My button nose and thin, cat-like eyes.
My full lips that John couldn’t seem to get enough of back when I was healthy. They’re chapped now but before all of this—the sedations, the pills, and the medicines—they were perfect.
Always glossed for John.
Always kissable.
Now they’re like fucking sandpaper.
My eyes sting with tears.
I turn my head away, staring at the blank white wall to my right. Pressing the big speaker button on the bed, I call for the nurse.
Vickie pops her head in seconds later, eyes tired, but curious.
“Everything okay, Shannon?” she asks. I’m assuming she witnessed the slam of the door that happened moments ago, or heard it at the least.
“Yes. Do you mind turning the lights off? John forgot to turn them off before he walked out.”
“Of course.” Her smile is faint as she reaches for the switch. When it’s off she turns for the door again. “Let me know if you need anything else, okay?”
“I will. Thanks.”
When she’s gone, I exhale, allowing the darkness to wrap around me. I grab a pillow and tuck it behind my head, pressing the back of my head against it, and closing my eyes.
What kind of ungrateful wife am I? I should be pleased to know that a man like John doesn’t want to lose me. He could easily move on to a newer, healthier woman with a great body. Someone who doesn’t have a timer ticking on her forehead.
When the disease returned three months ago, Dr. David said I only had eight months left, if that. Well, it’s been five out of those eight months and the chances have slimmed a lot more.
My health fluctuates.
One day I feel like I could stay up for hours, watch some TV and even eat the lunch John cooks for me whenever he decides to go home and make something, but the next day I will hardly be able to move. My body will ache, and my head will throb. It always feels like needles are stabbing my brain.
I spiral and can never get enough rest, and that’s when Dr. David will sedate me. Because it’s the only thing that can take the pain away. Not even the pills work to take the edge off.
I’m not satisfied with the life I’ve lived. In fact, for the most part, I hated my life until I and my sister were taken away from our drug-dealing mother to live with our grandmother.
We did well—stayed with my grandmother until she passed away four and a half years later. By that point, I’d found a job at a nice bar in uptown Charlotte called Capri and worked long night shifts. Sleep was seldom, but I loved working at that bar. I loved the aura. The music. The lights. That bar was my freedom.
I loved the drinks, tips, and the pure excitement from the patrons. Plus, it was rare for a twenty-one-year-old to be working at such an upscale, trendy place. I considered myself lucky to have even landed the job and refused to take it for granted.
So, maybe I did love my life just a little more after I became a woman and accepted myself. I guess what I’m saying is I’m not satisfied with a certain part of my life and some of the decisions I made years ago. To this day it still haunts me.
Allow me to explain how this particular part of my life began.
TWO
Past
Four years ago
Five months into working full-time at Capri, an upscale bar of freedom in uptown Charlotte, Eugene hired a new bartender and his name was Maximilian Grant.
Everyone called him Max. At first, I hated Max. When Eugene hired him, I worked fewer hours, which resulted in less money and tips.
Plus, well, Max was hot as hell so everyone wanted his face behind the counter much more than mine.
Max had smooth, russet skin. Short, wavy black hair. Piercing almond-shaped eyes the color of honey, and dimples to fucking die for. He was tall and broad. Toned and muscular in all the right places, like those NBA players you can’t help staring at while they’re on screen.
The way he worked up a light sweat while bartending…my God, it was amazing. There were moments when I wanted to angrily lick that sweat away—angrily because for some reason I envied him. He was my competition and he was in my way.
The girls came just for him and even the hot guys thought he was a cool enough dude to ask for a drink from. They paid him extra, which meant I was stuck in my crappy corner getting cheap tips from perverts and loners.
Max had no problem with me at all. I mean, why would he? He was getting paid well. He was nice-looking and everyone knew it. He owned a nice car, had a hot girlfriend—he had it all. The list could go on for days. He may as well have been living the life of a professional ball player.