Chapter 52
SAM
Today, I start my second round of salvage chemo. Because apparently it was too much to ask for round one to do its job. Because apparently I didn't suffer enough the first time.
Lucky me.
I lie in the hospital bed, staring at the ceiling like it might offer me a different outcome if I look hard enough. It doesn't. Same ceiling. Same room. Same thin blanket tucked too neatly around me like I'm something fragile that might shatter if they're not careful.
Which—fair. I feel like I might.
My body hasn't even caught up from the first round. I still get tired just sitting up. Food tastes like nothing on a good day and like regret on a bad one. My muscles ache in that deep, bone-level way that makes it feel like something inside me is quietly giving up. And now we're doing it again.
Because of course we are. Because cancer apparently didn't get the memo the first time.
A knock sounds against the door, quick and polite, and then it opens before I can answer. Dr. Wilcott walks in with a nurse I vaguely recognize, both of them carrying that same calm, professional energy like this is just another Friday. Which, for them, I guess it is.
"Good morning, Sam," Dr. Wilcott says, offering a small, reassuring smile as she steps closer to the bed. "How are you feeling today?"
Wow, what a loaded question.
I could say: exhausted, nauseous, slightly offended that I'm back here again.
Instead, I go with, "I've been better. Much better. Like, remember when I used to have energy? Those were the days."
She nods like she expected that answer, like my bitterness is just another symptom to note on my chart. The nurse moves to my side, already slipping the blood pressure cuff around my arm.
"We're just going to check your vitals real quick," she says gently.
Of course you are. By all means, squeeze my arm until my fingers tingle. It's not like I have anything better to do.
I wanted to say but I just manage a simple nod.
The cuff tightens, squeezing my arm until my fingers tingle, and I watch it like it personally offended me. Dr. Wilcott flips through my chart, glancing up every few seconds.
"So today we'll be starting your second cycle," she says, voice steady, measured. "It'll be similar to the first—five days of chemotherapy, continuous infusion. We'll be monitoring you closely for any side effects, especially given how your body responded last time."
Responded. That's one way to put it. I resist the urge to snort.
"When you say 'responded,' do you mean the part where I couldn't keep water down for three days, or the part where I felt like someone was setting fire to my veins? Just so we're on the same page about what we're signing up for here."
Dr. Wilcott doesn't flinch. "All of that, Sam. We're hoping to manage those reactions better this time."
She continues, "You may experience increased fatigue, nausea, mouth sores—possibly more pronounced this cycle. Your counts will drop again, so we'll be watching for infection, bleeding, anything out of the ordinary."
I nod like she's telling me something new. She's not. This is the part where I'm supposed to listen carefully, ask questions, absorb all the information like this is my first time hearing it. I don't.
Beside me, Mom shifts slightly in her chair, her hand finding mine.
I glance at her. She's smiling. That same soft, steady, everything is going to be okay smile she's been wearing like armor since all of this started.
It almost works. Almost. Her fingers tighten around mine just a little, like she's holding on harder than she's letting herself show. I squeeze back.
Dr. Wilcott looks between us for a moment before continuing, "We'll also be repeating labs daily, and depending on how your counts respond, we'll plan for another bone marrow biopsy in about two to three weeks."
There it is. My favorite part. The bone marrow biopsy—that special kind of torture where they drill into your hip bone while you're still awake.
I force a nod.
"Do you have any questions before we begin?" she asks.
A hundred. None of them helpful. None of them with answers I actually want to hear. Will I even make it to next year? Will I ever feel normal again? Why me?
So I shake my head.
"No," I say. "Let's just... get it over with. The sooner we start, the sooner I can feel miserable, right?"
"Alright," she says gently. "We'll get everything started."
The nurse gives my arm one last pat before stepping away to prepare the IV. I sink back against the pillows, staring up at the ceiling again.
A few moments later, the medicine is hanging from my IV pole, a clear liquid that looks deceptively innocent, like water. But water doesn't burn. Water doesn't kill cells indiscriminately. Water doesn't make you want to die sometimes.
