Chapter 51
ELIJAH
Today, Sam's back in the hospital.
Just a few minutes ago, a nurse wheeled her away, down the hall and into a small procedure room where they're going to do another bone marrow biopsy. They need fresh results. Need to see how bad the relapse is now before they start her salvage chemo.
I tell myself it's routine. Necessary. That this is part of helping her.
But that doesn't do a damn thing to settle the way my chest has felt tight since last night.
Since I made the mistake of looking it up. I didn't want to go in blind. I thought if I understood it—if I knew what she was going to go through—I could... I don't know. Be prepared. Be better for her. Stronger.
Instead, all I did was scroll through forum after forum of people describing it like something out of a medieval torture chamber. Pain that makes your vision go white. Pressure like someone's driving a railroad spike into your hip. A deep, pulling kind of agony that starts in your bones and radiates outward until your whole body feels like it's being torn apart.
And now she's in there. And I'm out here in this empty hallway with its uncomfortable plastic chairs, feeling useless.
I pace the hallway like a caged animal, my sneakers squeaking faintly against the polished floor. Back and forth. Back and forth.
My hands keep flexing at my sides like they don't know what to do with themselves. Sometimes they curl into fists so tight my knuckles crack. Sometimes they just tremble, like they're trying to shake off the feeling that I should be doing something—anything—other than this.
Zach and his mom are sitting a few feet away. His mom has her hands clasped so tight her knuckles have gone white, her lips moving silently like she's praying. Zach's got his arm around her shoulders, holding her close, his jaw locked so hard I swear I can hear his teeth grinding from here.
He looks... composed. But I know him. I know that look. He's barely holding it together.
The hallway is too quiet. Too still. Time stretches and contracts—what feels like hours might be minutes, what feels like minutes might be seconds. My sense of it slips away from me entirely. The clock on the wall seems to be moving in slow motion, each tick stretching out forever, then suddenly jumping ahead when I'm not looking.
My throat feels raw though I haven't said a word.
My heartbeat is too loud in my ears.
I try to convince myself it's going fine. That maybe all the things I read were exaggerated. That maybe she's okay in there. That maybe it's not as bad as people made it sound. That maybe...
A sound slices through the door.
My thumbnail snaps between my teeth. The hallway narrows to a pinpoint, everything else gone except that sound—her sound—high and broken, like something feral caught in a trap. My vision blurs at the edges.
No. No, no, no—
The air vanishes from my lungs.
My heart hammers against my ribs like it's trying to escape. I know her laugh, her whisper, her sleepy morning voice—but this? This doesn't even sound human.
My fingers twitch, then my hands, then my arms. I lurch toward the door, palm outstretched, fingertips brushing the cold surface. Another cry filters through, and my body convulses as if the needle were piercing my own marrow. I bite down on my knuckle until I taste copper, blinking rapidly as the fluorescent lights above swim and waver.
Something hot and tight coils in my chest, wrapping around my lungs, squeezing until each breath comes in shallow gasps.
They're hurting her. My brain knows that's not true. Knows this is necessary. Knows this is how they help her. But none of that matters.
All I hear is her.
My body only knows that on the other side of this door, my girl is suffering, and I'm standing here, useless.
I should be in there. I should be holding her hand. I should be doing something. Instead, I'm out here, listening to her break apart on the other side of a door I can't open.
Another cry of excruciating pain comes from her. And something inside me just—snaps.
I drag a hand through my hair, my fingers gripping so tight at the roots it hurts, but it's nothing compared to this. Nothing.
I don't know how long it's been exactly, but it feels like she's been tortured for years. Every second stretches into eternity. Every breath I take feels stolen from her.
Across from me, her mom lets out a soft, broken sob, her body folding in on itself as Zach pulls her closer.
"It's okay," he murmurs, but his voice cracks halfway through. "It's okay, Mom—she's okay—"
He doesn't even believe it. I can see it. His eyes are glassy, his jaw trembling just enough to give him away. He's falling apart. We all are.
And I can't—I can't fucking stand this.
Another breath—ragged, useless. The walls feel like they're closing in. The air is too thin. Too heavy.
I can't stay here. I can't keep standing here listening to her in pain and doing absolutely nothing about it. My chest heaves as I take a step back. Then another.
"I need—" My voice comes out rough, barely there. I swallow hard, shaking my head. "I can't—"
Zach looks at me, and for a second, it's like we both understand the same thing without saying it. There's no judgment in his eyes. Just understanding. The silent acknowledgment that this—this is breaking us both in different ways.
