Eight
Lily
“Damnit,” I grunt when I drop the rolling pin to the floor.
I’ve been weaker than normal since the treatment, and I barely have enough strength to hold anything more than five pounds. Last night, a glass of water slipped through my fingers. The doctor explained the side effects and what to expect, but I didn’t think anything would happen this quickly.
The kitchen door opens, and Lacey, one of my employees, comes rushing in. “Are you okay?” She looks around frantically, and I have to smother a laugh.
“Yeah, sorry. I dropped the pin,” I say, grabbing for it and taking it over to the sink.
“Oh, okay.” She sighs in relief.
The bell above the door rings, and she walks out to help the customer.
While she handles the front, I go back to rolling my dough.
Even before starting chemo, I use a stool to sit while I work.
Thankfully, my excuse seems to be accepted when I tell my staff that getting older makes my feet ache more.
But in reality, the chemo is kicking my ass.
The kitchen door opens. I turn, expecting to see Lacey.
“Hey,” I say cautiously to Ethan.
“Hey,” he says with a casual grin as he strides further into the room, his dark navy slacks hugging him just right. Navy blue has always been his color; it brings out the vibrant sparkle in his blue eyes.
“I brought you something,” he announces. He hands over an iced latte, my favorite drink from the coffee shop down the road, and a plastic bag. “One iced latte and something to help brighten your day after being sick.”
I take the drink and the bag, feeling a rush of gratitude. “Thank you, Ethan,” I say.
His face softens.
I set the drink down since I can’t stomach it at the moment, and glance inside the bag. It contains a box of vapor-release tablets for the shower, a bag of cherry cough drops, a box of Kleenex, and a lavender-scented lip balm.
A bittersweet smile crosses my lips, tugging at a memory of how he used to care for me. I rub my sternum slightly, trying to ease the familiar ache that surfaces.
“I figured you could use a little restock,” he says with a smirk.
I chuckle lightly. He knows me well. I somehow run out of these essentials faster than I do toilet paper when I’m sick. But I can’t bring myself to tell him the truth. Not yet.
“Thank you, Ethan. This is incredibly thoughtful,” I say.
He nods, slipping his hands into his pockets. “You’re welcome.”
An uncomfortable silence envelops us, like a thick fog. Our gazes lock, and for reasons I can’t quite understand, we hold that connection.
He clears his throat as if he realizes just how long he’s been staring. “I’m sorry for dropping by unannounced, but I happened to be in the neighborhood—” He hesitates, shaking his head. “That’s not entirely true,” he admits with a light chuckle. “To be honest, I wanted to check on you.”
I blink, shocked at his confession.
“I don’t know who’s taking care of you now, Lily,” he says under his breath, as if he doesn’t want to tell me. “But I—”
“I am,” I cut in. “But I appreciate you checking in on me.” I try to convey warmth through my smile, and he mirrors it back.
“I keep forgetting how stubborn you are,” he adds.
The sound of our laughter dances in the air.
Everything feels right again. Being in the same room with him after all these years brings a sense of safety I didn’t know I’d missed so much.
“How were the last few days without the kids?” he asks.
“Fine,” I reply.
He slowly bobs his head, but his eyes narrow just a fraction. They are searching for something, a tell, a clue. I know that look. I can practically hear the gears grinding in his head.
“So, did you... go anywhere special?” His gaze dips to my lips, then back up, lingering. “Or with someone?” he asks. The words are a little too careful, a little too slow.
His ocean blue eyes are boring into me. And in that intense gaze, I see it ...the suspicion, the flicker of jealousy, and the pain.
I want to laugh. If he only knew the real reason.
He thought I was on a romantic getaway, living it up with a new man?
Wouldn’t he love to know the truth, that I spent the days with a needle plunged into my arm, a toxic cocktail of chemicals seeping into my veins.
Not to mention clutching a porcelain bowl afterward.
I hold his gaze, letting the silence stretch so he can stew in his ridiculous assumptions.
“I’m not seeing anyone, if that’s what you’re asking.”
The tension that had been a rigid knot in his shoulders softens.
“Not that it’s any of your business if I was,” I add, unable to resist a smirk.
The corners of his lips, those lips I know so well, twitch upwards.
And there it is.
The dimple beside his mouth, the endearing indentation that seems to appear when he is amused or a little bit flustered.
My heart gives a traitorous little thump against my ribs.
The sound of his phone going off shatters our moment.
“Sorry,” he mumbles, retrieving his phone. “Hello, Hannah.”
I turn back to my dough.
An uneasy feeling slithers down my spine, sending a shiver through me. My stomach twists into a knot, tightening as anxiety coils within.
Who’s Hannah? His new girlfriend?
“I’m on my way.” He hangs up. I can feel the heat of his gaze piercing through me. “I’m sorry, but I have to go.”
“Okay, thank you for stopping by and for the gift.” I start kneading the dough in the bowl, adding flour so it doesn’t stick to my hands.
The steady push and fold gives me something to focus on, rather than letting him see the hurt gathering in my eyes. Even after four years, the thought of him with another woman still finds the tenderest place in my heart and breaks it all over again.
“Lily.”
“Yes?” I ask, still not looking at him.
“Please look at me.”