As it begins dripping into my veins, I feel the familiar coolness spreading up my arm. It's always cold at first, then comes the burning.
I close my eyes, trying to focus on anything else—the steady beep of the monitors, Mom's breathing beside me, the distant sounds of the hospital corridor. But it's hard to ignore the sensation of poison slowly working its way through my system, cell by cell, like a methodical execution.
I drift in and out of sleep, the exhaustion pulling me under despite the chemicals coursing through me. Each time I wake, the nausea is worse. It builds like a wave—first a ripple in my stomach, then a churn, then a violent roll that has me gasping.
The third time I wake up, the wave crashes. My body convulses before I can even call for help. Mom is already there, vomit bag in hand, holding it to my face as I heave. Nothing comes up at first—just bitter acid and saliva. I haven't eaten in almost twelve hours.
"That's it, honey," Mom says, her voice steady as she rubs my back. "You're doing so good."
I'm not doing good.
I'm falling apart.
Another heave tears through me, and this time something does come up—thin bile that burns my throat and makes my eyes water.
"I don't have anything left," I choke out between spasms. "There's nothing—" Another heave cuts me off. What else can I possibly vomit? My internal organs? My soul?
Tears stream down my face, not just from the physical strain but from the sheer exhaustion of it all. This has been going on for only an hour, and I have five more days of this. Five. More. Days.
When my stomach finally settles, Mom helps me lie back against the pillows. Cold sweat coats my forehead, and my entire body trembles with fatigue. It feels like someone has scooped out everything inside me with a rusty spoon and left me hollow.
"I can't," I whisper, my voice barely audible. "I can't do this anymore."
Mom's brows dip lower, her eyes softening with pain—not her own, but mine. She reaches out, gently brushing loose strands of hair from my damp forehead.
"You are the strongest person I've ever known, Samantha," she says, her voice gentle but firm. "You just need to power through this first dose. It gets easier after that, remember? Like last time."
I shake my head, more tears spilling over. "No. No, it doesn't. It never gets easier. I'm not strong. I'm so tired, Mom. I'm so fucking tired." My voice breaks on the last word.
Mom's eyes glisten with unshed tears.
"I know, baby," she says, her voice cracking. "I know you're tired. God, I wish I could do this for you. I would take all of this away in a heartbeat if I could. I would climb into that bed and let them pump me full of poison if it meant you wouldn't have to feel this way for even a second."
A sob escapes me. "Why can't you? Why can't someone else do this?"
"Because life isn't fair," she whispers, and a tear finally escapes, tracking down her cheek. "Because if I could trade places with you, I would. I would do it right now. But I can't. All I can do is be here with you. Through all of it."
She leans forward, pressing her lips to my forehead, and I feel her tears falling onto my skin, mixing with mine. "I can't take this from you," she murmurs against my skin. "But I promise you're not alone. Not for a single second."
I close my eyes, too exhausted to keep them open anymore.
Mom's thumb gently rubs circles on the back of my hand, a soothing rhythm that feels like the only good thing in the world right now. It's not enough to take away the pain or the nausea or the fear. But it's something to hold onto as I drift back into uneasy sleep.
When I wake up, it's not Mom I see in the chair next to my bed but Caroline. Her eyes are on her phone, thumbs tapping quickly, but she notices my movement immediately and looks up with a smile that's trying too hard to be normal.
"Where's Mom?" I ask, my voice a sandpaper scratch. I try to sit up, but my body feels like it's made of wet cement.
Caroline immediately springs to her feet, reaching behind me to rearrange the pillows. "Easy does it," she says, helping me lean back. "Your mom needed a break. I practically had to push her out the door to go get some actual food instead of that vending machine garbage. Told her I'd keep an eye on you."
I nod, grateful but also feeling that familiar twinge of guilt. Another person's life disrupted because of me.
"Thanks," I say, trying not to sound as hollow as I feel.
"How are you doing?" Caroline asks, settling back into the chair but leaning forward, elbows on her knees. The question sounds different from her than from the doctors. Like she actually wants the real answer.
