Chapter 42
SAM
The class has already ended, but I stay seated on my stool in front of my easel while everyone else filters out of the studio. My pencil hovers over the canvas as I try to finish the last lines of a sketch. My hands aren't cooperating. They tremble just enough to make every stroke uneven, forcing me to slow down and steady my wrist against the edge of the easel. I take a careful breath and try again.
I have my sixth chemo infusion today.
I still have a few minutes before I need to head to the hospital, and I want to finish this sketch while I still can. Later I'll be too weak, too nauseated, too foggy-headed to do anything but lie on my couch and try not to throw up.
The evenings have been getting worse after every infusion. By nighttime the nausea becomes relentless, my head spins constantly, and even lifting a glass of water sometimes feels like climbing a mountain.
Most nights I lie awake wondering how I'm supposed to keep doing this.
Most mornings I wake up not wanting to move at all.
But eventually the sun comes up, I get a few hours of sleep, and I feel... better.
By better I mean I'm still tired, still weak, still lightheaded. My stomach is still sensitive and unpredictable. But I'm functional. And functional is good enough.
Finals are around the corner, and I only have two infusion sessions left after today before my body finally gets a break from being pumped full of poison.
Besides, coming to class—especially my art classes—keeps me sane. They give my mind somewhere else to go. For a few hours, I get to focus on shading and composition instead of blood counts and chemotherapy schedules.
Without that distraction, I'm pretty sure I'd lose my mind long before the cancer gets the chance to kill me.
I wince when a sudden wave of dizziness slices through my head. I grip the edge of the stool and breathe slowly until the spinning eases.
"Sam?"
Willow's voice cuts through the fog. I thought she'd left already—she'd mentioned lunch with Jonas at that new Vietnamese place she's been raving about. I open my eyes and look up at her.
"Thought you left already," I manage, giving her what I hope passes for a casual smile.
"Yeah, I did," she says slowly. "...but." Her eyes drift toward the door, a mischievous glint appearing.
I follow her gaze but the hallway looks normal—just a few students passing by. "What?"
"Your ex–fake fiancé slash lifelong crush turned full-time stalker is outside again." There's a teasing lilt in her voice that makes me want to simultaneously laugh and throw my sketchbook at her.
I sigh, dropping my pencil onto the easel tray. Of course he is.
Elijah has apparently made it his daily mission to show up wherever I am. Sometimes I half expect him to climb out of my backpack. My ignored calls and unanswered texts apparently weren't clear enough.
He's basically copying every ridiculous thing I used to do when I was the one chasing him. The universe has a twisted sense of humor. And yeah... it's kind of cute because despite everything, watching him stumble through the same desperate moves I once perfected makes something warm flutter in my chest.
If I didn't know why I have to push him away, it might even be impossible to resist.
Willow folds her arms, eyeing me suspiciously.
"So," she says slowly, "how long exactly are you planning to torture the captain of the hockey team?"
"I'm not torturing him," I mutter, gathering my pencils.
She scoffs.
"Oh really? Because from where I'm standing, that man has been suffering for over a week."
She starts ticking things off on her fingers.
"Flowers every morning."
I roll my eyes.
"Chocolate delivery."
"Those were Watermelon Sour Patch."
"Correction," Willow says dramatically, "a monthly subscription of Watermelon Sour Patch so you 'never have to worry about running out again.'"
I bite my lip, trying not to smile.
"That was unnecessary."
"Oh, we're not done," she continues gleefully. "Let's talk about the giant teddy bear he tried to sneak into your dorm lobby."
"It wasn't giant."
"It was holding a hockey stick and wearing a Deveraux jersey, Sam."
"...okay, that one was a little extra."
"And yesterday he bribed the coffee shop guy to write 'PLEASE TALK TO ME' in foam on your latte."
I groan. "Seriously?"
"Yes, seriously," Willow says. "The entire line behind you saw it."
She leans closer, lowering her voice.
"Do you have any idea how many girls on campus would kill to have a ridiculously hot hockey captain chasing them around like this?"
She spreads her hands.
"This is literally the dream you've been talking about since forever ago."
I zip my bag closed and sling it over my shoulder.
"Elijah is the one making himself suffer," I say flatly. "Not me."
I stand up from my stool, probably too quickly. The room tilts violently. Dark spots explode across my vision and my knees buckle.
"Whoa—!"
Willow lunges forward just in time to grab my arm.
"Jesus, are you okay?"
