Chapter 37
SAM
The classroom door feels heavier than usual as I push it open, my arms trembling with the effort. I've been running on fumes since my appointment with Dr. Wilcott this morning, her words still echoing in my head like a death knell. Six months. Maybe less.
The lights in the hallway seem to pulse in time with the throbbing behind my eyes, and all I want is to collapse into my bed and pretend this day never happened. That the word "leukemia" isn't now permanently attached to my name like some grotesque appendage.
My body feels hollow, scraped out from the inside. Each step takes deliberate effort, as if I'm wading through concrete.
I shouldn't have come to class today. Should have taken the absence and stayed curled under my covers, pretending the world outside didn't exist. But the academic overachiever in me wouldn't allow it—that stubborn part that still believes grades matter when my time is running out like sand through a broken hourglass.
"Sam! Wait up!"
Willow jogs toward me, her ever-present smile slightly dimmed as she approaches. She must see something in my face—the pallor, the exhaustion, the shadows beneath my eyes that no amount of concealer can hide.
"Hey, a bunch of us are heading to Brewer's for that open mic night," she says, her voice bright but her eyes concerned. "You should come! It'll be fun, and you've been so... I don't know, distant lately?" She reaches out, touches my arm. "Are you okay? You look—"
"Just tired," I say, forcing a smile that feels like stretching plastic across my face. "I think I need to raincheck tonight. I'm sorry."
Disappointment flickers across her features, but she nods. "Of course, no pressure. Another time?" She hesitates, then adds, "You'd tell me if something was really wrong, right?"
My throat tightens. Another lie to add to the growing collection. "Of course."
Willow gives me a sad smile, squeezing my arm before heading off. I watch her go, wondering if I should have told her the truth. If I should tell anyone. But what's the point? I'm still processing it myself, this death sentence wrapped in medical terminology. Acute myeloid leukemia. Advanced stage. Poor prognosis. Six months.
I hitch my backpack higher on my shoulder, the weight of it disproportionate to the actual books inside. Everything feels heavier today. I just need to get back to my dorm, where I can fall apart privately, where I don't have to pretend I'm not breaking into pieces.
I hurry toward the exit when my steps falter. My heart seizes painfully in my chest.
Eli's there. He's leaning against the wall outside my classroom, one foot propped up behind him, his hair falling across his forehead as he looks down at his phone. His bag is slung casually over one shoulder, and he's wearing the gray hoodie I've always loved, the one that brings out the stormy green of his eyes.
My traitor heart hammers against my ribs so hard I'm surprised it doesn't bruise.
Why is he here? Who is he waiting for?
The ridiculous hope that blooms in my chest makes me want to scream. Old habits die hard, and apparently, loving Eli is the hardest habit to break. For a brief, delirious moment, I let myself imagine he's waiting for me—that somehow he knew I needed someone today of all days.
But I shut it down as quickly as it sparks. No. I made a promise to myself after Duluth. After our deal. One day together, and then I'd leave him alone forever. That was the bargain, and I intend to keep it, no matter how many texts or calls from him I've been ignoring. No matter that we spent that night together, tangled in sheets, his lips on my skin, whispering things I'd waited years to hear.
It was just one night. And now it's over.
I take a deep breath and square my shoulders, preparing to walk past him like he's nothing more than a piece of furniture. Like my entire body doesn't ache at the sight of him. Like I'm not dying and desperately wishing I could spend whatever time I have left in his arms.
I start walking, eyes fixed on a point beyond him, pretending he's invisible. But as I draw closer, his head lifts. Our eyes meet, and his whole face transforms, lighting up with a smile that hits me like a physical blow. A smile meant for me.
God, this is so much harder than I thought it would be.
I quickly rearrange my features into something neutral, disinterested, and continue walking. Each step away from him feels like tearing out stitches.
"Sam, wait," his voice carries down the hallway, and I hear the sound of his body pushing off the wall, his footsteps quick behind me.
I don't stop. I can't. If I look at him again, I'll crumble, and I can't afford to be weak. Not now. Not when being strong is the only gift I can give him.
