Chapter 4

But back then, I loved him.

I loved him so deeply that I forgot who I was.

My mom called to tell me my dad had been diagnosed with liver cancer and needed money for surgery. I hesitated for a long time before finally using the card he'd given me for the first time.

I charged 25 grand.

The next day, he called. "You spent 25 grand on the card?"

I replied, "Yeah, my dad's sick. He needs—"

"Next time, let me know first," he interrupted. "I don't like it when people touch my money without telling me."

"Okay."

After he hung up, I stared at the call log on my phone. It lasted 18 seconds, and it was enough for him to say everything he had to say.

Not once in our four years together did a call ever go over a minute.

But every time he talked to Freya, their calls would last a whole hour.

Once, I was waiting outside his office and overheard him on the phone with Freya.

He sounded like a whole different guy, so gentle. "Yeah, if you want to buy it, go ahead. As long as you like it. Don't cry. I'll fly out to see you next week..."

I stood outside the door, holding the lunch he'd asked me to bring, waiting for twenty whole minutes.

When he finally came out and saw me, he frowned, clearly annoyed. "Why didn't you come in?"

"You were on the phone," I replied.

"So?" He took the lunch from me and gave it a quick look. "This restaurant again? Didn't I tell you I can't stand parsley?"

"Sorry, I forgot."

"You always forget," he said impatiently, tossing the lunch into the trash. "Go buy another one."

On my way to get him another lunch, tears welled up, but I quickly wiped them away.

He hated seeing me cry.

There was one time I let myself cry in front of him. He looked at me and said something I'd remember for the rest of my life. "You look ugly when you cry. Stop it."

After that, I never let myself cry in front of him again.

Tears had their own schedule. I couldn't hold them back forever.

If I didn't let myself cry in front of him, they would spill out somewhere else.

The day I got diagnosed, I sat alone in the hospital hallway, clutching my test results, and cried for three hours straight.

An old lady sitting nearby handed me a pack of tissues. "Honey, is something wrong? Do you want to call your family to come keep you company?"

I shook my head.

Family? My mom was back in my hometown, taking care of my dad. Shane was in the military. Dakota was in Peyham with Freya, celebrating her birthday.

I had no one I could call.

Eventually, I got used to being on my own.

Chemotherapy, bone punctures, and lumbar punctures. I faced every test alone. The nausea, the vomiting, the hair loss. I endured every side effect by myself.

One time after chemo, I was puking so bad. The lady in the next bed couldn't take it anymore and asked, "Sweetie, how come nobody from your family comes to see you? Where's your boyfriend?"

"He's busy," I replied.

The lady let out a sigh. "Busy or not, if your girl is sick, he should show up."

I smiled, keeping quiet.

I didn't dare tell Dakota.

It wasn't that I was scared he wouldn't come. What terrified me was that if I told him, he'd show up, not because he cared, but because he felt obligated.

I didn't want to be a charity case.

I'd already sunk low enough, but even though I was ill, I still got a shred of dignity.

As my condition got worse, the doctor told me I probably had no more than two months left.

Lying \in that hospital bed, I thought about it for a long time before finally making a decision.

I signed the paperwork to donate my bone marrow stem cells.

The recipient was Freya.

She'd been sick for ages, waiting for a match, and it turned out that my bone marrow was exactly what she needed.

Funny, wasn't it?

My only worth in this world was to save the woman of my boyfriend's life after I was dead and gone.

That night, after I signed the papers, I called my mom for the last time. "Mom, I'm doing fine. Don't worry about me. make sure you and Dad take care of yourselves."

She rambled on about home, the neighbors, and how she'd knitted me a sweater for me to wear when I came home for Christmas.

Silent tears streamed down my face as I listened.

I never told her I was dying.

I didn't want her to have to watch me die.

I died on July 22nd, right in the peak of summer. The heat was unbearable.

The last thing I heard was the heart monitor's single, unbroken tone, like a needle piercing through my eardrums.

I died.

No last words, no goodbyes, no one by my side, like my whole life, came alone, left alone.

Seven days had passed since I died, and my mom finally got the call from the hospital.

She rode the train all night from our old town, but by the time she arrived, I was already lying in the morgue.

She fell to her knees, hugging my frozen body, her cries tearing through the silence. "Kelsey. My Kelsey! Why didn't you tell me? How could you leave this world alone?"

My dad stood nearby, leaning on his cane, tears streaming down his face. He couldn't get a single word out.

Shane rushed back from the army. A whole day long, he repeated, "Kelsey, wake up. You promised you'd cook for me when I came home from the army. You broke your promise."

I watched from the side, wanting so badly to hug them, but my hands slipped right through their bodies.

I couldn't touch them at all.

I couldn't do anything.