I take a steady breath before facing him. “Hannah is a colleague,” he explains.
I blink, still processing. “Okay.” I want to ask him why he feels he needs to clarify, but those words remain lodged in my throat.
He studies me a moment longer before giving a curt nod and stepping back, creating an invisible distance between us that leaves a gaping hole in my chest.
A notification on my phone lets me know that my Uber driver is here.
I walk through the clinic’s sliding doors, and each step feels heavy and sluggish, as if I am trudging through thick mud. I spot the four-door hunter-green Honda Accord in the pickup lane.
A young girl, not much older than a first-year college student, sits behind the wheel.
She flashes me a friendly smile as I settle into the back seat.
I rest my head against the cool glass of the window, surrendering to the weight of exhaustion that starts to tug at my eyelids.
I must’ve fallen asleep because before I knew it, we pulled up to my house.
“Thank you,” I tell her, and slowly climb out of the car.
She waves and drives away. The front door swings open, and Sam rushes down the front steps.
“Damn it, Lily!” she hisses. “I told you I was coming to get you. Why didn’t you wait for me?”
She wraps her arms around my waist and guides me inside the house.
“Because you have to go to school, Sam. I didn’t want you to miss any more classes.”
She huffs in frustration. “That’s my call to make, not yours.”
I don’t respond, knowing better than to argue when Sam is in full protective-younger-sister mode. It would be a battle I would lose.
“Where are the kids?” I ask instead, glancing around the room.
“Mom and Dad took them out to eat,” Sam reassures me.
I nod, grateful. This is going to be a long night.
Sam helps me shower and puts me to bed. I don’t remember her leaving, but when I wake up, it is dark outside.
A wave of nausea hits me like a tsunami.
Every muscle screams in protest as I try to pull the suffocating covers off me, but they’re too heavy.
My head throbs, a dull, relentless drumbeat in my temples.
Trying to hold in the vomit that is ready to escape, I look down to see a trash can and thank the stars that my sister prepared for this moment.
Without thinking, I throw up, but the force is so strong that it makes me topple to the ground on my back, my body tangled in the sheets.
I can’t seem to move as more nausea takes hold.
Tears spill down my cheeks, not just from the pain, but from a deep-seated fear I’m going to choke on my own vomit.
My bedroom door flies inward, slamming against the wall.
“Mom! What’s wrong?” Jake asks, his voice tight with fear.
One moment, I’m covered in my vomit with my teenage son, and the next, Sam’s leaning beside me.
“Oh, Lily!” she cries out, and with surprising strength, she helps me roll onto my side, untangling my limbs from the twisted sheets. “Jake, buddy, please turn the shower on. I need to get your mom in there.”
My boy doesn’t ask questions. He rushes to the bathroom, and seconds later, I hear the shower running.
“I’m so-sorry,” I manage to croak. Embarrassed that my younger sister has to witness me in this state, let alone clean me up, the humiliation burns almost as much as my throat. I hate feeling this weak, this helpless.
“Stop it,” Sam chokes out, the sadness in her voice breaks me, making fresh tears well up in my eyes.
“Is she okay?” Jake’s voice floats in from the bathroom, small and worried.
“Yeah, bud,” Sam lies. “She’s just got a nasty flu. Go back to bed, Jake. I got this.”
He obeys without question, and the door quietly shuts behind him.
Sam unbuttons my pajamas, peeling the vomit-stained fabric away from my skin.
She tosses them aside, then carefully lifts me, guiding my body into the steaming shower.
The warm water pelts my skin, and my head lolls against her shoulder.
She washes me from head to toe, stifling sniffles.
My eyelids are droopy, and I can barely keep them open.
“I hate this for you, Lily,” she whispers brokenly.
Comforting words are on the tip of my tongue, but I have no energy, no strength to open my mouth and speak. I hate that instead of hanging out with her friends, instead of living her carefree college life, she’s here, taking care of me.
Maybe it’s time I stop being so stubborn and tell my parents. And Ethan.
After I’m bathed, feeling cleaner but no less drained, I use whatever strength I have left and push myself up. Sam wraps a thick towel around me, but the sudden movement, combined with the lingering smell of vomit in the air, makes my stomach lurch again.
“I’m going to be sick,” I warn Sam. She doesn’t hesitate, lowering me gently to the cold bathroom floor, positioning me over the toilet.
“I need to clean the bedroom quickly and throw your clothes in the wash,” she says, already moving.
I shake my head, a small, weak motion that sends a throbbing pain through my temples. “Throw it out,” I whisper.
“Really?”
I nod once, my gaze fixed on the porcelain bowl.
When she steps out of the bathroom, the tiled floor feels cold against my bare skin, but I welcome it. It numbs the pain that vibrates through my bones.
I hear shuffling sounds from the bedroom, the rustle of sheets being stripped from the bed. After a few minutes, Sam walks back into the bathroom right as my stomach finally settles.
“Come on, sis,” Sam says, her hand on my shoulder. “Let’s get you into bed.”
It takes a minute, but I finally find a sliver of strength and pull myself off the floor. She leads me into the bedroom, which now smells like Lysol. She pulls back the covers, and I slip under the crisp, cool sheets. The exhaustion wins, and I pass out the moment my head hits the pillow.