Students turn to look as he follows me, but Eli doesn't seem to notice or care about the attention. I quicken my pace, heart thundering in my ears. I'm almost to the corner, almost to escape, when his hand wraps around my wrist, and he pulls me sideways into a small alcove beside the water fountains.
Before I can protest, his body is caging mine against the wall, his arms bracketed on either side of my head.
His cologne fills my lungs and the familiar scent makes my chest ache. We're so close I can see the tiny flecks of amber in his eyes, those green irises that always remind me of forest pools after rainfall, the faint stubble along his jaw that I'd traced with my fingertips just days ago. My skin buzzes where he's close to touching me but not quite.
"Why'd you just leave?" he asks, his voice low and rough around the edges. "You just took off from Duluth without saying goodbye. One minute you were there next to me, and the next I wake up to an empty bed and a note. A note, Sam."
I tilt my chin up, feigning indifference though my insides are rioting. "I had an early class," I say coolly. "And I did say goodbye."
"You don't get to leave me with a letter and call that goodbye. Not after..." he trails off, and I see the muscle in his cheek jump as he clenches his teeth. "Why haven't you been answering my calls? I've been trying to reach you since yesterday. Twenty-seven calls, Sam. Seventeen texts. I was starting to think something happened to you."
"Did you hit your head on something?" I ask, injecting as much boredom into my voice as I can muster. "Or is this selective amnesia? We had a deal, Elijah. One day together, and then I stay out of your life. I'm just honoring our agreement."
He stares at me, a deep frown etching lines between his brows. His eyes search mine with such intensity that I have to fight not to look away. There's confusion there, and hurt.
"What is this?" he asks quietly. "What are you doing?"
I sigh, loud and theatrical. "What do you want, Elijah? I have somewhere to be."
"I wanted to talk to you," he says, his voice gentling. "I've been wanting to talk to you since yesterday. I wanted to talk that morning, but you were gone. You shouldn't have left alone like that. You should have woken me up because I had something important to tell you."
"If this is about us sleeping together and you're feeling guilty, don't bother," I interject, the words coming out sharper than I intend. "We're both adults. It was consensual. And if you're regretting it—"
"You think I regretted making love to you that night?" he growls, his eyes flashing with sudden heat.
The phrase 'making love' sends a shock through my system. Not sex. Not fucking. Making love. My heart stutters painfully, like it doesn't know whether to race or stop altogether. The air feels thinner in my lungs.
That night has lived inside me as something fragile and sacred—something I was almost embarrassed to name because I was afraid I was the only one who felt it that way. I've replayed it over and over in my head, wondering if to him it was just heat, just convenience, just curiosity finally satisfied.
But "making love" isn't casual. It isn't detached. It isn't something you say unless you mean that it was more.
And hearing him call it that feels like someone pressing directly against a bruise I've been pretending isn't there.
He didn't call it sex. He called it love.
Tears threaten to build behind my eyes before I can stop them. I blink furiously, refusing to let them fall, refusing to let him see how much power those two words just had over me.
His hand comes up to my face, his thumb gently cupping my chin and tilting my face up to meet his gaze. The tenderness in the gesture makes me want to scream.
"Yeah, I should probably feel guilty for sleeping with my best friend's sister," he says, his voice low and serious. "But I don't. I won't. How can I, when that was the best night of my life?"
I let out a sharp gasp, unable to mask my surprise. This isn't the Eli I know—the guy who runs from emotions, who keeps everyone at arm's length, who never talks about feelings. It's like someone has replaced him with a doppelg?nger who looks like Eli but speaks another language entirely.
His mouth curves into that boyish grin I've loved for as long as I can remember, but his eyes darken as they drop to my slightly parted lips. He swallows hard, and his thumb traces a featherlight path across my cheek.
"I had a plan that night," he continues, his voice a caress. "When I woke up the next morning, I was going to tell you we should forget about our deal—that stupid agreement that you'd stay out of my life. I was going to tell you that I want you to stay." His voice cracks a little on the last word.
