Chapter 54
ELIJAH
Practice ran late today. Between that and the downpour on the drive over, traffic was a nightmare, and by the time I finally make it to the hospital, I'm an hour behind my usual time.
I stand outside Sam's room for a second, hoping she isn't sleeping. Which makes me kind of an asshole, right? She needs the rest. But man, I just want to see those eyes open, hear her voice, get one of those smiles that still makes my stomach do that weird flippy thing.
I ease the door open quietly, careful not to make a sound in case she's asleep.
She's been sleeping a lot lately—honestly, more than she's awake. And whenever she is up, I take whatever I can get. Talk to her. Sit with her. Hold her. Because it doesn't take much before she's tired again, drifting off like her body just gives out on her without warning.
Most days, I come during visiting hours and she's already out, and I end up just sitting there, watching her breathe.
She finished her last round of poison cocktails last week. The doctors call it "recovery period" now, which is bullshit because she looks worse now than she did during treatment. I don't know if it's working.
The doctors never give straight answers, just a bunch of medical jargon and percentages that don't tell me what I need to know: "yes, she's getting better" or "no, she's not."
God, I really hope it works, because I don't know if Sam has any strength left to go through another round of chemo. Her health's been declining so fast. And the parade of visitors isn't helping.
Everyone's got that look, you know? That please-don't-make-me-say- it look. Like they're all thinking the same thing. That Sam is d—fuck. Can't even think it. Makes my stomach drop like I'm in free fall.
She's not dying. She's just sick. Really sick.
But I've seen the YouTube videos of cancer patients who beat the odds. People who were way worse off than Sam. So yeah, I'm keeping the faith.
I'm so deep in my head I almost miss that Sam's awake, hunched over her sketchbook on the overbed table. She looks up, and damn. Even with her skin all pale and those dark smudges under her eyes, when she smiles at me, it's like I've been hit by a lightning bolt.
"Eli!" The way she says my name still gives me butterflies.
"Miss me, sweetheart?" I drop my bag and feel my face doing that goofy grin thing it always does around her.
"Always," she says with an eye roll, but I know she means it.
I kiss the top of her head and squeeze onto the bed next to her, careful not to mess with any of her tubes.
"Where's your mom?" I ask, glancing around.
"She walked Willow out—she came by earlier to visit..." Sam says. "Then she went to find Dr. Wilcott, so she'll be gone for a bit."
"How was practice?" she asks, tilting her head slightly toward me. Her fingers fiddle with the edge of her sketchbook.
"Fucking brutal." I let out a tired groan, dragging a hand down my face. Coach Hopper is on some power trip because playoffs are coming up. Made us do suicide drills until one of the guys almost puked in his helmet. Then he had the nerve to say we were all moving like we had cinderblocks strapped to our skates." I mime our coach's stern face and deep voice. "'Gentlemen, my dead grandmother could outskate you, and she's been cremated for fifteen years!'"
Sam chuckles, the sound like music to my ear. "Sounds like he's in rare form."
"Yeah, well, wait till you see us crush our game next week," I say, nudging her gently with my elbow. "How about you? What have you been up to?"
My eyes drift down to the sketchbook on the overbed table.
She shrugs, but it's weaker than it should be, like even that takes effort.
"Trying to draw something," she says, glancing down at the page. "But..."
She sets the pencil down and lifts her hand, slowly clenching and unclenching her fingers like she's testing them.
"They're not really cooperating today."
My gaze drops to her hand.
"Numb again?"
"Yeah. And tingly. It's annoying."
There's a hint of frustration in her voice, but she tries to brush it off with a small smile.
She's been trying to exercise her hands by sketching, hoping to maintain her fine motor control and keep things from getting worse. In her mind, it's so when she's allowed to go back to school, she won't have any problems with her skills.
"What were you trying to draw?" I ask, leaning in to get a better look at her sketchbook.
It's a rough headshot—lines still loose, uneven, like her hand couldn't quite keep up with what she wanted to put down.
"Who's this supposed to be?"
She drags her lower lip between her teeth. "You..."
