Now… I don’t know what to do. Visiting her at home or the hospital, babysitting the kids, doing her shopping or even cooking for her won’t cut it. She needs a miracle, and neither she nor I believe in those.
The landscape streaks by. I have a headache I can’t shake, and my body feels leaden. I don’t want to see her, face the inevitable, give up my last thread of hope. I don’t want to hear the verdict. I’m good at avoiding what I hate, but now, it seems, I don’t have a fucking choice.
Emma and her husband and kids live in Bolinbrook, but right now she’s at the Midwestern Cancer Treatment Center, in Zion. Driving time is around two hours, and I make it in one and a half. If I can’t hide, then I’ll face reality head-on, like a frontal crash you don’t see coming.
Christ, aren’t I a ray of sunshine? I’d better put my poker face on before Emma and her family see me. They don’t need my dark mood.
The hospital parking lot is packed. When I finally find an empty spot, I park, turn off the engine and sit in the quiet for a few minutes, trying to clear my head and steel my resolve. My shoulders ache, and I roll them, doing my best to calm myself.
Unable to put off the inevitable any longer, I get out and slam the door. I still don’t feel ready. I guess I never will.
I enter the hospital and glance around, getting my bearings. The maze of corridors always confounds me, but I’ve more or less learned the way by now. At least I know I’m heading in the right direction.
The center doesn’t specialize in cancer patients, but it has affiliated doctors from the area who visit.
Because that’s what Emma has. Cancer. Breast cancer. We thought she beat it, but it came back, worse than before, spreading in her body. It’s terminal. Which means she’s dying. And there’s nothing I can do to save her.
I head toward her room, and I see Matt coming my way. We bump fists and shake hands. He says nothing as he leads me away, and I can find no words to break the silence. Antiseptic and chlorine permeate the air, clogging my airways, and the beeping of machines echoes, like a thousand racing hearts.
I fucking hate this place. Dread this moment.
Matt opens a door, and my feet keep going, taking me inside, where I don’t wanna be. My eyes search for her, although I don’t wanna see. And despair fills me, even though I don’t wanna feel. I wish I couldn’t feel anything anymore.
Emma looks tiny in the hospital bed, so pale she’s barely visible under the sheets. She smiles when she sees me, and it looks like a grimace on her gaunt face. It makes me want to howl and throw the furniture against the wall.
Instead, I sit in the chair by her side and force myself to smile. I take her bony little hand, the hand that held mine after everyone else had left me and pretend this stinking life is worth living.
I spend the weekend driving back and forth between Bolingbrook and Zion. I take over from the nanny and babysit the little ones, as I usually do when I’m there, to give Matt some breathing space. He looks like a ghost, thin and pale and devastated.
Emma sleeps a lot, and when she’s awake she doesn’t have much energy to talk. I don’t know what to talk about, either, but I try, telling her funny stories from the tattoo shop and the other guys.
At home, the kids are restless. They’re used to me, but they’re little—Mary is two, and Cole is not even a year old—and they want their mom, not a tattooed guy with a Mohawk and a temper. Reading picture books and changing diapers isn’t my forte on a good day, much less now.
Between taking shifts watching over the children and alternating with Matt, so we can both be with Emma for a few hours at a time, the weekend passes in fits and starts. By Sunday afternoon, when I say goodbye to Emma and climb into my truck, I feel like roadkill.
I sit behind the wheel and stare without seeing out into the dark. Emma’s face haunts me. She barely had the strength to squeeze my hand when I was leaving. She looked so small like that. I’m her adopted brother. I’m supposed to protect her. Give back some of what she gave to me.
A wail is building up in my throat. I knock my elbow into the window and smash my fist into the wheel. The pain feels good. Too good.
I need to drink, smoke and fuck, not necessarily in that order. Anything to blank out my mind.
Dakota’s image suddenly fills my head, and I want to punch it out of my memory. She deserves so much better than me. If I fuck her, I won’t keep her and… damn, I want to keep her.
Shit. I’m going fucking crazy.
I rev up the truck and hightail it out of the hospital, out of Zion, racing for the open highway. I’m tempted to stop at a bar on the way, but I find myself driving past town after town and not stopping.
When I realize why, I groan out loud. I want to see Dakota. My heart beats faster at the thought, and my dick hardens.
Down, Dick. She’s not interested in a quick grope and fuck. Nice girls like her want more—deserve more—and I can’t deliver.
I crank up the music, some punk rock shit Rafe gave me, and punch the wheel to the rhythm. Caught up in the beat, it takes me a while to realize it’s music from their group, Deathmoth, and that the powerful voice blasting out of the speakers is Dakota’s.
I turn off the stereo and grip the wheel so hard it creaks. I need to get drunk off my ass. Need to get so wasted I stop thinking of Dakota.
Problem is, even if I drink enough to forget my own name, I don’t think I’ll manage to forget her.
“Gimme another.”
Without batting an eye, Joe, the bartender of Bent, pours me another whiskey. It must be my fourth. Or fifth? Maybe sixth. I really have no fucking clue. I’ve been here for a while, and I’m still working on forgetting—Dakota, Emma, who I am and what I’m supposed to do.
Maybe I should get the bottle of whiskey and get out of here. A few girls have wandered over to chat me up, but I couldn’t bother. Not interesting. Not pretty. Not… Not Dakota, dammit.
Get your head out of your ass and pick one.
It’s just sex. Pick a chick, choose a quiet corner and just fuck the pain out of your system. Say goodbye, finish your drink and go home.
It’s worked for many years. It will work again.
I scan the thickening crowd. Music is blasting from the speakers, old rock, and voices rise over the din. It makes my already aching head feel like a time bomb about to explode. At the back of the room, I can see couples getting down and dirty against the wall, not concerned about being seen.
Perfect.
Grab a chick, bang her, then go home to finish getting wasted. That’s the plan.
My cell beeps. A message from Ash, asking where the hell I am, and if I want to go out for a beer. I already have text messages and missed calls from him, Tyler, Dylan, Erin, Audrey and Rafe with variations in the theme. They want to know if I returned safely. If I’m okay.
Fuck no, I’m not okay. I shove the cell back into my pocket and focus on the plan.
A blonde with an impressive rack smiles at me. I check her out. Good ass. Nice hips. She has the bold curves I usually go for, but…