Total pages in book: 93
Estimated words: 90503 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 453(@200wpm)___ 362(@250wpm)___ 302(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 90503 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 453(@200wpm)___ 362(@250wpm)___ 302(@300wpm)
Yes, I’d seen the scans. Yes, I’d read the results. Yes, I’d listened to the opinions of multiple doctors and radiologists, all of whom fired at me with the same bullets.
A 1.2 cm mass. Left parietal lobe. The area that controls upper right side mobility. Probably been there for years. Not on the surface.
And I wasn’t an idiot. I knew something was causing the dizziness. The constant headache. The vivid memories. The occasional numb feeling in my hand. The worsening eyesight. But none of those things seemed particularly alarming to me. When compared with the risks of the craniotomy, which included potentially losing motor control and sensation in my right hand (thus ending my days as a tattoo artist—as any kind of artist) and some speech or language function, not to mention the rounds of chemotherapy and radiation I might need afterward, well, fuck. A headache, a dizzy spell here and there, and some pleasantly intense memories seemed a small price to pay. And didn’t everyone’s eyesight get worse as they got older?
Bottom line, I didn’t want to be some pitiful, drugged-up, shell of my former self, unable to work or draw or talk, and dependent on others to take care of me. I would never burden anyone that way. And I never wanted anyone to see me as weak. Frail. Vulnerable. Or feel sorry for me.
Especially Maren. No fucking way. I’d rather die than let her see me with a shaved head, staples holding my scalp together, listening to me struggle to speak. And it’s not like I could tell her about it at this point, anyway. Oh, hey, funny thing, I forgot to mention I have a brain tumor.
I took out my contacts and put on my glasses, frowning at myself in the mirror. It was an asshole move and I knew it, but I had to keep it from her. Not only because she’d be mad, but because she’d pity me. More than anything, I didn’t want anybody’s pity—not hers, not Finn’s, not my parents’, not anybody’s. I’d always lived my life the way I wanted to, and if this thing in my head was punishment for that, so be it. I’d deal with it my way, in my own good time, and I didn’t need to give a shit what my family wanted. It’s not as if they’d ever given a shit about what I wanted. And I refused to feel guilty about it.
But Maren … Maren was different. She’d never done anything but care for me. I’d come here to put things right, and I was going to end up hurting her again. She was going to hate me for it.
But loving her was the purest, deepest thing I’d ever felt, and I wanted—I needed—to hold on to that for a little bit longer. One more day.
She was already asleep, facing away from me, by the time I got back in bed. I set my glasses on the nightstand and nestled my naked body behind hers, one arm slung over her waist.
I wished I never had to let go.
I woke up about ten, and Maren was still asleep. My head was aching, so I went into the bathroom and took some ibuprofen. When I came out, she was awake and sitting up, looking adorably shy as she held the sheet up to her chest.
“Good morning, sunshine,” I said.
Her smile lit me up. “Morning. I love that you’re wearing glasses but not pants. You look cute in them.”
“Thanks. How’d you sleep?” I sat on the edge of the bed.
“Like a baby.”
“No more nightmares?”
She shook her head. “No.”
“Good.” I patted her leg through the sheets. “Are you hungry? “
“Yes. Will you let me take you out for breakfast?”
“No. But I will let you eat room service in my hotel room.”
She sighed exasperatedly. “Are you ever going to let me treat you while you’re here?”
“Probably not.” I got up, pulled on some underwear, and looked around for the menu, spying it over on the desk. “What do you like? Pancakes? Eggs? Bacon? Do you want me to ask if the pig was—” All of a sudden, something about the way the sun was slanting through the window seemed to blind me. Bubbles of light came at me from all directions, and the room faded to white. I stumbled and grabbed the back of the chair.
“Dallas? Are you okay?”
I wasn’t. My head hurt. My right hand was tingling and my right arm felt too long for my body. An intense wave of déjà vu washed over me. My stomach billowed up like I was cresting the top of a rollercoaster. I couldn’t speak. My heartbeat echoed throughout the room. Fuck me. Fuck. Me.
“Dallas?” Maren was standing behind me. Her hand was on my back. “Dallas, what’s wrong? Say something.”
Suddenly, I realized I was fine again. Mortified and sweaty, but fine.