I nod, waiting for the world to stop spinning. "Yeah, just stood up too fast."
"You're pale."
"I'm always pale."
"No, this is like... ghost of Victorian tuberculosis patient pale."
I huff out a weak laugh. "I'm fine."
"You know," she's studying me with narrowed eyes. "You've been dizzy all week. And you keep running to the bathroom every now and then to throw up," she adds. "Don't think I haven't noticed."
"I'm fine."
"No, you're not." Her grip tightens slightly. "You've been off for weeks now. The dizziness, the vomiting, how tired you always look..." Her eyes suddenly widen, and I can practically see the wheels turning in her head. "Oh my god. Are you pregnant?"
The question is so unexpected, so completely off the mark, that I snort with laughter.
"I'm being serious!"
"Willow. I'm not pregnant."
"You swear?"
"I swear."
She studies me for another long moment before her expression softens. "Okay, but something's going on with you."
"There's nothing going on."
Willow scrunches her nose in that adorable way of hers. "I'm serious, Sam. I'm really worried about you." Her voice softens.
She tucks a strand of copper hair behind her ear and leans closer, close enough that I can smell her vanilla-scented shampoo. "As your friend, I have the right to know what's going on with you."
Something breaks inside me then—a dam I've built brick by brick since the diagnosis. Maybe it's the genuine worry etched into the lines between her eyebrows, or the slight tremor in her usually confident voice. Or maybe it's just that I'm bone- tired of carrying this secret like a stone in my chest, growing heavier with each passing day. My fingers twist nervously in the hem of my sweater as I exhale slowly.
"Fine," I say, the word feeling foreign on my tongue. "I'll tell you, but you have to help me first..."
"Okay, but help you with what?"
"Distract Eli while I'll sneak out the other door," I explain quickly. "Meet me in the parking lot in five minutes and I'll tell you everything."
I expect hesitation, questions, maybe even refusal. But Willow just nods, gives my arm a reassuring squeeze, and straightens her shoulders like she's preparing for battle.
"Consider Captain Heartthrob distracted," she says with determination, already striding toward the main door.
Meanwhile, I grab my bag and slip toward the second exit on the other side of the studio. Just as Willow opens the door and steps into the hallway—I quietly disappear the other way.
Willow looks confused the moment I tell her to drive toward the hospital instead of campus. She keeps glancing at me from the driver's seat like she's waiting for me to explain, but I don't say anything at first. My hands sit uselessly in my lap, fingers twisting together while my heart pounds hard enough to make my chest ache.
By the time she pulls into the parking lot and turns off the engine, the silence inside the car feels heavy enough to crush me.
It takes every ounce of courage I have left to finally open my mouth.
And then I tell her everything.
As I speak, Willow's eyes fill with tears that spill over and track silently down her cheeks. By the time I finish, my voice is shaking so badly I can barely breathe. Then Willow starts sobbing.
"Sam, what the hell?" she chokes out, grabbing me and pulling me into a crushing hug. "Why didn't you tell me sooner? Oh my God, Sam!"
"I'm telling you now," I say, attempting a smile that feels brittle on my face.
Willow swipes angrily at her tears. "I should have known. All the signs were there—how tired you've been, how you've lost weight, the bathroom trips... God, I'm such an idiot. What kind of friend doesn't notice when—"
"Stop," I interrupt. "I didn't want anyone to know. I've gotten pretty good at hiding it."
"But Sam, your family need to know."
"Eventually. Just... not yet."
"You've been going through all of this alone?" she continues. "You started chemo last week and didn't even tell me? I could've helped you! I could've been driving you here instead of you taking Ubers or dragging yourself around like everything's fine."
She pulls back just enough to look at me, eyes red and furious.
"Well now that I know what's going on, you're not doing this alone anymore." She reach for my hand and squeezes it gently. "I'm driving you to every single appointment from now on. No arguments. No more Ubers, no more pretending you're fine. You hear me?"
"You don't have to—"
"Shut up," she says, but gently. "I'm helping you whether you like it or not."
I nod weakly, tears slipping down my cheeks.
For the first time in weeks, the weight in my chest feels just a little lighter.
I glance at my watch. "I'm supposed to check in in fifteen minutes."
Willow straightens in her seat, suddenly all business despite her red-rimmed eyes. "Then we better not be late." She wipes her face with determination.
Willow walks me inside the hospital when it's time for my infusion. She sits beside me the entire three hours, refusing to leave even when the nurses assure her she can step out if she wants.
