Chapter 14
RILEY
SEPTEMBER
I'm a fucking mess.
I don't sleep for shit anymore. Why? Because I'm thinking about her.
Missing her.
Remembering the few, short, incredible hours I had with her—two and a half days that changed my life. Changed me.
I'm not suddenly some pious, Bible-quoting, church-going goody-goody, but I find myself trying to be…better. Kinder. More generous. I try to spend more time reading and learning shit than scrolling and drinking.
I wrote a letter to Ellen Johnson forgiving myself; I wrote it and burned it in the backyard. Perhaps not so weirdly, I've felt lighter ever since.
Cadence warned me she would not be able to communicate with me regularly, and more than likely not at all or very rarely, and that's been the case.
I got one letter from her back in August—the paper had bloodstains on it, and it was more of a note than a letter—I miss you, I'm thinking about you, I'm fine.
Better than nothing.
I track the news out of Sudan religiously, even though I don't even know exactly where she's located. Some hospital that is supposedly nowhere near any of the heavy fighting. She wasn’t happy about that initially, when the company she hired insisted, for safety reasons, she not be near the hotspots.
But it was either accept that placement or not go, so she went.
It's hard not to worry when I hear about a new battle or reports of some heinous new atrocities. Knowing she's there, on the ground, in the country where that awful shit is happening. She's seeing it all firsthand.
It was abstract, discussing it when we met: Oh yeah, you're going to Sudan. You're a doctor.
It's another thing helping her prepare.
I took a week off work, borrowed Bear from Fee to be in charge, and helped Cadence get ready to leave.
I saw the crates of supplies, helped her take inventory.
Helped her pack the crates, address them, and ship them off.
I saw her bedroom—diplomas, awards, certifications.
Books—so many books. No band or movie posters adorned her childhood bedroom walls—instead, she had the periodic table, a line graph of the history of the world that wrapped around three full walls—handmade by her, apparently.
That weird diagram of a man by Leonardo da Vinci.
Diagrams of the human body—nervous, skeletal, muscular, organs, et cetera.
I helped her pack her suitcase.
I drove her to the airport.
I kissed her goodbye.
That made it pretty fucking real.
We didn't do anything else, physically. She was fixated on preparations, and there just wasn’t time—she was gone within a week of Felix's call, and we were running from dawn to midnight every day in between. We did sleep in each other's arms, though.
And that’s another reason I'm not sleeping for shit—I spent a week in heaven, going to sleep every night with Cadence's soft, naked, warm body in my arms. Yeah, she always sleeps naked; it’s fucking glorious.
I saw my future in that week with her, and I fucking want it.
I want her.
I want life with her.
The days seem to go by fast, but the weeks slowly.
OCTOBER
The more time that passes without her, the more unhinged I feel at her absence.
Which is ridiculous, I know. We spent less than seventy-two hours together, yet I feel like I know her better than anyone except maybe Fee, Cole, and Nyx.
There's a distinct “before” and “after” in my life: before Cadence, and after.
I dream about her.
In some of them, she's just looking at me with those deep green eyes full of love and affection and tenderness, and her hair is all in her eyes, and she's smiling at me like I'm the only person in the world.
The rest? I wake up hard as a rock just about every night, having dreamed about Cadence doing all sorts of wicked and delicious things with me, some which we did and some which we haven't…yet.
I'll tell you one thing—my right hand is getting a lot more action than it has since I was a teenager. Even that is tricky, though—I'm conflicted about thinking about her in that context. Using her like that.
She's…fuck, special is absolutely the wrong fucking word.
Precious.
Not just some cheap hookup.
Not jerk-off fodder for my horny-as-fuck brain.
Eventually, by the end of October, I swear off masturbation entirely because it's just not worth the release; it never does anything to reduce my tension anyway.
Which means that my newfound goodness is tested frequently, since a sexually frustrated Riley can be a real dick.
NOVEMBER 1st
My phone rings at three in the morning, jarring me out of a wildly erotic dream in which Cadence was repeating her truly earth-shattering oral performance.