Happiness erupts in my chest, so fierce and bright I'm terrified it might shatter my ribs. Tears pool in my eyes despite my best efforts, and I can't stop a trembling smile from forming.
"I want to give us a try, Sam," he says, his eyes never leaving mine. "I'm not sure if what I'm feeling right now is love—it's too big, too overwhelming to label so simply. But I want to find out. I want to give us a chance because, God, I'm done pushing you away. I'm done pretending I don't want you. I'm done acting like you're not constantly in my thoughts, because the truth is you've been a permanent fixture in my mind for longer than I care to admit."
His thumb catches a tear that escapes down my cheek, and I realize I'm crying. This is everything I've ever wanted to hear from him, and it's coming at the exact moment when I can't have it. The cruelty of the timing is almost laughable.
"I've spent so long running from my feelings for you," he continues, "I was afraid of what love could do because all I've ever seen was how it tore my parents apart, how much pain it brought them. I was terrified of becoming like them, of being hurt that way. But I'm done being scared, sweetheart."
The endearment nearly breaks me. I bite my lip hard enough to taste blood.
"If there's one thing I realized during our time in Duluth, it's that being with you made me happier than I've ever been," he says. "We agreed to play pretend as a couple for a day, but God knows I stopped pretending when you were about to walk away at the skating rink. I've never panicked like that before—thinking that was it, that I was losing you. I've never been so scared."
His forehead leans against mine, and I close my eyes, savoring the contact, memorizing the feel of him for the lonely nights ahead.
"From that moment on, I was done pretending," he whispers. "I allowed myself to enjoy being with you, to be happy. And I was, sweetheart. More than you can imagine. And that's how I knew—if I ever give love a chance, I want it to be with you. Because I believe with everything in me that you won't break my heart the way my parents broke each other's. The way they broke mine."
My hand itches to reach for him, to touch his face, to pull him closer. But I freeze as reality crashes down on me with the force of a collapsing building. Six months. I only have six months left. Maybe less.
My lips quiver as my heart splinters into a thousand jagged pieces. This is cosmic irony at its cruelest—I've waited my entire life for Eli to let me in, to tell me he feels the same way. And now that he has, I can't have him.
I might have been selfish in my love for him before, but I can't be selfish now. If I choose to be with him knowing I'll be gone so soon, I'll end up destroying him just when he's finally learning to trust, to let someone in. To let love in. I refuse to be the person who teaches him that love only ends in pain and loss.
My soul is screaming, clawing at the walls of my chest, begging me to take what I want while I still can. To spend my remaining days wrapped in his arms, loving him with every breath I have left.
But the deeper part of me—the part that has always loved him more than myself—knows what I have to do.
Eli's touch is warm against my skin, his eyes deep and gentle as they search mine. He's looking at me with such tenderness it makes my chest clench. He's never looked at me this way before, except for that night in Duluth.
"Tell me you want this too, Sam," he pleads softly. "Tell me we can give us a try. Tell me I haven't lost you yet."
Not yet. But you will in six months.
The words stick in my throat like glass. I try so hard to keep my tears from falling, because if they do, I'll give myself away—reveal how desperately I want what he's offering.
How much it's killing me to turn it down.
With what feels like the last of my strength, I turn my face away and shove his hand from my cheek. The shock and hurt that flash across his face stab at my already bleeding heart, but I have to do this. For him.
Because if there's one thing I want more than having Eli love me back, it's making sure I'll never be the cause of his pain.
Yes, rejecting him now will hurt him, but it won't compare to the agony he'd suffer if I let him fall deeper for me, only to lose me to an illness I can't fight. His feelings for me are just budding—if I push him away now, they'll wither before they can fully bloom.
He'll heal. He'll move on. He'll have a life full of love that doesn't end in tragedy.
I look directly into his eyes, hardening my expression into something cold and distant, something that belongs to a stranger.