She doesn't. She stays right there.
After the treatment is done, she drives me back to my studio and helps me settle onto the pullout couch. She tucks the blanket around me like I'm made of glass and disappears for a while before returning with takeout from a little shop that makes healthy porridges and soups.
The smell alone turns my stomach.
I manage a few bites before the nausea hits.
The rest of the night is a blur of pain and sickness. Willow stays through all of it.
She holds my hair back when I throw up, presses a cool cloth against my forehead when the fever creeps in, and squeezes my hand when the cramps twist through my body like knives.
She tries not to cry. But I still see the tears sliding down her face when she thinks I'm too weak to notice.
And somehow, even through the misery of chemo, something inside me feels a little different tonight. I feel lighter. Like a small piece of the weight I've been carrying alone finally slipped off my shoulders.
For weeks I've been pretending everything is fine. Pretending I can handle this by myself.
But telling Willow changes something.
It feels... easier to breathe.
It's strange how I found it easier to tell Willow than my own family. Maybe because she wasn't there the last time.
When my family went through my relapse three years ago, I watched what it did to them. I watched my mom slowly fall apart under the stress, watched Zach try to play the strong older brother while quietly breaking when he thought no one was looking.
Cancer doesn't just hurt the person who has it.
It spreads through everyone who loves them.
And I couldn't bring myself to do that to them again. Not yet.
Willow is different.
She didn't live through that nightmare with me. She doesn't carry the scars of those hospital years the way my family does. Telling her doesn't feel like reopening old wounds.
It just feels like... sharing the burden.
And for now, that's enough. For now, having one person who knows the truth makes this whole thing feel a little less terrifying.
Maybe one day I'll find the courage to tell my mom and Zach.
Right now... Willow is enough.
*****
ELIJAH
It's official—I'm the newest simp in our group.
First, it was Zach when he was trying to get Caroline to forgive him. I even joined in when the team teased him about getting a new nickname. Golden Boy became Captain Simp overnight. I remember telling myself it would never happen to me, that I was immune to falling for women.
Guess I spoke too soon, because I'm not immune to one Samantha Westbrook, and I'm acting like Zach from two months ago. Actually, I might be worse.
Right now, as the team and I are watching video in the meeting room—supposedly studying the play-by-play of the team we're facing Friday—my eyes keep drifting to the phone in my hand. I've checked it every few minutes for the past hour, and like always, no response from Sam.
Not even the courtesy of a "read" notification.
I texted Sam earlier asking where she went after class when I couldn't find her. I could've sworn she was still in the room when I got there. I even showed up early and waited outside the studio like some lovesick idiot just to make sure I wouldn't miss her.
And yet somehow she still vanished.
I have a theory about that.
It involves her sneaking out the back door while her friend kept me busy with a conversation about absolutely nothing I cared about.
That little devil.
A groan escapes me before I realize it's loud enough for people to hear.
A few of my teammates glance over.
Thankfully Coach isn't here, or I'd be getting a lecture about "focus and discipline."
When the video session finally wraps up, my teammates shuffle out one by one, heading to the locker room to gear up for practice. Zach and I are the last to leave, and as we walk down the hallway, I can't hold it in any longer.
"Dude, you gotta do me a solid," I say, my voice echoing off the concrete walls. "Help me see Sam without her running in the opposite direction."
Cody, who's walking just ahead of us, turns around with a shit-eating grin. "Cap, it's fucking hilarious watching you act like this. Our fearless captain has officially gone soft."
"Shut up."
I smack the back of his head, but the jerk just laughs harder. Zach joins in, the traitor.
"What the hell are you laughing at?" I glare at my so-called best friend. "I distinctly remember you two months ago, serenading Caroline with—what was it again? Oh yeah, a fucking Taylor Swift song." I turn to Cody. "And didn't he basically announce to the entire crowd that he was still a virgin?"
Zach's face flushes red, but not from embarrassment. The smug bastard actually looks proud of himself.
"Well, it worked. I got the girl, didn't I?" He puffs out his chest like he's won the Stanley Cup.
"You could try that," Cody suggests, dodging my attempt to smack him again. "Maybe Sam would appreciate a public humiliation spectacle too."
I grimace immediately.
"Yeah, no. First, Sam doesn't even come to games anymore. Second, I'm not about to pull a Golden Boy copycat move." I jerk my thumb toward Zach. "Besides, my face isn't made of concrete like Zach's. I'd die of embarrassment halfway through the first chorus."