I look back down at the page, picking up the sketchbook and bringing it closer to my face. I squint, tilting it slightly like that's somehow going to help.
"...So, uh... this is me?"
"Yeah, I know it sucks—" she starts, reaching for it, but I lift it out of her reach before she can grab it. Her arm drops back to the blanket after barely rising.
She sinks back against the starched white pillows with an exaggerated sigh, her dark lashes casting tiny shadows on her too-pale cheeks.
"You're such a jerk."
I chuckle, lowering the book to actually look at it. "It doesn't suck. I mean, now that I really examine it, I can totally see the resemblance." I point to a particularly messy line. "You've perfectly captured my rugged jawline. And these two dots? Definitely my soulful, dreamy eyes that you can't resist."
The sketch is rough and uneven, clearly drawn by a shaky hand, but there's something in it—in the way she's captured the slight tilt of my head, the curve of my smile—that makes my heart swell. It's me, seen through her eyes, and that makes it perfect.
I flip through the pages, and my breath catches. Every page is filled with sketches of me—me laughing, me concentrating, me sleeping. Some are from years ago, judging by the haircut she's drawn. Others are more recent. I count twenty-eight before I have to stop, because if I don't, I might do something embarrassing like cry.
Tears prick at the corners of my eyes, but I blink them back. Instead, I give her a teasing look, wiggling my eyebrows suggestively. "Damn, sweetheart, I knew you had a thing for me, but this book is hard evidence of your obsession. Should I be concerned? Do I need a restraining order?"
She rolls her eyes again, but there's a blush creeping up her neck. "Please, it's way too late for that.
We both laugh at that because she's right—there's no getting rid of her now. Not when I'm already this far gone for her.
Sam and I are snuggled up in her hospital bed, watching another one of her cheesy romantic films. Her laptop is propped on the overbed table, and I've got her tucked against me, my arm draped around her shoulders. Her head rests on my chest like it's her favorite place in the world—which, coincidentally, is exactly where I want her to be.
Right here, close to my heart, where she can hear it beating for her—wild and steady and completely hers.
We're alone in her room now. Her mom went back to the Archers' beach house two hours ago after I convinced her I could stay with Sam tonight. That gives me ten uninterrupted hours with my girlfriend—not completely uninterrupted, since nurses come and go, but still... ours.
I plan to make every second count. Time feels borrowed these days, and I'm greedy with it.
"Do you still think this is cringe?" Sam asks, gesturing at the screen where the main characters are running toward each other in the rain.
I chuckle, my chest vibrating against her cheek. "Oh yeah, peak cringe. Who the hell runs in the rain? You get soaked, you can't see shit, and you probably slip and break your ass."
She laughs softly, the sound rumbling between us. "Then why aren't you complaining anymore? You used to groan every time I made you watch these."
I press my lips to the top of her head, breathing in what's left of her scent beneath the hospital smell. "I've learned to tolerate the cheesiness of these cliché movies because of you. Plus," I add, tightening my arm around her, "when I get to cuddle with you like this, I can pretty much tolerate anything. Even fictional characters who think pneumonia is a fair trade for a dramatic kiss."
She laughs softly.
When the first movie ends, the credits rolling over a montage of the couple's happy life together, I shift slightly. "Want to sleep?"
"Not yet." She shakes her head, hair tickling my neck. "Let's watch 'One Day'—the one with Anne Hathaway and Jim Sturgess."
I sit up straighter, careful not to jostle her too much, and search for the movie. A few minutes later, I hit play, settling back into our nest of hospital blankets and pillows.
"Can you grab my hairbrush from the nightstand?" Sam asks suddenly. "It's on your side. I want to braid my hair because I'm afraid I'll fall asleep and suffocate you with it." She says jokingly.
I reach for the brush on the nightstand. "I can do it for you."
"Do you even know how to braid hair?"
I huff indignantly. "How hard can it be? It's like... hockey laces but softer. You cross the left strand over the middle, then the right strand over the middle. Repeat until you reach the end, then secure with a hair tie. Boom. Braid."