"It's too late, Elijah," I say, my voice steady despite the storm inside me. "When I told you I'd stay away from you, I meant it. This—whatever this is—was a mistake. A moment of weakness after a sentimental day. But it's not what I want."
He stares at me, stunned into silence, his face draining of color.
"I don't want you," I continue, each word a knife in my own chest. "I never did, not really. It was just a childish crush that went on too long because you kept pushing me away. Human nature—we always want what we can't have. But now that you're offering? The appeal is gone. So please, stop calling me. Stop texting. Let's just go back to our original agreement and stay out of each other's lives."
The hurt in his eyes is so raw that for a moment, I almost take it all back. Almost throw myself into his arms and confess everything. But I hold firm, even as my heart shatters into dust.
"You don't mean that," he finally says, his voice barely audible.
"I do." I duck under his arm and step away from the wall. "Goodbye, Elijah."
I turn and walk away before he can see the lie in my eyes, before my resolve crumbles completely. Each step feels like walking on broken glass, but I keep going, forcing myself not to look back. Not even when I hear him call my name once more, his voice cracking.
It's only when I push through the exit doors and the humid night air hits my face that I let the tears fall freely, hot tracks down my cheeks mingling with the Florida heat that offers no relief from the burning in my chest. My chest heaves with silent sobs as I walk away from the only boy I've ever loved, from everything I've ever wanted.
This is my gift to him—letting him go. My protection from the pain of loving someone who's already disappearing. I just hope someday he'll understand why I had to leave him this way, why I had to break his heart to save it.
*****
ELIJAH
I stare into my beer like it holds the answers to why Sam just rejected me. After weeks of dodging her, pushing away these feelings, I finally gave in. Finally worked up the courage to tell her how I feel. And she said no.
Just like that.
A flat-out no that felt like a slap across my face. The amber liquid in my glass doesn't offer any clarity, just ripples when I set it down too hard on the sticky table at the bar. I rub my temples, trying to make sense of what happened. Sam chased me for years—literally years—and the moment I'm ready to give us a shot, she pulls away. What changed in two days? We had a deal, sure, but that was before—before everything.
My phone buzzes with a text, and for a split second, my heart jumps thinking it might be Sam. But it's just Liam, saying they're five minutes out.
I drain half my beer in one long pull. I never thought I'd be sitting here, nursing a bruised ego and wondering how to win over a girl. Especially not Sam.
"Well, if it isn't our fearless captain, looking like someone stole his lucky jock strap."
Liam slides into the booth across from me, his perpetual smirk firmly in place, followed by Kentaro, who gives me a silent nod.
"Shut up," I mutter, but there's no heat in it.
"That bad, huh?" Liam flags down a waitress with practiced ease. "Whatever IPA you've got on tap," he tells her, then gestures to Kentaro. "And whiskey, neat, for the strong, silent type here."
Kentaro rolls his eyes but doesn't correct the order.
"So," Liam leans forward, elbows on the table, "what's so urgent that you're dragging us away from a perfectly good Call of Duty marathon? And don't say 'nothing' because your text had more exclamation points than I've ever seen you use."
"I need advice."
"The great Elijah Deveraux needs advice?" Liam presses a hand to his chest in mock shock.
"It's about Sam," I blurt out.
"The little devil?" he asks, a teasing glint in his eyes.
I nod, and Kentaro's eyebrows lift just slightly—the equivalent of a gasp from anyone else.
The waitress returns with their drinks, and I wait until she's gone before continuing. If I want their help, I have to be honest. Which means I start telling them everything.
About the kiss last month, when I missed two game days because of that concussion and Sam had to look after me. About how that one stupid kiss rewired something in me and about the tension that had been humming between us ever since.
I tell them the real reason I stayed behind in Duluth.
That Sam and I went on a date.
That it was supposed to be the end.
And somehow it turned into the best day of my life.
I don't even have to spell out the rest. Liam's shit-eating grin says he already connected the dots. The bastard practically looks proud of me.
"Holy shit, you slept with her."
It's not a question. I feel heat creep up my neck.
