Uncovering You: The Complete Series (Mega Box Set) (180 page)

In truth, I’m starting to suspect he’s a little like me. He shows one face to the world, but it’s a mask of his true self.

For example: he’s not a complete asshole. He’s revealed himself to be sweet and tender and kind and even thoughtful. He’s not crass and rude all the time.

I feel privileged to have seen that side of him. I’m not sure I’m worthy of it—in fact, I
know
I’m not—but that doesn’t mean I can’t appreciate it.

I’ll stick with James so long as I have a chance. If the cancer gets real bad—that’s when I need to get out. I can’t hope for a third miracle.

I’ve beaten it twice. Going three-for-three is going to require some killer luck on my side.

Ha:
killer
. Such irony.

My phone buzzes with a text. It’s from James.

Him:
You going to be late? I’m starved for you. WE NEED TO FUCK.

I smile. Tonight’s going to be fun.

43.

I was too optimistic.

When James picks me up, my body decides to start acting up. The second I slip in his Porsche, a heavy, dense fatigue crashed into me.

Probably the chemotherapy drugs.

“Do you know what I was doing the whole time you were at the library?” he asks.

I shake my head, trying hard not to vomit. “No.”

“Thinking of all the ways I’m going to make you come.” His hand lands on my thigh. “Starting right now.”

Oh God
. I close my eyes. I don’t have the strength for this now.

I press my legs together. “James… I need to shower first.”

“Like hell you do.” He glances at me from the driver’s seat. His hand takes a firmer grip on my leg. “Now open up.”

“Not… now.” I try to smile, but it’s hard when the contents of my stomach keep trying to make their way up my throat. “I’m exhausted.”

A strange look crosses his face. He hesitates.

“I’m really,
really
tired,” I say. “Not now. Please?”

And just like that, he pulls away.

We don’t speak the rest of the way home, however.

***

My eyes shoot open in the depth of the night. I’m soaked in sweat. I’m going to be sick.

I clutch my stomach and rush out of bed. A burp brings the taste of vomit to my mouth. I almost hurl right there.

Somehow, I keep it together long enough to make it to the bathroom. I slam the door and hit the lock, then curse myself for swinging it too hard.

James will have heard.

But I don’t have time to contemplate that. I fall to my knees in front of the toilet and spew all my guts into the porcelain bowl.

“Oh God, oh God, oh God.”

I start to cry.

I hate throwing up. Hate it, hate it, hate it. I’ve hated it since I was a little girl. I hate it from the very depths of my soul. I hate the feeling of food moving the wrong way. I hate the burn of bile in my throat. I hate the helplessness that surrounds it, hate how damn
vulnerable
it makes me feel.

My conscious mind flees as the horrendous convulsions rock my body.

The attack is unrelenting. It goes on and on and on until I’m dry heaving into the toilet. Still it goes on. Tears sting my eyes. The smell is awful. My mouth tastes horrible. Every time I think it’s over more comes.

Finally it’s done. There’s drool and spittle all over my chin. I feel used. Disgusting. Sullied. I shudder as I flush the toilet one last time.

An urgent knocking comes from the door.

“Celeste. Celeste! Are you all right?”

I squeeze my eyes shut. Go away, go away, go away, please, please, please go away, I plead.

“Celeste!” More knocks. Louder. More urgent. “What the hell is going on? Celeste!”

“I’m fine,” I manage. I swallow down hard on a convulsion that tries to wreck me. “Go away.”

“No!” His answer comes as an angry growl. “Celeste, I can hear you throwing up! Open the door, let me help you!”

“No, James! I’m fine. Go to sleep.”

The doorknob rattles. “Celeste I’m not fucking going anywhere. Open this door!”

“I don’t need you!” I scream. I huddle into myself just as another wave of nausea hits.

Suddenly the door crashes open. I jerk my head up.

James is there. He’s standing nude in the middle of the splintered doorframe. The lock is busted. He shouldered his way through.

I stare, tears in my eyes, horrified at being
caught
, terrified of what he might say or think or do…

But his anger morphs into concern the moment he sees me. In a second, he’s right there on the floor beside me. He drapes an arm over my shoulders and holds me to him.