I'm breaking.
I turn before I completely lose it in front of them. My steps are fast. Unsteady. I don't even know where I'm going—I just need to get away from that door, from that sound, from the feeling that my heart is being ripped out of my chest piece by piece.
Because if I stay— I don't think I'll survive hearing it again.
The hallway blurs around me as I walk faster, nearly running now, my breath coming in short, painful gasps. Each step takes me further from her, and it feels like betrayal. But staying felt like dying. And I promised her I'd be strong. I promised her I wouldn't break.
But God help me, I'm breaking anyway.
*****
SAM
The ceiling above my bed blurs in and out of focus as they wheel me back to my room. My hip throbs with a deep, radiating pain that makes me feel like my bones are still being pried apart. I try to breathe through it, counting each ceiling tile as it passes overhead, searching for something—anything—to distract myself from the lingering ache.
But all I can think about is how the nurse's face looked when she said it was over, that sympathetic smile that didn't quite reach her eyes, telling me I'd done well. As if lying still while they drove a needle into my bone was some kind of achievement.
When they finally settle me back into my room, I feel hollowed out. Drained. The sheets are too stiff, the pillow too flat, but I don't have the energy to adjust anything. My body feels both heavy and insubstantial at once, like I might sink through the mattress or float away if I close my eyes.
My gaze drifts around the room, searching for the one face I need to see right now.
Mom is here, hovering at the edge of my bed, her hands fluttering nervously like she's afraid to touch me. Zach stands by the window, his arms crossed tightly over his chest. But there's no Eli.
I try not to let my disappointment show, but something must give me away because Zach's expression shifts. He moves closer to the bed, offering me a small, sad smile.
"He went out for a bit," he says without me having to ask. His voice is gentle, almost apologetic. "He was... man, you should've seen him out there, angel. I think he was hurting more than you were." He runs a hand through his hair, a gesture so reminiscent of Eli that my chest aches.
"Try to understand why he had to leave, okay? It was killing him."
I nod, because of course I understand.
This is all new to Eli—the hospital, the tests, the sickness. He hasn't had years to get used to the rhythm of it like Zach and Mom have. He hasn't built up the calluses yet.
"It's okay," I whisper, my voice rougher than I expect. "I know it's not easy."
The truth is, part of me is relieved he didn't have to see me at my worst. Another part wishes he had stayed, selfish as that might be.
After an hour of rest that isn't really rest—just a different kind of consciousness where the pain ebbs and flows like tide—I tell Mom I need to stretch my legs. She protests, of course, but Zach backs me up, saying a short walk might help with the stiffness.
My brother knows I want to see Eli and I think I know where he'll be.
I find him in the hospital garden, slumped on a bench, shoulders curled in, head hanging. Even from across the lawn, I can see how taut he is—like a spring ready to snap.
He looks up as I walk over, and the pain in his eyes nearly stops me cold. He tries to force a smile, but it trembles and almost falls apart.
''Hey, sweetheart,'' he says, voice strained, like he’s trying to pretend everything's fine.
''Hey,'' The word feels inadequate for everything I want to say.
He jumps to his feet, coming toward me, hands awkward at his sides. ''Are you sure you're okay walking around? Shouldn't you be resting? You must still be sore from the test.'' He studies my face, looking for any hint of pain.
''I'm fine,'' I lie, because telling him that every step feels like my hip's on fire—would only hurt him more.
A silence stretches between us, filled with all the things we're not saying. Finally, he breaks it, his voice cracking.
"I'm sorry I left." The words come out in a rush.
"During the test. I know you must be thinking I'm completely undependable right now when I promised I'd stay by your side no matter what." He swallows hard, his Adam's apple bobbing. "It's just that, hearing you cry in pain like that... I felt like I was dying inside. Like someone was ripping my heart out, and I couldn't—I just couldn't stand there outside that room and listen to your screams and not be able to do anything. I couldn't—"
''Eli,'' I say, slipping my hand into his. ''You don't have to apologize. It's okay.''
He shakes his head, voice thick. ''No, it's not. I should've been stronger for you.''
I shake my head.
"It's okay." I tell him again. "Besides, it only hurt a little, just this much." I hold up my thumb and forefinger, pinched together with barely any space between them.
He lets out a shaky laugh. "Oh really? It didn't hurt much?"
"No." I shake my head again, more firmly this time, and lift my wrist where his bracelet still sits.
"Because I have a pretty powerful amulet that protects me from the pain. It makes everything bearable. And that's thanks to you." My fingers trace over the gold chain.