Sam laughs, the sound filling the sterile room with life. "Alright then, show me your skills, Deveraux."
She repositions herself in front of me, and I prop myself behind her. As the movie plays, I start brushing her hair gently. The familiar sweet lavender scent fills my nostrils—my favorite scent in the world.
"God, Jim Sturgess is so handsome in this movie," Sam sighs, watching the screen. "Those eyes, that accent... it's so hot!"
I roll my eyes even though she can't see me. "Please. I'm way hotter. And cooler."
She lets out a dreamy sigh. "Mm, I don't know... that accent alone might beat you."
I scoff, brushing another stroke through her hair. "Oh yeah? Does Jim Sturgess sit here and take care of you like this every night? Pose for your nude figure drawing class just to get your attention?"
I smirk. "Didn't think so."
She laughs again. "Fine, you win. You're much better and way hotter. Happy?"
"Ecstatic."
I'm just about to put the brush down to start braiding her hair when I notice the clumps—actual clumps—of hair tangled up in the bristles.
My hand freezes midair.
The brush hangs heavy, a grotesque bouquet of Sam's lost hair, sandy blonde and fine and shorn from her scalp like it was nothing. For a second, I think there's something wrong with my eyes or the light in the room. I blink, squint, even shake the brush a little in disbelief, as if I can convince myself I'm seeing something else.
But no, it's hers, and it's everywhere.
My gut buckles inward, the way you feel after a punch you didn't see coming, and there's this cold rush up my spine, like all the blood has left my body. I try to swallow, but my mouth is dry and sticky, my tongue thick as rope. Tears prick at the edges of my eyes, and I bite down so hard on my lower lip that I taste copper, a bright metallic snap that anchors me for half a second.
Sam's sitting in front of me, swooning about the actor again, her voice light and weirdly normal, like she hasn't noticed anything wrong. Like I haven't just seen the evidence of her dying manifest itself in a way I can't unsee.
I want to tell her. I want to say, Hey, look, your hair. As if maybe if we talk about it, name it, it'll be less real. But my throat closes up around the words and all that comes out is a sharp jagged inhale that shakes the whole bed.
I try to hold the sob in, but it leaks out anyway—a stuttering, pathetic sound.
Sam turns, eyebrows knit, and I see the moment she realizes. She reaches up, her hand trembling, rakes her fingers through her hair, and comes back with a fistful of it.
I think of all the times I ran my own hands through her hair, the way she used to whip it back and forth like she was in a shampoo commercial, the way it used to fall in her face when she laughed or bent over a book.
I want to scream.
I want to throw the brush against the wall. I want to take the cancer out of her body and into mine, even if it means I'm the one who looks in the mirror and sees myself disappear.
Panic surges through my chest, wild and red and liquid—it makes me want to claw at my skin, at the walls, at the universe for letting this happen. I know, logically, that cancer patients lose their hair when they go through chemo. I know it's just part of the process. But in this moment, it feels like every strand is something more, something deeper being stolen from her.
Each hair is a memory, a possibility, a piece of the person she used to be, disappearing into the garbage or swirling down the drain.
The disease isn't just attacking her body; it's erasing her from the outside in, eroding the things that made her Sam and not just another patient in a hospital gown.
I try to breathe. I focus on the rise and fall of her shoulders, the pink curve of her ear, the way she bites her thumb when she's nervous. But my brain keeps tripping over itself, playing out all the ways this ends, none of them good, all of them terrible.
I want her to be okay, more than I want anything in the world, but right now, with the brush in my hand and the hair on my lap, all I feel is terror. It's like the room is shrinking, the oxygen sucked out, and for a moment I worry I might pass out right here, in front of her, because I can't even do this one thing, I can't even keep it together for her.
Sam looks at me then, her eyes big and wet and impossibly brave, and she gives me this crooked smile, like she's already forgiven me for not being strong enough. I clutch the brush to my chest and try to get my breathing under control, but every time I look at her—at the hair thinning at her temples, at the small patches of scalp showing through—I feel like the world is ending in slow motion.