Never mind the spit, never mind the vomit. James disregards it all and only holds me.

I’m trembling in his arms. My old instincts tell me to shy away, to shrug him off, but I…

I don’t want to.

When James holds me I feel safe. It’s a dangerous feeling. I can’t let him become my protector. I can’t involve him in this shit. I can’t, I can’t, I can’t.

“Are you done?” he whispers softly. Even his voice is gentle. It breaks my heart.

Defeated, I bob my head up and down.

“Then let’s get you cleaned up, love.” He helps me rise and runs the tap. He leans me over and cups cool water over my mouth.

He fills a small glass and brings it to my lips. “Rinse,” he tells me.

I do. He rubs my back.

There’s no judgment, no questions from him.

He really
does
just want to know that I’m okay.

He dabs at my chin and lips with a wet towel. His focus is all on me. He doesn’t make me feel shamed or in any way less.

It’s… astounding
,
really.

He finishes cleaning me. He lifts my chin so his eyes can search mine. “How do you feel?” he asks.

The absolute, fully sincere concern in his voice breaks me. I cannot stay. I have to go. I can’t be selfish and tie him to me right at the moment cancer’s going to take over my life.

I need to run… but my feet are firmly rooted in place.

“Better,” I say, softly. I look down and away.

“Celeste.” He takes my hands. “What happened? What’s going on with you? You’re not…” he grimaces. “Do you have an eating disorder?”

My eyes widen in shock. “No!” I say. “No James, it’s not—I’m not bulimic. This was just… food poisoning. I think.”

“You think,” he quotes me.

“Never have shrimp at a buffet,” I finish lamely.

“Hmm.” His lips form a thin line. It’s painfully obvious he doesn’t believe me.

But he doesn’t press. Instead, he puts his arm around my lower back.

“Okay. Let’s go back to bed.”

PART THREE

Survival

1.

As the weeks pass, it gets harder and harder to hide my cancer from James.

The drugs are starting to take a toll on my body. My appetite has vanished. It’s a struggle to eat. I know I’m getting skinnier because my clothes become too big.

I try to make up for it with protein bars and high-calorie shakes. The less bulk I need inside me to get nutrition, the better.

James has kept up his part of the bargain. He’s abided by my rules.

But I know he suspects something. I can tell from the way he watches me when he thinks I’m not looking. I can tell by the way his eyes go to my scar when we’re in bed together. He’s never asked about it. I appreciate that, but I know he’s wondering where it came from.

If he asks, I’ll say it was from a childhood problem. Which isn’t exactly a lie.

Sex is spectacular as always. My libido isn’t as high as it was, well
before
, but that only means it takes James a few extra minutes to get me going.

I don’t think he minds. I’ve never met a man who’s worshiped my body the way he does.

Summer continues to ignore me. I’ve given up trying to make amends.

Angela and I have a fun little spat once.

One morning, on the way to class, I hear voices in the lobby. I turn the corner and find Angela in a heated argument with the security guard.

I try to walk by without attracting notice. I almost make it, too, until, just feet away from the door, Angela shrieks, “
You!
”

I close my eyes and shudder. She sounds like a birthing cat.

I plaster on a fake smile and turn to the parasitic bitch.

She’s striding across the lobby toward me, long legs flashing, heels making distinct, angry clicks against the marble floor.

“How is it that
she’s
allowed here?” Angela demands to know. “Why can this little slut walk around here like she owns the place, while I’m forbidden access to my own home?”

I face her and raise my chin. I’m not going to tolerate public insults. “Your
husband
lets me in,” I tell her sweetly. “Because, unlike you, I’m not a shallow, vapid, useless gold digger.”

Her eyes widen in shock. She points a finger at me. “How dare you accuse me…”

“I dare because James told me as much,” I smile. I shrug in the most innocent way possible. “At least, that’s what led to your divorce, isn’t it? And now that you’re out of money, you’re trying to get back into his life.”