"I'm trying to power through," I say, then add with a weak attempt at a smile, "But it's like powering through a brick wall with my face."
"That's a vivid image."
"I've had a lot of time to workshop my metaphors between vomiting sessions."
She doesn't laugh, but her eyes soften.
I notice her glancing toward a bag at her feet.
"Oh! I almost forgot," she says, reaching down. "I come bearing gifts. Well, not from me, technically." She pulls out a beautifully wrapped package with pink ribbons cascading from a perfect bow on top.
"This is a care package from Elijah. I think he finished it last night." She holds it out to me. "He wanted to give it to you himself, but they had to leave early for their away game today, so he asked me to bring it to you instead."
Before I even know what's inside, I'm already touched by the thought. By the fact that he knew today would be hard. By the fact that he wanted to be here. By the fact that even though he couldn't be, he made sure a part of him was.
"He did this?" I say, taking the package. It's heavier than it looks.
Caroline nods. "I crashed at your brother's dorm last night, so he gave it to me before they left. Made me promise I'd bring it today."
My fingers hover over the ribbon.
"Need some help?" Caroline asks gently.
I nod, and she helps me carefully untie the ribbon and peel back the wrapping paper. Inside is a box, and when I lift the lid, I laugh despite myself. Packets of watermelon sour patches are nestled on top—my favorite candy, the one thing I can sometimes still taste even when everything else tastes like metal.
Under the candy, there's a fancy lip balm, a small bottle of lavender hand lotion, and a sleep mask with tiny stars embroidered on it.
But as I move these items aside, a sharp gasp escapes me.
Beneath them is a large matte black book—not just any book, but what looks like a handmade scrapbook. On the front cover are two cut-out letters: a pale pink E with a green outline, and below it, a yellow S layered over a darker pink shape. A thin gold line loops between them. Pressed into the cover are dried lavender sprigs and tiny forget-me-not flowers.
My fingers hover over the letters, afraid to touch too hard in case it all falls apart. E for Elijah. S for Sam. So simple, but somehow beautifully perfect.
"Care," I breathe, "did you know about this?"
She shakes her head. "I had no idea what was in the box. He was very secretive about it."
With trembling fingers, I open to the first page. There's a photo of a box with its lid open, filled with folded papers, postcards, and envelopes. Beneath it, in Eli's surprisingly neat handwriting:
This is why I don't allow anybody to enter my room—especially you, because I know you'd snoop and find my most hidden secret right under my bed.
I flip to the next page, and the next, and find all the letters and postcards from the photo. My tears start falling when I realize what they are—all the letters I've given Eli over the years. The ones I thought he'd thrown away without reading. The ones I convinced myself meant nothing to him.
But he kept them. Every single one.
On the caption it says:
Surprise? Yeah... me too. I didn't get it at first—why I kept all of this. Why I couldn't throw any of it away. But I think I know now. You've had a place in my heart for a long time. Since the day we met, if I'm being honest. I just... buried it. I've denied it for so long that I convinced myself it didn't mean anything. It was easier than admitting I was already in too deep.
And yeah, I know—if there's an award for it, I'd win Mr. In Denial of the century. But hey, sweetheart, this is the undeniable proof that I've been yours a lot longer than I ever let myself admit.
Caroline sniffles beside me, and I realize she's tearing up too.
I flip the page and burst into laughter when I see what comes next—a collection of what can only be described as Eli's "thirst trap" photos. Him shirtless after practice. Him at the gym, flexing his biceps with a playful smirk. Him with nothing on but a white towel slung low on his hips, clinging just enough to hint at the sharp lines of his body.
Defined abs, every ridge and cut unapologetically there, and that sinful V disappearing beneath the fabric like it's daring you to look closer.
The caption reads:
So you don't have to ask your brother to send you daily thirst trap photos of me. If you need more, just give me a call. I've been told I look even better in person than in 2D. Scientific fact.
"Oh my God," I laugh through my tears.