"What?" I say gruffly.
"You don't need to deny it," Liam crows, his grin widening to shit-eating proportions. "It's all over your face, Cap. Elijah Deveraux, finally ending his two months long dry spell! And with Little Devil Sam, no less."
I glare at him, but he's too amused to care. I instantly regret not inviting Kentaro alone.
"Man, she must be over the moon right now," Liam continues, gesturing with his beer bottle. "Probably already planning the wedding. What colors are you thinking? I look good in burgundy, so if you need a best man—"
"That's the thing," I cut him off with a heavy sigh. "She's not."
Liam's eyes bulge comically. "She's not?"
Kentaro's head snaps toward me, his usual stoic expression cracking with surprise. "She's not?" he echoes.
I shake my head and down the rest of my beer, feeling the cold liquid slide down my throat, doing nothing to ease the knot in my chest. "Nope. I saw her tonight. I actually waited outside her class—"
"You did?" Kentaro interrupts, disbelief clear on his face. He and Liam exchange knowing glances.
"Huh..." Liam utters amusedly, taking a slow sip of his whiskey. "What kind of voodoo spell did little devil cast on our captain? First, he goes on an actual date, then he has sex with a girl he's known forever, and now he's lurking outside classrooms like a lovesick teenager?"
I shoot him a withering glare. "Are you done?"
"Not even close, but go on." He waves his hand magnanimously.
"So," Kentaro says, bringing us back to the point, "tell us what happened after."
"Well, since she kept dodging my calls, I'd had enough," I say, dragging a hand through my hair for the hundredth time tonight. "So I waited outside her class like some desperate psycho. I finally worked up the balls to tell her how I feel, I asked her out... and she shut me down."
For a second, neither Liam nor Kentaro says anything.
They stare at me, frozen in mid-sip, as if trying to process what I just said. I can practically see the gears turning in their heads, attempting to reconcile the Sam they know—the one who's been hopelessly devoted to me for years—with this new version who apparently wants nothing to do with me.
And God, it makes me feel pathetic.
The first time in my life I actually put myself out there, genuinely asked someone out, and I got rejected. Not just rejected—completely blindsided.
"Wait," he says slowly, rubbing his jaw like he needs to reset his brain. "You mean to tell me you finally grow a pair, confess your feelings—"
"It wasn't like that," I mutter.
"—whatever, close enough," he waves me off. "And you expected her to what? Burst into tears? Drop her backpack? Fall to her knees praising the heavens because Elijah Deveraux has finally chosen her?"
I shrug, defensive. "Uh... kind of?"
Kentaro exhales sharply through his nose.
"Dickhead," he mutters, lifting his glass.
"Asshole," Liam adds at the exact same time, clinking his bottle against Kentaro's without looking away from me.
I glare at both of them. "That's not what I meant. I just— I thought she'd be happy. Isn't this what she wanted? For me to finally give in and ask her out?"
Liam leans back in his chair, studying me like I'm a particularly slow student.
"Yeah," he says carefully, "but only after she finally worked up the nerve to give up on you. That's not a small thing, man. You think walking away from someone you've loved for ten years is just... flipping a switch?"
Kentaro nods once. "You've rejected her how many times?"
I grimace. "That's not the point."
"It is exactly the point," Kentaro says flatly.
Liam sets his beer down, elbows on the table now, tone losing its teasing edge. "You spent a decade telling her no. Telling her you didn't want her. Telling her she was too much. So she finally protects herself, makes peace with it, rips her own heart out so she can move on... and two days later you show up like, 'Actually, I changed my mind.'"
When he puts it like that, it sounds worse.
"You probably gave her emotional whiplash," Liam continues. "She's spent years convincing herself you don't want her. That she's delusional for hoping. Now suddenly you do? That's not something you just accept in five minutes and skip off into the sunset over."
Kentaro swirls his whiskey slowly. "Also," he adds calmly, "from her perspective, the timing is suspicious."
"Suspicious how?"
"You sleep with her. Then immediately after, you decide you have feelings and want to try? If I were her, I'd question your motives."
