thud.
"Fuck," I whisper, the word squeezed through clenched teeth.
The pain twists deeper. I curl into myself, knees drawing up to my chest in a fetal position that offers no relief. My stomach feels like it's being crushed in a vise while simultaneously being carved open with a dull blade.
With a groan that sounds foreign to my own ears, I stretch my arm toward the lamp and manage to switch it on. The sudden light sends needles into my skull, but I need to see to find my phone. I twist my head to look over the edge of the bed and spot it lying face down on the worn carpet. The effort of leaning over almost makes me want to vomit.
I'm perversely grateful that Caroline isn't here right now. If she were here, she'd see me like this. She'd call Zach. They'd both worry, and then they'd know what I've been hiding for almost two weeks now.
With a supreme effort, I reach down and grab my phone. My fingernails scrape against the screen as I unlock it, leaving faint trails in the condensation from my clammy hands. I open the Uber app, my vision swimming as I try to focus on the tiny icons. The screen blurs, doubles, then comes back into focus. I blink away the cold sweat dripping into my eyes.
"Hospital," I mutter to myself as I set the destination.
Seven minutes until the driver arrives. I need to get dressed. I need to get downstairs. The thought of these simple tasks seems insurmountable.
"Move," I command my body. "Just fucking move."
By the time I make it downstairs, I'm drenched in fresh sweat and the edges of my vision are darkening. The Uber is waiting, its headlights cutting through the pre-dawn gloom.
"You okay, miss?" the driver asks as I collapse into the back seat.
"Fine," I lie, curling against the door.
He gives me a doubtful look in the rearview mirror but starts driving without further questions. I press my forehead against the cool window and watch the familiar route to the hospital. The pain pulses with every heartbeat. I close my eyes and focus on my breathing. In through the nose, out through the mouth. The technique they taught me years ago and facing this for the first time. It didn't help much then, and it doesn't help much now.
"We're here, miss."
I fumble with the door handle and practically fall out onto the pavement. The driver calls something after me, but the words don't register. I stagger toward the emergency room entrance, the automatic doors sliding open with a hiss that seems impossibly loud.
The fluorescent lights of the waiting area stab into my eyes. A nurse looks up from the reception desk.
"I need—" I begin, but the words evaporate as the darkness at the edges of my vision rushes inward, and the floor rises up to meet me.
When I open my eyes, sunlight streams through vertical blinds, creating stripes of gold across the sterile white hospital blanket covering my legs. An IV line runs from a bag of clear fluid into the crook of my arm. The pain in my gut has receded to a dull throb, a distant echo of the monster that woke me hours ago.
"Good morning, Sam."
I turn my head to see Dr. Wilcott standing at the foot of my bed, clipboard in hand. Her salt-and-pepper hair is pulled back in its usual neat bun, and her eyes—kind but never pitying—study me over the rim of her glasses.
"What time is it?" My voice comes out raspy, my throat dry.
"Almost noon. You've been out for a while." She moves to the side of the bed and checks the IV. "How's the pain now?"
"Better." I shift slightly, testing the limits. "Much better."
"I gave you something strong for it." She pulls up a chair and sits down, her face taking on the serious expression I know all too well. "Sam, why didn't you come in sooner? Your blood work shows this has been building for days, at least."
I look away, studying the heart rate monitor as if it's suddenly fascinating. "I had midterms." I lie.
"Midterms." Dr. Wilcott repeats the word flatly. "And I also see your blood alcohol level was elevated when you came in."
Heat rushes to my face. "It was just one night."
"One night that could have been much worse. Your immune system is already compromised, Sam. Alcohol makes everything harder on your body, especially with your current condition."
"I know." I pick at a loose thread on the blanket. "I just... needed something to take the edge off."
Dr. Wilcott sighs. "I'm not here to lecture you. I'm concerned. You received a serious diagnosis and then disappeared for two weeks until you were in so much pain you passed out in my emergency room."
"Your emergency room?" I attempt a weak smile. "Possessive much, Dr. Wilcott?"
She doesn't return the smile. "Sam."
"I know, I know." I let my head fall back against the pillow. "I just needed some time to process."
"And have you? Processed it?"
Have I processed that my cancer is back for the third time? That I'm twenty years old and might not see twenty-one? That all my plans and dreams and hopes might be cut short yet again?
I shake my head.
"Very well, let's talk about your diagno-"
I shake my head again.
"Can we not do this right now?"
