Too Pucking Old For This (Relationship Goals #1)

Prologue

Noah

I watch my guys handle the incident, my mind only partially on the fire—it's a minor grease fire in the kitchen of Conrad's Cafe, a beloved local squat-and-gobble diner just south of town. Taylor hates it when I use that term, squat-and-gobble.

"I don't squat, and I don't gobble, Noah," she always insists.

The rest of my attention is where I should be—at the hospital, with Taylor, holding her hand while she waits for the results of the scans.

She knows why I'm here and not there—it's the job.

She's been my wife for thirty years, and I've been a firefighter my whole life—I joined the department as a volunteer literally the day I turned sixteen.

I've missed birthdays, anniversaries, games, and dates.

If that bell rings, I go. If my pager—and now my cell phone—goes off, I have no choice.

Including a day like today. I've often resented the always-on-call nature of the job—everyone who works in emergency services does, at some point—but never more so than today.

"Cap?" I hear Doug Hermann, my lieutenant and go-to second-in-command, at my side.

I force my full attention back to the guys, the fire. "Yeah, bud."

He claps me on the shoulder. "I've got this, Cap. It's almost under control. Go. Be with Taylor. She needs you."

My entire being strains toward her, but I hold it in check. "When it's out, Doug."

Doug sighs. "Stubborn old goat. We've got this, Noah. It's a minor grease fire. Please, brother, just…go."

I look at him, one of my best friends for more than two decades. He's concerned. Hell, we all are.

Although in my case, “concerned” doesn't quite cut the fuckin' mustard.

I'm panicked.

Freaking out.

Desperate.

"Tay needs you, Noah. We don't. Not for this shit." He gestures at the building—there's barely even any smoke trickling out of the structure anymore.

I know Doug, and I know my guys, and I know they can deal with the wrap-up without me.

I just don't like the idea of abdicating my responsibility.

I'm Captain. I'm the IC—Incident Commander.

This is my job. My role. My duty. Being a firefighter has come first, always, no matter what, for thirty-three years.

I've never once left early, never once put anyone or anything before my responsibility to the people of Tomlin Falls, Alaska.

But this might be the first, the exception.

Doug moves in front of me and grabs my shoulders. His brown eyes are fierce and full of love. "Noah, Jesus, brother. Fucking go! It's Taylor. The fire is almost out. We can handle this shit in our sleep, and you know it. Go. Don't make me kick your ass."

I don't have it in me to argue any further—with him or myself. "Alright, alright, I'm going. You're IC. Call me if you need me."

"You know I will." Doug squeezes hard, once. "She'll be okay, man."

I hope so, too, but over the last couple of weeks, I've started to wonder.

At first, it was just a general malaise. Feeling yucky. Tired. Flu-like symptoms that wouldn't go away.

She got a cocktail of fluids and vitamins and such in an IV at the clinic, but that didn't touch it.

And then she got a nosebleed that just wouldn't quit.

Tender gums that started bleeding.

Sudden and extreme weight loss.

Achy joints. Pain deep in her bones.

Petechiae.

Fevers. Night sweats.

Swollen liver.

Pale skin.

Always cold.

That was two weeks ago.

We thought it would clear up, but when the symptoms started piling up and getting worse, it became obvious it was time to get it looked at.

We both know what it is.

I drive like a bat out of hell, light flashing—a blatant misuse, but I can't bring myself to care. Her appointment started ten minutes ago, and if I hurry, I may make it in time to be there for the scans…and the results.

I skid to a stop outside the private office of Dr. Albert Norris, MD., oncologist. The receptionist, Marion, sees me coming and buzzes me back to the exam rooms without a word; I've known Marion her whole life—she graduated with Noel, my son.

"Room four, Captain Austin," she says.

"Thanks, Mare," I toss over my shoulder, jogging down the fluorescent-lit hallway, turning left, and reaching room four. I tap and then enter.

Dr. Norris is palpating Taylor's lymph nodes. "Noah, hey. C'mon in. We're just doing the preliminary exam."

Taylor is pale, thin, and looks tired. Her brunette hair is greasy and limp—she's always had thick, glossy, gorgeous, well-groomed hair. She takes pride in it and in her appearance in general.

My throat is tight as I enter the exam room and sit on the chair kitty-corner to the table Taylor is perched on.

"Hey, baby," Taylor says, giving me the sweet, loving smile that's lit up my life for the past three decades. "You made it."