Liam nods. "Yeah, man. She might think this is just guilt. Or that you're trying to secure a repeat performance."
I look away, jaw tightening.
I sure as hell do want to sleep with her again.
Liam sees it in my face and groans. "See? That look right there. That's exactly what I'm talking about."
"It's not just that," I argue, even though part of me knows they're not entirely wrong. "It's not just sex. Something changed."
Kentaro studies me quietly for a long beat.
"Then you need to prove that," he says. "Not with one dramatic hallway confession. With consistency."
Liam nods. "She's probably overwhelmed. Maybe scared it's too good to be true. Maybe she thinks you'll wake up tomorrow and decide you were just horny or nostalgic."
I let out a frustrated breath, running both hands through my hair this time.
"So what am I supposed to do?" I ask, and I hate that there's an edge of desperation in my voice. "Just wait around?"
"Yeah," Liam says simply. "You wait. You show up. And you definitely don't act like she owes you excitement because you finally did the bare minimum.
"So what you're saying is..." I trail off.
"What I'm saying," Liam leans forward, tapping the table for emphasis, "is that you need to show her you mean business. Prove to her that this isn't just because of the mind-blowing sex or some misplaced guilt after sleeping with her. Show her that you've actually developed feelings for her and want to see where it goes."
"How?"
"Time for you to grovel, Cap," Liam pats my back with exaggerated sympathy. "For once in your charmed life, you're gonna have to be the one chasing after the girl. Sam loves you—or loved you, anyway—and if you put in genuine effort, she'll see you're serious. Woo her. Buy her flowers, chocolates, do all that sappy shit that makes women melt. But be prepared for her to push back. Little devil isn't gonna make this easy for you after all the years you spent rejecting her. You'll have to work for it, man."
I groan, dragging a hand down my face. "I'm not that guy. I don't do the flowers and chocolates thing. I've never had to... you know, try before."
"Yeah, well, welcome to being the one who wants more.," Liam snorts. "And you'd better figure it out quick, because you're not the only one who's noticed how hot Sam is."
My head snaps up. "What?"
A wicked glint appears in Liam's eyes. "Oh, you didn't know? The football team's star quarterback has been all over her lately. They've been spotted at a couple of parties together. Getting pretty cozy from what I heard."
"What?!" I growl, half-rising from my seat.
Something hot and ugly surges through my chest—something that feels dangerously close to jealousy. No, not jealousy—possession. The thought of someone else touching Sam, making her laugh, kissing her the way I did...
Liam chuckles, clearly enjoying my reaction. "Down, boy. But that's why you need to get your ass in gear if you don't want to lose her for good. The clock's ticking, and there are plenty of guys who won't need convincing to see what you've been blind to for years."
I sink back into my seat, jaw clenched. "Fine. I'll figure something out."
"And I know one person who can help you win your girl back," Kentaro finally speaks up, fixing me with a meaningful look.
I already know who he's talking about, and my stomach drops. "No way."
"Time for you and Zach to patch things up, man," Kentaro says firmly. "Ask him for help, but... maybe skip the part where you slept with his sister if you don't want that pretty face rearranged again."
"He'll kill me," I protest weakly, though I know Kentaro's right. Nobody knows Sam better than Zach. And despite our current falling out, he's still my best friend. Or was, anyway.
"He might," Liam agrees cheerfully, draining his beer. "But love's all about risk, isn't it? And from the look on your face when I mentioned the quarterback, I'd say you've got it bad enough to take that chance."
I let my head fall back against the booth, staring up at the ceiling. How did I end up here? A month ago, my biggest concern was maintaining our winning streak and keeping my GPA high enough to stay eligible.
Now I'm sitting in a bar, plotting how to win over a girl who's been right there all along—the same girl who finally gave up on me just when I realized I didn't want her to.
"So," I say finally, lifting my head to look at my friends, "how exactly does one grovel effectively?"
Liam's answering grin is downright predatory. "Oh, Captain. Let me educate you."