"I understand you're frustrated—"
"Frustrated?" I laugh, the sound sharp and painful in my chest. "Dr. Wilcott, I'm way beyond frustrated. I'm fucking furious. But what good does that do me? The cancer doesn't care if I'm angry."
She lets me rant, watching me with those steady eyes that have seen so many patients like me come and go—some leaving on their feet, others never leaving at all.
"Have you told your family yet?" she asks when I fall silent.
I shake my head. "No."
"Sam, they need to know. Your mom, your brother—"
"I will tell them," I interrupt. "Just... not yet."
"When?"
I stare at the ceiling, "After Thanksgiving, maybe."
"That's four days from now."
I meet Dr. Wilcott's eyes. "I'm aware of the date."
"And you think you can hide this from them for that long? You collapsed today, Sam. This isn't something you can put off."
I turn to look at her, suddenly feeling very tired. "I just want one more normal holiday. Is that so much to ask? If I tell them now, Thanksgiving will be ruined. It'll be all about me again, about my cancer, about everyone walking on eggshells and trying not to cry into their turkey. I can't do that to them. Not again."
Dr. Wilcott's expression softens slightly. "They're your family. They want to be there for you."
"And they will be. After Thanksgiving."
She sighs, recognizing the stubborn set of my jaw. "I strongly recommend we admit you and begin treatment immediately. The sooner we start, the better chance we have of achieving remission."
Remission. The word feels hollow. I've been in remission twice before, and look where I am now.
"I need a few more days," I say, picking at the tape securing my IV. "To wrap my head around all this. A few days won't make a difference." We both know that's not entirely true, but I can't bring myself to care right now.
"Please, Dr. Wilcott. I just need a little time."
What I don't say is that part of me wonders if there's any point to starting treatment at all. This thing keeps coming back, each time stronger, each time more determined to finish what it started.
I'm tired. So fucking tired of fighting a battle that seems unwinnable in the long run.
What's the point of putting myself through months of poisonous chemicals and radiation if I'm just going to end up back here in another couple of years? To buy myself a little more time? Time to do what—go to classes, write papers, watch my friends plan futures I might never have?
Dr. Wilcott studies my face, and I wonder if she can read these thoughts. She's been my doctor since the beginning. She knows me better than I sometimes want her to.
"I'll write you prescriptions to manage your symptoms for now," she finally says. "But Sam, I need you to promise me you'll come back next week to start treatment. No later than that."
"I promise," I say, though the words feel like pebbles in my mouth.
"And please consider telling your family sooner rather than later. You don't have to face this alone."
But I am alone, in all the ways that matter. No one else can feel this pain, this fear, this bone-deep exhaustion at having to fight the same enemy that just won't stay dead.
"I'll wait until the IV is done before discharging you," Dr. Wilcott says, standing up.
"Thanks."
*****
The baskets barely fit in the back of my car. Mom insists on overdoing everything — double ribbons, handwritten notes tucked under the lids, homemade cookies layered between parchment paper so they don't crack. Mrs. Pennington added tiny jars of cinnamon honey this year.
It's always like this on Thanksgiving.
The adults inside are already arguing over the turkey. Caroline and Zach left twenty minutes ago with their share of deliveries. Everything looks normal. Everything sounds normal.
And thanks to the medication Dr. Wilcott prescribed a few days ago, I almost feel normal too.
The bone-deep ache that's been gnawing at my hips and spine has quieted into something dull and manageable. The nausea hasn't flared since this morning. My hands aren't trembling.
Normal enough that Mom didn't squint at me over breakfast and ask if I was okay.
Normal enough that I can drive without worrying I'll black out.
Normal enough to pretend I'm okay.
I close the trunk carefully, pressing down until it latches, and for a second I just stand there breathing in the cool November air.
I start the engine and adjust the rearview mirror. One of the shelters on my route is the children's home on Oakmont Street. It's always been my favorite stop—those kids with their bright, eager faces, their resilience in the face of abandonment. Their smiles are like tiny suns, warming something inside me that stays cold even in the Florida heat.
It's also the place Eli visits every Thanksgiving.
Not that I'm going there hoping to see him. Absolutely not.
Besides, he won't be there today anyway.
His dad and stepmom flew to Chicago for the holiday, and Eli decided to stay at his dorm with some of his teammates who didn't go home for the holiday.
I sigh, and something heavy settles in my chest, like a stone sinking in murky water. The last time I saw Eli was Sunday night, outside Eclipse.
The memory flashes back in fragments. The way I smelled like vodka and stubbornness.
And his words that cut my heart open.