The next page shows photos of me in Eli's jersey—front and back. Beside the image of the back, where DEVERAUX is spelled out in bold letters, an arrow points to the name with the caption: This will be MRS. DEVERAUX one day.
My heart stutters at that.
Page after page, I discover new treasures. Photos from our date in Duluth—me laughing while lying in the snow attempting to make snow angels, gazing up at falling snowflakes with wonder on my face, moments I didn't even know he'd captured.
I read his caption:
This was the moment when my heart nearly beat out of my chest. When I knew I was falling harder than I'd ever fallen before. Your smile that day was like seeing the sun after a lifetime of storm clouds.
I couldn't stop taking photos because I needed to make sure I'd never forget exactly how you looked—like joy had taken human form.
More pages show the fourteen lavender pots I'd sent back to him out of spite, now placed around the hockey house.
He's labeled it: My cure for S.A.M. Disease (Severely Aching Melancholy—a rare condition caused by the absence of one Sam Westbrook).
There are photos of the other gifts I returned, all arranged on his bed—including the giant teddy bear wearing his jersey.
The Deveraux Fan Club is still waiting for their president to return, the caption reads. The bear keeps trying to usurp your position, but I told him the role requires being much cuter and significantly better at kissing.
With each page I turn, I feel something inside me shifting.
For just these moments, I forget about the poisonous chemicals flowing through my veins. I forget about the statistics and probabilities.
I forget about everything except the fact that Eli loves me this much.
I reach the final page of the book, and it's blank except for a simple caption:
This is just Chapter One of our story. We have so many more pages to fill together.
One day at a time, one memory at a time.
I love you, Samantha Westbrook.
I immediately press my palms to my face as I can't stop the flood of tears and sobs that overtake me. The emotion is too big for my weakened body to contain.
It splits me in two.
One half of me is breaking—cracking wide open under the weight of it all. The fear that my body might not make it through this. That I might not be strong enough. That this—us—could end here. That these blank pages will stay blank.
That his story keeps going... and mine just—stops.
The other part is desperately, ferociously clinging to hope—to the future these blank pages promise.
I want that future with Eli so badly it physically hurts.
My fingernails dig half-moons into my palms. I press a hand to my chest, where something flutters wildly—like a trapped bird, its razor wings slicing at me from the inside.
I catch myself reaching for those blank pages, my fingers curling around nothing, clutching at air like I could hold onto those unwritten days.
I want a life with him.
Not just pieces of it. Not borrowed time. Not moments that feel like they're slipping through my fingers the second I get them.
A life. With him.
I want to build a family with him—to give him the kind of love he's always deserved. The kind that stays. The kind that doesn't break when things get hard. The kind that doesn't leave him picking up the pieces of something that was supposed to last.
I want to give him what he never had growing up—a family filled with nothing but love and happiness.
I want to be the one who gives that to him.
I want to be there for it.
I want to live for it.
God, I want it so badly it feels like I'm begging for it—like I'm bargaining with something bigger than me, something cruel and unforgiving, just to let me have this one thing.
Just this one.
Because the thought of being the one who leaves—of being the reason he has to stand there and watch everything we were supposed to have just... end.
It's unbearable.
I can't be another thing he loses.
I won't be.
Caroline is sniffling beside me, no longer trying to hide her own tears. The door opens, and I hear my mother's voice, sharp with concern.
"What's wrong? Are you hurting? Should I call the nurse?"
I drop my hands and look up through my tears to meet her worried eyes. A broken sob escapes me as I reach for her.
"I want to live, Mom," I plead, my voice cracking. "I need to live." The words feel torn from somewhere deep inside me, a desperate prayer to whoever might be listening. Not just a statement but a plea, a wish, a demand to the universe.
Mom rushes to my side and wraps her arms around me, holding me like she did when I was small and the world's hurts could be fixed with a hug and a kiss.
"Of course you're going to live," she whispers fiercely into my hair. "Of course you are, my brave, beautiful girl."
But even as she says it, I can hear the fear beneath her certainty. The same fear that lives in me. The fear that wanting to live—no matter how desperately—might not be enough.