Beneath It All (Beneath #1) (27 page)

“This isn’t something you should be looking for. Jesus Christ, Victoria, you’re fighting for your life, and he is out dipping the wick with another woman. Who the hell does that?” She was livid, and I was afraid for the pancakes because she was wielding the spatula like a butcher knife.

“Noah. My. Noah.” God I was appalled with myself for letting him do this to me. I wasn’t going to let him get away with this. “What the hell do I do? How do I talk to him—and what do I even say? Do I even have the energy to try?”

“Give it time. Let it fester in his mind. Let him feel like shit because he damn well deserves it. You don’t owe him anything until you’re ready. You need time to think about what you want. Do you want to fight for your marriage?”

“Why the hell do I have to always be the one fighting for something? I’m fighting cancer. I’m fighting off nausea. I’m fighting for my life. And now . . . now I need to decide if I want to fight for my goddamn marriage. ‘For better or worse, in sickness and in health.’ Guess he doesn’t recall saying those words in front of my family and our friends.”

I was angry and exhausted and I felt like I was in the midst of a drug-induced nightmare. “I’m tired of fighting. I’m not doing it. If he wants this marriage, he can fight.” I started to cry. “He fucked up. Not me. I’m not fighting for shit because as far as I’m concerned, he’s not worth fighting for at this moment. And right now you’re burning my goddamn pancakes because of him!”

“Oh shit.” She jumped as she saw smoke billowing off of the griddle. “So, how do you feel about going out for breakfast?”

*

Thursday arrived the same way the last several days had, in Bobbie Jo’s bed. My phone had been out of commission since last Saturday, but Bobbie Jo’s home phone continued to ring off the hook with Noah’s number showing up hourly.

He called from his mobile, home, and office, but I never answered. I knew I couldn’t avoid him forever, but the thought of him showing up for my third chemo session, which was scheduled for the next day, was weighing on me.

Bobbie Jo had called my parents and filled them in on what had happened. They never asked me for the complete story. “We love you. We’re here for you. Call us if you need anything,” ran on a constant loop when I finally worked up the nerve to call them last night.

They were hurting too. Noah had vowed to take care of me, and my parents took those vows very seriously. I would bet my life that my dad had “spoken” with Noah, and I could guarantee that my father had the last word.

I had crashed at Bobbie Jo’s house since last Friday, so I felt she deserved some space. She hadn’t signed up for a roommate, let alone one with more drama than a country song, so it was time to give her some privacy. So I arranged to stay with my parents for a few days, and they would watch over me after chemo.

Thankfully, Jen and Bobbie Jo both agreed to go with me to my chemo appointment. There wouldn’t be any changes to the treatment plan from last time, so I had a good idea of what to expect. It was time to start facing the reality of my life, and spending time with my parents would definitely help.

I had been living in Bobbie Jo’s clothes for almost a week and needed go home to pack a bag for the next few days. The idea of going there alone stressed me out, so I called Jen to go with me. We planned to go during the day, knowing that Noah would be at the office.

As we pulled up in the driveway, I took a moment to look at my house. My home. The home we bought together and built a life together in. We hadn’t talked a lot about having a family, and after my cancer diagnosis, we both knew the chances of that happening were extremely low. Cancer changed everything.

We headed for the bedroom right away. I pulled out two large suitcases from the back of the closet and started packing my clothes. Jen was in the bedroom pulling all of my lingerie and smaller items out of the dresser and putting them into another smaller suitcase. Once the bags were packed, we hit the bathroom for my toiletries and makeup.

When I stepped back out into our bedroom, I saw the corner of a shopping bag sticking out from under my side of the bed. It was the leather briefcase I had bought Noah for Christmas at the Coach store. I had his initials imprinted into the leather. It was perfect for him.

I looked at my watch and was impressed by the fact that we packed it all in less than an hour. Jen had started carrying the bags out to her car, and I yelled out to her I would be right down. I opened the drawer in my bedside table and found a piece of stationary and a pen.

Noah,

I stopped by to pick up some of my things. I’ll be spending the week with my parents after tomorrow’s chemo session. The girls are going with me, so you don’t have to disrupt your day to be there. I’ve had time to think about what I saw, and I know we need to talk. I hope you have had time to think as well. Please don’t try to call me. I’ll call you next week when I’m ready and the fog starts to lift.

I hope you will respect my wishes. This is not easy for me.

Victoria

Jen was standing quietly in the doorway, watching me. “You done?” She nodded to the note.

“Yeah, I’m done.”

I put the note on the top of the shopping bag on the end of the bed. It was the same spot where I found the chocolate cake only a few weeks ago. I walked down the stairs and out the front door and did not look back.

*

Considering my life had been flipped upside down in the last week, chemo wasn’t actually half bad this time around. It was thanks to the company I had brought with. Bobbie Jo and Jen were a two-woman show and had several of the nurses laughing and hanging around a little longer than usual.