I want to be the person who isn't afraid, who can make jokes about it or shrug it off, but I'm not, I'm not, I'm just this scared kid who loves her so much it hurts to see her like this.
She touches my hand, fingers cool and dry, and says, "Hey, it's okay."
And I want to believe her, I want to believe that she's the one comforting me, that she's not terrified too, but I know better. I know every morning she wakes up and wonders what she'll lose next.
I press my lips together and nod, unable to speak, and for a long time we just sit there, the two of us, surrounded by the silent evidence of what we're up against. Finally, when I can trust myself to say something, I clear my throat and reach for her hand.
"Do you want me to keep going?" I ask, my voice raw and soft, barely more than a whisper.
She rolls her lips together and tries to give me a reassuring smile, but it's wobbly at best. "What do you think if I shave my head?" she asks, attempting to joke. "I mean, I have such thick hair and shaving it would do me good. It's kinda tiring pulling out chunks every day, you know? Like free waxing, except it's my scalp."
I can hear the crack in her voice, and that only breaks my soul more. I immediately wrap my arms around her shoulders from behind, unable to say anything as fresh tears blur my vision. I'm still trying to keep them at bay, but it's a losing battle.
"Will you still love me with a bald head?" she asks, still trying to joke. "I mean, it might be embarrassing having a girlfriend who looks like a bowling ball. People might think you're dating your uncle Phil."
My arms tighten around her, and I shake my head. "You'll look badass with no hair. Like a warrior. Like Furiosa from Mad Max." I press my lips to the side of her head. "You're so beautiful that any hairstyle suits you. Or no hairstyle."
She chuckles softly. "You and your flowery words, Mr. Deveraux."
She lowers her head and shifts to look at me directly. This time I see the tears glistening in her beautiful stormy eyes. "Can you do me a favor and..." She swallows hard as though her next words are difficult for her to say, because they are. "Will you shave my head?"
"Are you sure that's what you want?" I ask, studying her face.
She flashes me an encouraging smile and nods. "I asked Willow to buy me hair clippers earlier," she says, pointing at the drawer in the nightstand. "Mom put them there."
I quickly press a gentle kiss on her forehead as I get off the bed and grab the clippers from inside the drawer. A few minutes later, we're standing in front of the bathroom mirror, the clippers heavy in my hand.
We stare at our reflection, my eyes fixed on hers, waiting for her to give me the signal to start. The light makes her skin look paper-thin, like I could see right through to her breaking heart if I tried hard enough. A tear escapes her eye despite the determined look on her face.
This is tearing me to shreds.
She wipes away the fallen tear, takes a deep breath, and says, "Let's do it."
The buzz of the clippers sounds like a scream in the small bathroom. The first lock falls—golden-brown, still shining— and hits the tile with a sound that echoes in my chest. I watch her watching it fall, her eyes following each piece of herself dropping away. Her shoulders shake with silent sobs that she's trying to swallow, and I feel my throat closing up, choking on words I can't say.
When it's done, when she's bare and beautiful and devastatingly vulnerable, I lift the clippers to my own head without thinking. Because how can I let her face this alone? How can I keep something she's lost?
Sam's mouth drops open in shock as she realizes what I'm doing.
"Eli! No!" she cries, fresh tears spilling down her cheeks.
"What?" I say, pausing with the clippers hovering above my head. "I figure we can start a trend. The Deveraux-Westbrook signature look. Besides, Coach has been saying my hair is too long anyway—says it's affecting my aerodynamics."
"But... you love your hair," she protests, reaching for the clippers.
I huff and pull the clippers out of her reach. "It'll grow back," I say, and then my voice softens. "And I love you more."
I press the clippers to my head, and the first lock of hair falls, joining hers on the floor.
"Besides," I add, forcing a small smile, "when you're done kicking chemo's ass, we'll grow it back together. How sweet is that? We'll take monthly progress pictures for our scrapbook."
She's still crying, but there's a small, shaky smile breaking through now as she watches my hair fall beside hers.
"You're an idiot," she says—but it sounds like I love you.
"Your idiot," I reply.
And it sounds like always.