"So it's okay that you left, because I still had this with me the whole time. I still had a part of you." I try for a reassuring smile. "So don't worry, even when I have to go back for more biopsies."
His face tightens, his hands starting to tremble.
I notice what's missing—the cigarette that should be between his fingers in a moment like this.
"Do you need to smoke?"
"Yeah, I do."
"So, why aren't you?"
"I quit."
"Since when?" I can't hide my surprise.
"Since I found out you were sick." He meets my eyes, and there's something fierce in his gaze. "I'd tried before—because I know how much you hate the smell—but it was hell. Then this happened, and I went cold turkey. I can't allow myself to be around you when I'm still smoking. Not when it might compromise your health even more."
A lump catches in my throat. He gave it up just like that. For me.
"I wish I could do it for you..." he murmurs, smile trembling.
''Do what?''
"All of it—the biopsies, the treatments, the endless poking and prodding. I'd take every bit of pain, so you wouldn't have to. So you could just focus on getting better without having to endure all this shit first."
He takes a deep breath, reaching to tuck a strand of hair behind my ear, his touch so gentle it makes my heart ache.
"I know you're putting up a brave face in front of me to keep me from worrying. And I know I fell short today during your biopsy—I don't look like I'm strong enough to endure it. I get why you're trying to protect me." His eyes, earnest and pained, hold mine.
"But you don't have to do that," he murmurs. "Not with me. From now on, I'll be the strong one. I promise. I'll be whatever you need me to be."
His thumb brushes under my eye.
"But you don't have to pretend with me, sweetheart. You don't have to act like it's not as bad as it is."
He cradles my face in his hands, and his touch is so tender I could break from it.
"If it hurts, tell me it hurts," he says. "If it's awful, tell me it's awful. Don't water it down for me. I want all of it. Even the parts that suck. Especially those."
He leans his forehead lightly against mine.
"I'm not going anywhere," he whispers. "So let me be there for the real stuff too."
Something in me fractures at his words. My lips purse tight, trying to hold back the flood, but tears pool in my eyes anyway.
I shake my head slightly, more to myself than to him.
"I—" My voice falters, and I swallow hard, but it doesn't help. "I don't..."
A breath shudders out of me.
''There are days I wonder why I put myself through these tests and treatments,'' I whisper, the words catching on the way out. ''It hurts so much, and sometimes I think it might all be for nothing. There's no guarantee I'll get better. There's no promise at the end."
My voice breaks. I bite my lip, but it’s too late.
''So I can't help wondering…what's the point? Because I'm so tired, Eli…'' I let out a shaky breath as I say the most honest thing I've been too afraid to admit.
"Why do I need to keep doing this? Why do I have to keep fighting when it hurts this much... and I might lose anyway?"
I close my eyes at the hurt flashing across his face.
Damn it.
This is exactly why I didn't want anyone to see this part of me—how much this has worn me down... just how much this cancer has broken my spirit.
His thumbs are on my cheeks in an instant, wiping away my tears. His touch is so soft I nearly melt.
''Then…do it for me.''
There's something in his gaze—raw, earnest, almost pleading. His green eyes shine with unshed tears, and it steals the breath right out of me.
"Because I'm not ready to lose you," he says, his voice quiet but firm. "Not when we just got here. Not when we finally have this." His forehead presses against mine. "Do it for that future you painted in my head"
A shaky breath leaves me.
"The one with the dumb arguments, the late nights, the mornings we don't have to rush through... The one with the kids you said we'd have. The ones you'll be driving to their hockey practices..."
His lips twitch faintly.
"And during my home games, all three of you in the stands, screaming the loudest—wearing my jersey. Yours with Mrs. Deveraux on the back."
"I want that..." A broken sob escapes me.
"I want it too, sweetheart. Every single piece of it—with you." He presses his lips to my forehead, one hand cradling the back of my head.
"There might not be any guarantees, but since when does life give us any?" A faint, crooked smile tugs at his lips.
"And yeah, it might hurt like hell getting there, but you will get there. You just have to keep going," he murmurs. "One day at a time. One step at a time."
I nod slowly, tears streaming down my face.
"And I'll be right there with you for every single one."
He brings his forehead to mine again, our breaths mingling in the cool garden air.
"I promise you this," he whispers, "Every test, every treatment, every bad day—I'll be there. And on the days when you can't believe you'll get better, I'll believe enough for both of us. I'll hold onto hope so tight that nothing can take it away. Not even you."