Zach shrugs one shoulder, adjusting his bag. "What can I say? Not everyone's blessed with my massive balls and winning personality."
"You misspelled 'delusional confidence' and 'borderline insanity,'" I fire back.
"At least my girl answers my texts," Zach says, ducking the water bottle I chuck at his head.
"Low blow, man." I shake my head. "You're supposed to be helping me, not reminding me of my pathetic situation."
Cody throws an arm around my shoulders, nearly knocking me off balance. "Remember when you said—and I quote—'No woman is worth losing your dignity over'?"
"I was young and stupid then."
"That was literally last month," Zach points out.
"Like I said. Young and stupid."
We reach the locker room, and I'm about to go change when Zach grabs my arm, "Actually, I might have a way for you to see Sam where she has no choice but to look at you," he says, his voice low like he's sharing classified information.
I straighten up immediately. "I'm listening."
"But it requires you to be completely still for a long period of time. No talking. Just... existing."
"That sounds suspicious as hell, but at this point, I'm desperate. What's the plan?"
Zach's mouth curves into a grin. "Sam's figure drawing class has a model coming in tomorrow. They pose for the students for about an hour."
"And?" I ask, not seeing how this helps me.
"You could ask Jacob who the model is. His mom teaches the class." Jacob Harlow is one of our sophomore D-man.
"So you're saying..."
"I'm saying you find out who the model is from Jacob. Maybe you convince the guy to let you take his place."
"You want me to be a model?" I'm skeptical, but intrigued. "What kind of poses are we talking about? Like, just standing or sitting there?"
"Yeah, pretty much. Nothing crazy. Just standard art class stuff."
Cody, who's still eavesdropping, bursts out laughing. "Holy shit, Cap's really got it bad. A few weeks ago, you couldn't get away from this girl fast enough. Now you're willing to stand around like a mannequin just to get her to look at you?"
"Shut up," I mutter.
"So?" Zach raises his eyebrows. "You in?"
"Yeah, I'm in."
"Great." Zach slaps my back hard enough to make me stumble forward. "Good luck, Captain Simp."
The next morning arrives with the kind of determination that usually precedes either a heroic victory or a spectacularly stupid mistake.
Unfortunately for me, it turns out to be the second one.
After nearly two hours of hunting down the guy scheduled to model for Sam's figure drawing class—a lanky accounting student who does part-time modeling and with cheekbones that could cut glass—I finally corner him outside the student center.
And by "corner," I mean I ambush him near the vending machines. It takes exactly thirty seconds of negotiation and one crisp hundred-dollar bill before he agrees to let me take his spot for the day.
Yes, I'm aware I probably paid him way more than his usual rate.
Yes, I also know this might be the dumbest plan I've ever come up with.
But desperate times call for desperate—and apparently financially irresponsible—measures.
With the deal sealed, I walk toward the art building feeling like a tactical genius, already picturing the look on her face when she sees me standing there.
The classroom is bigger than I expected, with easels arranged in a circle around a raised platform in the center. Natural light streams in through tall windows, catching dust motes floating in the air. There's a distinct smell of turpentine and oil paint.
It's early still; only a few students have arrived, setting up their supplies and chatting quietly.
A woman in her fifties approaches me, wire-rimmed glasses perched on her nose and a familiar smile that I've seen on Jacob's face countless times. Professor Harlow looks genuinely surprised.
"Elijah? Our model, Dale, said he couldn't make it today, and that Jacob had found me a replacement, but I didn't expect it to be you. I didn't even know you modeled."
I flash her an easy grin, shifting my hockey stick from one hand to the other.
"Well, you know," I chuckle, shifting the hockey stick resting on my shoulder. "It's a little side hobby of mine from time to time."
Her eyebrow arches higher.
"When Jacob mentioned you were in a bind and needed someone to fill in, I figured I could help out. You're not exactly a stranger to me, Professor. Least I could do."
"Well," she says slowly, "this is certainly the first time one of my son's teammates has volunteered to model for an art class."
I give a modest shrug.
"Always happy to support the arts."
Her gaze drops to the hockey stick in my hand. "Were you planning to pose with that?"
"Oh—right. I thought maybe I could incorporate it into the pose." I tap the stick against the floor. "You know, add some team captain flair to the session. Might make things more interesting for the class."
"Actually, I love that idea." she says, her eyes lighting up. "We don't often get dynamic subjects for figure drawing. An athletic touch could be very inspiring—especially for the kind of movement we're exploring today."
