Sloth (Sinful Secrets #1) (50 page)

“I think we might be soul mates.”

“What makes you think so?”

“You just played a song I really like, one I usually play when I’m coming here. But other things too,” I add.

“What things?”

“Like you how … you made me drink the Snow Queen. My friend used to always say to drink before I come here.”

“Anything else?”

“I just…feel weird about you. Good weird. Like I know you, even though I know I really don’t.”

I hear a click. “Okay, Cleo.” Cindy’s voice is clear and crisp.

I close my eyes. I mouth the date. I mouth the words, because I know before she tells me. All this time I didn’t know and I know now. I know.

“It was in September. September 18, 2011. That’s the date, according to the charts.”

I hold my breath as Lora’s kitchen slowly tilts.

“I’m sorry, Cleo.”

I jump up.
I’m
sorry. I’m so fucking sorry. I look down at the crumpled post-card. Then I dash into the living room, where I hung my purse on the front door handle.

Cindy’s voice pipes up: solemn, concerned. “I hope this doesn’t make you feel…”

Her voice is static in my ear. I pull the check out of an inside pocket, fingers shaking.

No surprise. It’s no surprise now. Now I know.

It’s R.’s handwriting. Kellan’s check. R. and Kellan. Kellan, R.

Lyon. Robert. Robert Lyon?

Lyon is the real R., and Kellan was his stand-in. Thanking me for giving bone marrow to his brother after Lyon was dead.

I murmur a goodbye to Cindy. Then I lunge for Lora’s sink and vomit while the cat looks on.

I WALK THE HALLWAYS OF
Memorial Sloan Kettering Cancer Center for hours, blank and brainless, carting all my bags. And I decide he didn’t know. Kellan never sought me out at Chattahoochee College. He didn’t know about our strange connection until I said “sloth” on the balcony that day.

This is the universe’s setup. God’s joke. It’s so insane that as I wash my hands outside his room on the bone marrow transplant floor, I question whether he’ll really be in there. If Jesus can escape tombs…

Kellan’s nurse, a pretty brunette named Arethea, interrupts my magical thinking with a bunch of facts.

I don’t like any of them. Even though I’m here, I can’t seem to believe. Or maybe I believe too much. Blind faith that none of this is real.
It’s all a lie
.

I would never let Kellan have cancer. I wouldn’t let him die. He’s perfect Kellan. Duh.

You know Manning texted me? That girl is not his fucking girlfriend. She was Lyon’s girlfriend. Now she’s in medical school at Emory, which explains why she popped up in the parking deck

After she and Kellan’s Uncle Pace popped up to beg Kellan to seek treatment, Manning said Kellan was worried I’d find out. He wanted me to go away. He wanted to protect me. So he made it up, the bit about the pregnant girlfriend.

“Your hands seem clean to me,” Arethea says kindly. I look over my shoulder at her.

“You want to go inside? I think he’s sleeping.”

It’s horrible, the stepping through the door. With every cell I have, I protest. My stomach twists into a knot. My forehead sweats. My heart hammers so hard I barely notice my surroundings: teeny tiny hallway, widening into a wider room with pale blue walls.

He’s not in here. He’s not. I would believe that if I could. If I didn’t want to see him so badly. But I do. I want it more intensely than I fear it.

I take soft steps down the tiny hall. I pause at the mouth of the room so I can listen to the beeping, breathe the strange, cool air. It smells like plastic, and some sort of cleaner.

“Why is Daddy in that bed? It has a rail like Olive’s baby bed.”

“He’s sleeping, honey.”

“Will he sleep forever?”

“I don’t know.”

Kellan’s bed is empty, the sheets tucked neatly, as if it’s not been used. It isn’t hard for me to accept. In fact, I’m overtaken by a rush of mindless joy.

He isn’t here? I knew it.

But I see an IV pole. With IV bags. I see a rolling table with a newspaper, a black thermos. Both things are right beside a recliner. The chair is angled toward the room’s far right wall. I can see the foot-rest part is out—and something white on it.

I walk closer. It’s hard to breathe.

I don’t know what I think I’ll find, but as I come to stand in front of the recliner, I’m shocked and not surprised at all to find him lying on his right side, bundled up in sheets. They sag down his left bicep, so I can see how bruised his shoulder is.

I blink a few times. There are pillows propped behind his back and left side, propping him in this position, so all his weight is on the right side of his body. I can’t see under the sheet, but his ribs are hurt just like his shoulder. I remember that.

I rub my palm against my lips and blink, and his swollen, bruised shoulder blurs, as if the bruising is nothing but a watercolor. I could reach my fingers out and smudge it all away…

And still, it’s easier to look there than at his face. His cheekbone and the skin around his eye are bruised deep purple, almost black.