I sneer. “Look at yourself. Dressed to the nines, at eight am? It’s almost insulting how obvious your motivations are. But don’t take my word for it. Ask James. He’s just upstairs, sleeping soundly,
naked
.”

I give an evil smile. “You know how I know? Because these
slutty
lips…” I point at my mouth. “…just finished giving James the best blowjob of his life.”

I turn and head for the door. “Oh, and unlike you, Angela? I expect absolutely nothing in return.”

With that, I waltz into the street, shoulders high and mood even higher for telling Angela
exactly
what I think.

***

Since that morning confrontation, Angela’s become a non-factor.

I secretly think that maybe I helped.

One evening I come to the apartment and find her entire closet empty. When I asked James about it, he said it was beyond time to get rid of her stuff.

I smile.

I take the Temozolomide tablets daily and have injections once a week on Saturday. The day after is absolutely the worst.

I hide the side-effects from James by spending all of Sunday at the library, “studying.”

There haven’t been any fainting episodes, or sudden onset vertigo, or anything of the sort. As one week becomes two becomes three, a tiny bud of hope grows inside me. Maybe, just maybe… the drugs are working.

The month flies by. When it’s over, I’m back in the hospital for my first follow-up with Dr. Robinson.

I get an MRI scan and wait for the results in his office.

I’m anxious and antsy as I wait for him. I pace the small room.

He enters and gives me a solemn look. He gestures at the chair across his desk.

“Sit down, please.”

“That bad, huh?” I blurt out. Dread washes over me.

He blinks. “No,” he says. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have given you that impression. Let’s pull up your scans, hmm?”

He angles the screen toward me.

“This is from four weeks ago,” he says, pointing to the scan on the left. “And this is the one we just took. This…” He circles a little dark spot with the cursor. “…is the tumor.”

I look at the two images. “They look the same,” I say.

He nods. “Yes. And when I do this…” he superimposes the newer image over the older one, “you can see that the tumor is, in fact,
precisely
the same size.”

I wince. “I’m not getting better?”

“But you’re also not getting worse.” He gives a patient smile. “The drugs should have stopped its progression for now. Unfortunately… they haven’t.”

“So what do we do?” I ask.

“There are a few options. The first is to stay the course. I can’t say that you’re a non-responder to the drugs. If you were, the growth would have become larger. It hasn’t. It’s stayed put. But I would recommend increasing the dose, perhaps adding some other drugs.”

“Is that the best option?”

He hesitates for a long moment. “At the current time… yes.”

“Then let’s do it,” I say. “I don’t need to consider the rest.”

He pauses. “Celeste… I know you’re still in school and lead an active life. With larger doses, you’re going to experience increased side-effects. Lethargy. Malaise. Often, many people who go this route suffer from depression.”

“I don’t care,” I say. “If it gives me the best chance of survival, I want to do it. I can handle it.”

“Okay,” he nods. “But can I reiterate the importance of having a proper support system in place for something like this? Many of my patients find the counseling extremely valuable. There’s always a spot open for you.”

“Thanks, doc.” I smile. “But honestly, I’ll be fine.”

***

Twenty-four hours later, I realize what a grave error I’ve made.

The doctor nearly doubled my intrathecal dose and threw in a cocktail of new drugs to boot. I spent all of last night puking my guts out.

I couldn’t get a wink of sleep.

Lucky for me—so, so, lucky—James is away at an academic summit held at his alma mater.

Sunday only gets worse. I spend the entire day on the floor of his immaculate bathroom, either staring at the ceiling while praying for a respite from the convulsions, or, more often, bent over with my head on the toilet seat, drool and vomit dribbling down my chin.

I manage to fall asleep, once or twice, in that exact position. I consider it a pretty miraculous feat in and of itself.

Finally, when the sky darkens and I regain some of my steadiness, I get up, log onto the computer, and look for a new place to stay.

There’s no hiding
this
from anyone. I need to be gone before James comes back.

2.

“Celeste—what the
hell
is all this?”

I open groggy eyes to find a fuming James standing over me, glaring at the packed boxes by the door.

“Shit,” I mutter. I blink a few times to clear the graininess then sit up and try to get my bearings.