"Of course, my love," I murmur, swallowing hard. "Of course I'm here."

"Alright, lie back for me," Dr. Norris says.

Taylor lies back, and he gently pushes the hem of her big, baggy, gray TFPD sweatshirt up to her diaphragm and gingerly palpitates her abdomen; she winces, hisses at the delicate pressure of his fingertips as they pass a certain spot on the upper right side, just under her ribcage.

She's had a bone marrow biopsy already. Lumbar punctures. CBC tests. Today is the imaging scans and results from the other tests.

I have to wait and watch from the control room as she goes through the battery of imaging scans. I watch the images pop up on the tech's screens and wish I knew what the fuck I was looking at.

Later, we're in Al's office, in the side-by-side chairs, holding hands as the doctor assesses the various test results.

His expression is grave as he sits back in his chair, obviously struggling with how to break the news.

Taylor sniffles. Squeezes my hand. "Just say it, Al. We've been skinny dipping together. No point in beating around the bush at this point. I'm pretty well aware that I'm not exactly doing very well."

We've known Al forever. He and his family moved to Tomlin Falls in sixth grade, and he was part of our inner social circle all through middle school and high school.

He left town for college, got his medical degrees from some fancy Ivy League place on the East Coast, and set up his practice here in his hometown almost twenty years ago. So, this is personal for Al.

He rubs his face with both hands, sighing heavily. "It's Stage Four Leukemia, Taylor."

"Stage four?” I all but shout the last word. "How—how can she…?" I have to shove my hands under my thighs to stop myself from hurling a stapler through the wall. "How can she have stage four cancer? She only started feeling sick two weeks ago!"

Taylor's touch on my arm is soft. "There were indicators weeks ago, sweetheart. I just…didn't think anything of them. I'm forty-five—aches and pains and weird physical things are normal at this stage. I'm in perimenopause." She shrugs as if this is all there is to say.

Al is visibly at a loss. "It's…god. I know I'm a professional, and this is my job, but…" he closes his eyes, shakes his head, sighs, and starts over. "It's everywhere, guys. Liver. Lymph nodes. Bones."

"Jesus," I whisper.

Taylor sighs shakily. "How long, Al?"

A long hesitation. "Treatment can give you more time, but…"

"There's no stopping it," she interprets.

"No," he answers. "I'm sorry. Weeks. A few months at most. We could maybe give you a few extra weeks, a month or two more at the outside, with aggressive treatment."

"But?" Taylor presses.

A shrug, a shake of his head; the overhead lights glint off of his balding head and reflect off of his glasses.

"The treatment can be…rough. And with as much as it's spread already, there would be little return from it, I'm afraid.

" He swallows hard. "As your doctor and your friend, I think…

I would advise just making yourself as comfortable as possible. "

"Al, c'mon," I breathe. "There's…there's nothing?"

Taylor turns in the chair to face me, takes both of my hands. "I knew, Noah. And deep down, so did you."

I shake my head. "No."

She smiles, cups my jaw. "Yes, baby." She blinks hard, lashes damp with unshed tears.

"If fighting would get me anywhere, I'd fight.

You know I would. But it's a losing battle, and I’d rather spend the time I have left with you, not sitting in a chair getting chemo that'll only make me sicker and won't change anything in the end anyway. "

Al clears his throat. "Noah, you know I'd tell you if there was anything that had even a chance of making a significant difference.

But we're talking excruciating misery that would buy her an amount of time you could measure in days.

" He peels his glasses off, pulling them one way while twisting his head the other.

"I've delivered this news more times than I care to think about, but this is the hardest…

" he trails off, unable to finish, shoulders heaving a few times. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry."

Taylor takes his hands, leaning across his desk. "It's alright, Al. It's okay."

That's Taylor—comforting others even as she finds out she's dying.

We spend a while longer with Al, coming up with a palliative care plan involving home nurses, drugs, and rental hospital beds.

Since I was on the call when she left for her appointment, her friend Betsey drove her to the office.

I drive her home to our cabin on the river.

A mated pair of Sandhill cranes fish at the river's edge as we pull up to our cabin.

This is where we raised Noel. Where we brought him home.

Where he took his first steps. His high school graduation party was here in the sprawling backyard, and the backyard is where we celebrated his getting drafted by the Seattle Skyhawks at seventeen, a first-round pick to enter the NHL as a kid who barely needed to shave.