A car horn blares, jolting me back to the present. I've been sitting at a green light, lost in the swamp of my own misery. I wave apologetically to the driver behind me and press on the gas.
That night outside Eclipse, something broke inside me. Not just my heart—that's been breaking and mending and breaking again for ten years—but something deeper. Some essential belief in possibility, in hope.
Or maybe it was just the stark realization that my time for hoping has run out.
It has to end. This pathetic, desperate chase. This unrequited love that's consumed a decade of my life. Cancer has a way of putting things into perspective, of showing you what actually matters. And the truth is—I can't keep forcing my love on someone who feels suffocated by it. Especially when I might not have time left.
But my stupid heart doesn't want to listen to reason. It keeps beating his name—E-li, E-li, E-li—a rhythm I've lived with for so long that I'm not sure who I'd be without it.
But I have to stop.
I have to let go.
I wipe away tears I hadn't realized were falling. There's no time for this breakdown now. People are waiting for these baskets, for the small bit of joy they might bring. I'll deliver them with a smile, because that's what matters today. Not my broken heart, not my broken body.
I go through the motions at the first two shelters—smiling, chatting, handing out baskets. The gratitude is genuine, the warmth real.
For brief moments, I even forget the weight pressing down on me. But as I drive to the children's shelter, my thoughts circle back to Eli, to endings, to beginnings.
What if... what if I could have just one perfect day with him before I let him go?
One day where we pretend, where I get to experience what it would be like if he loved me back. A memory to carry, no matter what happens with the treatment.
Something selfish and impossible and necessary.
The idea takes root as I park at the children's shelter, growing stronger with each basket I carry inside. The staff greet me with enthusiasm, helping unload the car, thanking me profusely. One of them mentions how excited the kids are to see me, and warmth blooms in my chest. This is why I love coming here—their joy is so pure, so uncomplicated.
I carry the last few baskets myself, following a staff member toward the recreation area. Through the window, I can see the backyard where the children play. My steps slow as my gaze catches on a figure sitting at the picnic table in the corner.
Eli.
He's braiding the hair of a little girl I recognize as Ivy, her face scrunched in pleasure as he works. He's not supposed to be here. He's supposed to be in Miami. Not here, not today, not when I've just decided to give him up.
My palms go clammy, the basket suddenly awkward in my arms. My free hand flies to my hair, tucking loose strands behind my ear, adjusting my headband. A nervous habit I've never been able to break.
Should I just leave? Drop the baskets and go?
I don't think I can face him, not after Sunday, not with this new resolution still tender and raw in my heart.
But the kids are expecting me. I bite my lip, frozen in indecision, when suddenly a high, excited voice breaks through my paralysis.
"SAM! SAM'S HERE!"
Andrew, a gap-toothed seven-year-old with perpetually skinned knees, barrels toward me from across the yard. His shout draws every eye—including Eli's, I know without looking. Andrew collides with my legs in a hug that nearly topples me, and suddenly I'm surrounded by children, their voices overlapping as they greet me.
"Did you bring cookies? Are they the ones with the chocolate chunks?"
"Sam, Sam, I lost another tooth! Look!"
"We made turkeys out of our handprints! Wanna see?"
I kneel down, hugging each child in turn, responding to their rapid-fire questions and updates. Their excitement is contagious, their affection uncomplicated. For a few minutes, I let myself be swept up in it, though I'm acutely aware of Eli still sitting at the picnic table, pointedly not looking our way.
Eventually, the children are called away by one of the staff members, something about getting ready for breakfast. They scatter reluctantly, leaving me alone with the decision I've been avoiding.
I glance toward Eli. He's still with Ivy, finishing her braid, his expression unreadable from this distance.
My feet move before my courage is fully gathered. I walk toward him, each step feeling like I'm wading through cement. Ivy sees me first, her face lighting up.
"Sam! Look what Eli did to my hair!" She turns her head to show me the neat French braid running down her back.
"It's beautiful," I say, meaning it. "Hi, Eli."
He gives me a tight nod, not quite meeting my eyes.
Jerk, I think, the word as reflexive as breathing.
"Happy Thanksgiving," I say, because what else is there? "I thought you'd be in Miami."
"Changed of plans." His voice is flat as he ties off Ivy's braid.
Ivy bounces off the bench, gives us both quick hugs, and runs to join the other kids.
"I see." I shift my weight, uncomfortable under his indifference. "But you're not staying in Naples for Thanksgiving either?"