Anger bubbles up in me, even as I sink into a crouch beside the chair’s right arm. My face is level with his now. When he opens his eyes, he’ll see me.
Breathe, Cleo
. I watch his eyelids…watch his mouth. I can see his pulse throb over his brow.

Wake up, Kellan. Please wake up…

My fingers flex. I want to touch him. Stroke his hair. He hasn’t shaved. Does that mean he’s too hurt to get up? I blink, and a tear drops down my cheek. His mouth tautens, lips pressed together. It’s just a flicker of expression, there then gone, but it’s enough to make my hand grip the chair’s arm.

I lean closer to the chair and say his name…so soft, but loud enough to rouse him if he isn’t sleeping hard.

His eyes stay closed, but he shifts his shoulders, the tiny movement just enough to send the sheet over his torso sliding down more. I peruse his pretty throat, his collarbone, and…shit. The sheet falls lower still, and I can see his hand against his chest. The IV tubes—which disappear into his chest—are threaded through his fingers, and his palm is pressed above his pec, as if he’s holding himself together.

I tip my forehead toward the chair and sit there with my head bowed, hot tears dripping out my eyes.

I’m in a knot. I want to scream.

My palm trembles over his arm. I lean a little closer, till our faces are so close I feel his breath on my cheek.

Cleo is here. I might be dreaming, but... I think I’m not.

I smell her tea perfume. I hear her voice is in the air. I try to. I perceive it as something soft... not just sharp.

I have a fever. I can’t think because... the IV. If she’s here, then she can see me. I float up from where I’ve been and I can hear the beeps of the pulse ox machine.

Pain flashes all around me—I’m waking up. My face, my shoulder, ribs... My hips and back...

I feel Cleo’s hand. I twitch, and I can feel the IV tubing tug. My chest is sore...

Regret and shame.

I don’t want this.

She
knows
.

I can feel her fingers in my hair. Her fingers... being nice. Making me tired. But if I fall asleep, I’ll miss her. I peek and... fuck. Cleo—right here. Her pretty eyes. Her pretty mouth.

I can see her see me, because her face goes soft and sad. She says, “Sweetheart.” Her fingers dance across my brow.

“You’re sleepy, huh? You’ve got the good drugs going. That’s good.” She strokes my temple. I moan, in bliss, inside.

“I wanted to tell you, Kellan... I figured out about the letters. And R. I wanted to say... I understand. It’s crazy... like, a big surprise. But I’m not upset with you or anything.” Her fingers... sifting through my hair. “I talked to Manning just a little. It’s amazing, what you guys are doing. You’re amazing. I came to visit, but—” Her fingers dance like fog over my skin. I feel her face come up against mine, feel the warm rub of her cheek, and I’m surprised that she would... get so close. “I’m really here because... I think I’d like to stay with you. Like... for a while.”

I must be dreaming.

I think Cleo’s crying, even as her soft hands stroke my hair. “I’m so sorry that I didn’t know. About all this, and R. I’m sorry I’m crying. I’ll be fine. I’m just...”

I shut my eyes. I try not to feel her hands, so I won’t feel them when she goes.

I float a little. All the Dilaudid. I try to stay, though. To stay near her. I

But I keep my eyes closed. I don’t want to look at her. To see... her look at me.

“Can you look at me, baby? I just want to see your eyes.” Her voice cracks. “If I can help you over to the bed... I want to lie down with you. You seem sort of uncomfortable in the chair.”

My eyes drift open, but a moment I see her, close, but blurry—then they sink back shut... because the Dilaudid. I
would
like to have her touch me, but... I’m dirty. Sweaty. Messed up. Just the last few days... have gotten bad. With pain.

She strokes my cheek, and my throat aches.

“I can help you get to the bed, or even call a nurse if you want. If you don’t want to snuggle, I’ll just leave you alone. Your shoulder, the left one... is it hurting? You keep moving it.”

I do?

She kisses my hair. It feels good.

I sit up, gritting my teeth against the pain of my ribs. I forget to hold the IV lines. They pull from where they’re threaded into my chest. Did she see that?

I curl over my lap, holding my head. My heart races. Cleo should go.

“You... need to go.” My eyes roll toward her, the words slurring.

I reach back for the IV pole, and brace against it as I push the chair down with my legs and stand. I shuffle as quickly as I can to the bed, but the rail is up. I have to move a lot to lay down. Moaning...

I feel the cold linen under my fever-warm body and curl up, shivering. I put my hand up to my face. I tell myself that anyone would go.

And then I feel the mattress indent. My eyes lift slowly open. Cleo’s right in front of me. She melds herself around me, so my face is near her neck.

“It’s okay,” she murmurs, one arm wrapping lightly around my back. Her hand curves around my head. “Just go to sleep. I’ll be here when you wake up.”