I peer at the screen, but the ID just shows a bizarrely long string of numbers. I debate killing the call, but answer on a whim. “H’lo?"
"Riley? It is me—Cadence. Cadie."
My heart stops. I'm suddenly and fully awake. "Whoa, hey! Hi! God, it's good to hear your voice. How are you?"
There's a long pause, and I hear a shaky breath, and a sniffle.
"It has been…much more difficult than I anticipated.
I…ugh! I do not have long—this is a borrowed phone.
Mine was destroyed months ago. I just…I miss you, Riley.
I simply had to call and tell you that. I could not bear you thinking I'd forgotten. "
I’d…
A contraction. I don't call attention to it, though—I just file it away as odd.
"I think about you all day, every day." I sigh. "I dream about you."
"Oh, Riley. I am sorry to call you in this state, I just…I just lost my eighth patient today alone. There are so many…so many. I can't save so many of them. Often, all I can do is make them comfortable and witness their passing."
"Jesus, honey. How are you coping with all that?"
"Some days are better than others." A heavy sigh. "Today is a not so good day. Gosh, I am terrible. The first time I call you in four months, and I am a weeping disaster. I just…I needed to hear your voice."
“Don’t be sorry for calling me. I’m here, sweetheart," I whisper. "I'm so sorry it's so hard."
"I knew it would be difficult and emotionally taxing, but I wasn't prepared for exactly how much so. I do not think anyone could be. Not for this."
She sounds different. Not just the occasional contraction, which is new, but…something I can't pinpoint. I set that aside—it's not important right now.
She sniffles. "How is everyone in Three Rivers? I find myself thinking of them often. Not as often as I think of you, of course, but…I grew to like that place very much in the short time I was there."
"Oh, y'know, mostly the same. Noelle gave birth not long after you left. They named her Ella Faye. She's a sweet li'l nugget. Cute as a button, super smiley, and only throws up on me occasionally.”
This gets me a laugh. "Oh, that is wonderful to hear. Ember is well?"
"Yeah, she popped that kid out like a champ, to hear Fee tell it. He’s biased, but then, Ember is one seriously tough bitch."
"She is not a bitch, Riley Crowe."
I laugh. "That's a term of endearment between us. We call each other names out of sibling-in-law love, same as I do with the guys.”
I hear a siren, a horn, and shouting. "Damn," she hisses. "I have to go, unfortunately. We just received another truckload of victims."
Truckload? She’s not prone to exaggeration like that, and not about this, so she means literally a truckload of victims? Fuck that.
"Go, baby, go. Do your thing. Call me any time, for any reason. I luh—” I almost say it. "Cadie, I…"
"I know," she whispers. "As do I. Do not say it, however. Please. Just…just save it, if you will. For when I see you again in person.”
"Yeah, yeah." Fuck, I wish I knew what to say. "They're lucky to have you over there, Cadence. I'm proud of you."
For some reason, that last part wrenches a single sob out of her. "Oh, my heart. How I needed to hear that, my sweet Riley. Thank you." A bracing sigh. "Now. I must bid you farewell until we speak again."
Ah, there it is—the formality. Aside from the contractions, she was speaking less…formally. Less archaic. I'm not sure how I feel about it, to be honest.
But it's back again, there at the end. Like putting on armor, almost.
"Bye, honey. Be safe."
"I shall. Goodbye, Riley."
I wait until my phone beeps, indicating the call has ended, and then I toss my phone aside.
My eyes burn.
Fuck, I miss her.
And fuck, I wish I could just give her a hug. She sounded so…not broken, just…exhausted and brutally sad, I guess.
She doesn't call again. Two weeks later, though, I do get a tattered, bloodstained scrap of prescription pad paper with another quick, scrawled I miss you, things are hard, but I am making it sort of note on the back.
I keep the notes in my truck with me.
When she left, she said her visa expires in December, so I'm counting the days until then.
Not long, now.