"I'm only here for the kids." He stands, brushing invisible dust from his jeans. "I'm heading back to Miami after this."
He starts to walk away, and panic flutters in my chest. This might be my only chance.
"About last Sunday," I blurt. "I'm sorry for acting like a—"
"Don't worry about it."
"Where are you going?"
"Leaving."
"Wait." I reach for his hand, grabbing it before I can think better of it. He stiffens but doesn't pull away, which I choose to interpret as a good sign. "Can we talk?"
"About what, Sam?"
"About us."
Eli closes his eyes briefly, then whirls to face me properly, his expression a mixture of exhaustion and frustration. "Haven't we already done this? It always goes in circles. I say something, you ignore it, and somehow I end up being the bad guy for hurting your feelings."
"No, this time it's different."
That catches his attention. He cocks his head, hands sliding into his pockets. "What do you mean by that?"
I nibble at my lip, a nervous habit I've never been able to break. How do you say you're giving up on the person you've loved for a third of your life? It feels like I'm being asked to tear out my own heart and hand it over.
"Well?"
"I'm giving up," I say.
He looks puzzled, as if he's not sure he's heard me correctly. "What?"
"I've decided to stay out of your life." My voice wavers, and I look away as tears prick at my eyes. I will not cry in front of him. Not about this. I look at him again, offering him the brightest, fakest smile I can muster. "For good."
Eli gapes.
"Eli?" I wave my hand in front of his face when the silence stretches too long.
He blinks, clearing his throat. "Really?" The word comes out strangled, incredulous.
I nod. I force the corners of my mouth upward and hold them there, as if my smile isn't a dam about to burst. As if every cell in my body isn't screaming at me to take it all back.
"I'll do it under one condition."
He arches his brow. "And what's that?"
"Go on a date with me after your game in Duluth this weekend."
Eli lets out a bark of laughter that echoes across the yard. "What? Are you for real?"
"Completely serious." I nod, forcing cheer into my voice. "I'll leave you alone, stay out of your life for good, if you agree to give me one day. Just one. Where we pretend like we're a couple. Do the things normal couples do." I tilt my head, looking up at him through my lashes. "Unless you're scared?"
"You're insane," he says, but there's something like amusement in his eyes instead of the annoyance I expected.
"Go out with me anyway," I say aloud, a challenge in my voice. "And by the way, you can't say no."
"Oh yeah? Why's that?"
"Because this is me cashing in on the second favor you owe me."
His jaw works silently as he processes this, and I see the exact moment he realizes he's trapped.
I sigh, already sensing his rejection. "Is it really that terrible? The thought of spending one day with me?" My voice softens despite my best efforts to keep it light. "What do you have to lose, Eli?"
"Uh, my precious time?" he quips, but there's less bite in it than usual.
I groan and roll my eyes. "It's one day. Twenty-four hours, max. One date, and in exchange, you get what you've wanted for years—me out of your life." I try to keep my voice bright, sparkling, like I'm offering him a prize rather than tearing out my own heart. "I'll even forget about asking for that third favor you promised. Consider your debt paid in full."
His eyes meet mine, and for a second—just a flicker of time—I think I see something like sadness pass through them. But that can't be right.
This is what he wants. What he's always wanted.
"If you really don't want to, I'll understand," I say, softening my voice. "I just... I'd like you to think about it."
Hesitantly, I reach up to touch his face, my fingertips grazing his cheek. I expect him to pull away, but he doesn't. He stands perfectly still, watching me with an intensity I can't decipher.
"I'm not asking you to fall in love with me, Eli," I whisper, tears gathering despite my best efforts. "Not anymore. I'm not even asking you to show me that you care. I just want one day—one perfect memory to hold onto. And then I'll stay out of your life, just like you've always wanted."
I start backing away, forcing my fake smile back into place while looking at him—memorizing him, really. The way the November light turns his blond hair to burnished gold. The slight cleft in his chin.
"I'll wait for your answer tonight," I say, giving him a little wave goodbye.
The tears spill over as soon as my back is to him, streaming down my face in hot rivulets that I don't bother to wipe away. What's the point? They'll just keep coming, an endless river of grief for what never was and what will never be.
I keep walking, one foot in front of the other, all the way to my car. By the time I reach my car, I'm full-on crying—the ugly, snotty kind that no amount of makeup can disguise.
I climb behind the wheel anyway, knowing I'll have to pull myself together before heading back for the big family dinner. Knowing I'll have to play normal for a few more hours, pretending my world isn't collapsing in slow motion around me.