Perfect. Absolutely perfect.
She gestures toward the corner of the room where a folding partition stands. "The changing screen is over there. You can leave some of your things behind it. We'll begin in about ten minutes."
I nod and take a seat on a stool near the front of the room, watching as more students file in. My heart rate kicks up when I spot Sam entering with another girl. She's laughing at something her friend said, her head tilted back, exposing the elegant line of her throat. Her hair is pulled into a messy ponytail, a few strands escaping to frame her face. Paint-splattered overalls hang loosely from her shoulders over a soft pink long- sleeve shirt, the fabric bunching slightly at her wrists.
She looks beautiful in that effortless way that makes my heart do jumping jacks while wearing tiny clown shoes and honking a bicycle horn with each beat—which is to say, completely ridiculous and yet somehow unable to stop itself.
She doesn't notice me at first, too busy setting up her materials at an easel near the back of the room. I watch her movements, the careful way she arranges her charcoals and erasers. Finally, she glances toward the front of the room, probably checking to see who she'll be drawing today. Her jaw drops, her eyes bug out like a cartoon character who's just seen a ghost—or in this case, me.
I can't help the smug grin that spreads across my face. Gotcha.
She recovers quickly, snapping her mouth shut and narrowing her eyes at me.
Professor Harlow claps her hands together, drawing everyone's attention. "Alright, everyone. Let's get started. Today's theme, as you know, is sensuality in motion. We'll be exploring how the human form expresses desire and vitality through static poses that suggest movement."
I sit up a little straighter, feeling pretty good about myself.
Sensuality in motion? I can do that.
Hockey has made me pretty aware of my body. Maybe I'll flex a little, give Sam something to really look at.
"Our model will do three twenty-minute poses with five-minute breaks in between," Professor Harlow continues. She turns to me with a smile. "Elijah, whenever you're ready, you can disrobe and take your position on the platform."
My brain screeches to a halt. Disrobe? As in... take off my clothes?
"I'm sorry, what?"
"Is there a problem?" The Professor asks, her head tilting in confusion.
"You want me to... get naked?" I whisper-hiss, hoping the students can't hear.
"Well, yes. We're doing a nude figure drawing today. Didn't Jacob tell you?"
The room suddenly feels very hot.
I can feel sweat breaking out across my forehead as my eyes dart around, looking for an escape route. Nude. Fucking nude! Of course. This isn't just any figure drawing class; it's a nude figure drawing class.
And Zach—that absolute bastard—definitely knew about this and conveniently forgot to mention it to me yesterday. This is probably his petty revenge because he's still pissed that I broke his sister's heart. He set me up perfectly, and I walked right into it.
"I can give you a moment if you need it," Professor Harlow says kindly, mistaking my panic for first-time modeling jitters.
I'm already mentally halfway out the door, ready to bolt and pretend this never happened. I could leave right now. Make up some excuse. Fake an emergency call. Nobody would blame me.
Hell, most of the guys on the team would call me smart for getting out while I could. But then I look at Sam again.
She's watching me with the most fascinating expression I've ever seen on her face. Her initial shock has melted into something else entirely—a slow, gleeful grin spreading across her features. It's been twelve endless days since I've seen her smile like that.
And suddenly, I forget why I was trying to escape. Because that smile—that genuine, amused, slightly wicked smile—is directed at me. She's actually looking at me again, not through me or away from me.
"No, I'm good," I hear myself saying, standing up straighter. "Just need a minute to change."
I walk behind the partition, my heart hammering against my ribs like I'm about to step onto the ice for championship finals.
This is insane.
I'm about to get naked in front of an entire classroom. In front of Sam. I pull my t-shirt over my head, feeling the cool air against my bare chest.
Fuck it.
I strip down to my boxers, debating whether to go all the way. Full nudity feels like jumping straight into the deep end. Maybe I can start with just the boxers and see how it goes? Professor Harlow did say something about multiple poses.
Taking a deep breath, I step out from behind the screen in nothing but my black boxers. A murmur runs through the classroom, and I catch a few appreciative glances that would normally boost my ego. But I'm only looking at one person.
At my sweet Sam.
And when I catch the flush creeping up her cheeks, I realize every bad decision that led me here is suddenly worth it.
If embarrassing myself in front of ten strangers is the price for seeing her cheeks turn that perfect shade of pink again?
Yeah. I'll model nude every fucking day.