Noah definitely wasn’t fun at chemo; it was a somber event for us. These two had other plans. They brought party hats and Mardi Gras beads to share with all of the patients undergoing treatment while we were there.

It was hard not to smile as we played “truth, dare, double dare, promise, or repeat” like we were teenagers. They also informed me that they were sleeping over at my parents’, even though they knew I would be a foggy, doped-up mess.

Personally, I think they wanted to see me messed up because I was always the responsible one who never drank too much. They claimed they wanted to be there to help and take me back to the hospital the next day for my white-count booster shot. I didn’t argue because they always had my best interest in mind.

We arrived to my parents and we all changed into our pajamas for the evening.

Bobbie Jo and Jen were jabbering away while they blew up air mattresses in my childhood bedroom. A cozy and cramped night was in store for the three of us. I was starting to feel the buzzing in my head and get the burning flushed feeling in my face. It was time to start the Gatorade and water cleanse to flush the Red Devil out of my system as fast as possible.

“Ladies, if you don’t mind, I’m going to check out of this conversation,” I said as I curled up in my bed. “Thank you for coming with me to support me today and staying the night. I love you both more than you will ever know, but I’m done. Good night.”

“Good night, beautiful, and sweet dreams,” they said before slipping out of my bedroom and down the hall to the kitchen where my parents were preparing dinner. I could hear them talking as I drifted to sleep and a few other times when I woke up to go to the bathroom.

Unbeknownst to me, my chemo schedule couldn’t have worked out any better, as I was still in my chemo fog on Christmas Day.

My parents did their best to try and make it special by inviting people over. People came and went all day and made small talk. I felt bad for them because they didn’t know what to say. Hell . . . I didn’t know what to say.

Shortly after dinner, I excused myself, claiming to be exhausted, and went to bed. It was a lie; emotionally, I was dead.

I couldn’t sleep. Instead, I stared at the ceiling, trying not to think about Noah and failing miserably.

His parents were out of the country for the holidays, so I knew he wasn’t back in Chicago. I wondered what he was doing, and I even worried about him. To my surprise, Noah honored my request not to contact me, and now I lay there regretting it. I missed my husband.

The last few days after Christmas were good. I kept myself occupied by helping my mom put away the decorations. She was just as sick of them as I was this year. The chemo fog had passed, and I was starting to think about my expander fill appointment the next day.

It had been thirteen miserable days since I last saw Noah . . . with
her
 . . . and I knew it was time to talk. I needed to talk. He wasn’t going to call, so I knew I needed to do it and I was not looking forward to it. I pulled out the new mobile phone Bobbie Jo had bought me for Christmas and dialed his number. My heart was beating louder than a bass drum.

“Hello?” Noah answered immediately.

“Hi. It’s me, Victoria,” I said, sounding nervous and unsure of myself. I felt like a stranger.

“I know. I recognized the number. How was chemo?”

“Good. I followed the same regimen as last time, and it seems to be working.”

“That’s great.”

The awkward chitchat needed to stop. I couldn’t pretend that things were fine and dandy anymore. “We need to talk, and I’d prefer to do it in person.”

“I agree. When and where?”

“Do I need to call Whitney to make an appointment?” I said sarcastically, even though I meant it.

“Stop it.” He sounded annoyed.
Good,
I thought to myself before he continued, “Are you free this evening, or would tomorrow work?”

“I have my second expander fill tomorrow afternoon at three-thirty, but I can make any other time work tomorrow.”

“When did you have your first fill?”

“Right before I saw you at the Cheesecake Factory. Bobbie Jo took me to get something to eat because I almost passed out during the procedure. I was going to go look at the cheesecake display when I suddenly lost my appetite.”

“No need to bring it to that level. I thought we could have a civilized conversation like adults,” he remarked snidely.

“Excuse me? I’m pretty sure my level isn’t as low as yours,” I huffed in exasperation. “What time would you like to meet tomorrow? From the sound of your voice, I’m pretty sure it will be short and not-so-sweet.”

“It should be fairly quick.”

“I don’t understand how this could happen to us. How could you do this?” I asked, trying to hold on to every shred of dignity I had left . . . which wasn’t much.

“We’ll talk tomorrow,” he answered brusquely.

My emotions were all over the charts—anger, sadness, fear, and insecurity. However, anger won out, and after his nonchalant brush-off that we’d talk tomorrow, I was ready to explode.

“Are you willing to fight for me? Because honestly, Noah, I don’t have the energy to fight for us on my own. I’ve got enough on my plate right now, and fighting for our marriage was not on my radar. I had no idea it was damaged.”

“I’m getting another call. I’ll meet you at the house at one o’clock sharp. Good-bye.” Click.

Well, that was a fucking success.

*