Pretty Pink Ribbons (A Touch of Fate 2)

“What we’re up against?” I clarify. Levi brushes his nose against mine and then kisses me softly.

“Yes, we. Us. Me and you,” he mumbles, his lips brushing over mine with each word. “You’re not doing this alone, not any of it. Absolutely everything you go through, I will go through with you.” My heart flops over in my chest as I soak in his words.

“That’s a lot, and I would never ask you to do that.”

“That’s the thing, you don’t have to ask me. Because that’s just what you do when you care about someone.” Levi’s thumb runs a slow path across my bottom lip before brushing my bangs out of my eyes. “I couldn’t imagine not doing this with you.”

“I’ll warn you, it’s not pretty. There are days when I get so depressed just thinking about things that I can barely get out of bed. And eating? Not happenin.’”

“That’s why you didn’t eat much when I took you on the picnic.”

“That night it was the nausea. But my appetite, in general, is fading. I’m just not hungry, and most of the time when I do eat, it’s so that you, Luke and Benny don’t ask questions.”

“I won’t push you to eat, baby, but you have to keep yourself fed so that you can stay strong and fight this,” he says with conviction. “I’ll start cooking for you.”

“I’d love for you to cook for me.” I kiss him gently and smile. “I just don’t want you to get your feelings hurt if I don’t eat much.”

He purses his lips and nods, his eyes searching mine. “Stay with me tonight.” That’s Levi . . . never one to ask, only tell.

“I was already planning on it.” I slink down on the bed and wrap my naked body around his, and it’s the single best feeling in the world.

As it turns out, Levi makes one hell of a pillow. I don’t think I’ve ever fallen asleep as quickly as I did last night. Unfortunately, as per usual lately, I woke up way before I wanted to, so I’ve spent the past several hours watching Levi sleep. I can’t count the number of times I’ve wanted to touch him or kiss him, but he just looks so peaceful and I’ve missed being with him like this. Awake or asleep, he has a calm presence that somehow soothes my soul.

My bladder finally forces me to sneak out of bed and pad down the hall to the bathroom. I glance around the room as I take care of business, noticing that somehow my clothes made their way from being strewn across Levi’s bedroom to being folded and stacked neatly on the bathroom counter. I smile, wondering when he did this.

Right before I jump in the shower, I spot a clock on the wall. It’s only eight a.m. and I recall Levi saying he doesn’t have to be up at any certain time today. As I wash up, I think about what I’ll make him for breakfast and I find myself smiling again.

In and out quickly, I grab a towel from the bathroom pantry to pat myself dry. I slip on my shorts from yesterday, hating that I don’t have a clean change of clothes and forgoing underwear altogether, and I walk back into Levi’s room to rummage through his closet. Grabbing the first t-shirt I find, I pull it over my head and return to the bathroom. I rinse my mouth out with some mouthwash and then run my fingers through my hair.

I’m standing in front of the mirror when it happens. A chunk of hair is tangled around my fingers, and the sight of it makes my stomach drop. Panic sets in and I reach up, running another hand through my hair, only to come up with more chunks. “No, no no no,” I whisper, frantically pulling the stray hairs from my hands. “This isn’t happening. It’s too soon.” I shake my head furiously and, without warning, tears start falling down my face. My hand comes to mouth and I hold back a sob.

I can’t do this here; I need to be at home. I want to be at home. All the articles and pamphlets in the world can’t prepare you for what it’s like to actually lose your hair. They can tell you it’s going to happen and when it’s going to happen, but in the grand scheme of things, there’s no way to prepare for the way it rips you apart.

I tiptoe quietly into Levi’s room, dig an old receipt out of my purse and scribble a quick note to him.

I lay the note on the pillow next to him so he won’t miss it, then walk out of his bedroom, quietly shutting the door behind me. I’m barely holding on by a thread, and I just need to be alone right now.

I DON’T REMEMBER THE drive home or walking in the house, and I certainly don’t remember how I ended up standing in my bathroom in front of the mirror with a pair of clippers. But here I am, staring at my reflection, daring myself to get it over with.

I look like hell. My eyes have dark circles under them and my cheekbones are prominent, a product of the weight I’ve slowly been losing. I rub a chunk of hair between

my fingers and watch as several loose strands fall to the floor. Who in their right mind would find this attractive?

My lip quivers, followed by my chin, and I squeeze my eyes shut, vowing that I can do this. Not that there are many options. I could let my hair fall out slowly, but that’s not how I want this to happen. My plan was to do this gracefully, and I had always told myself that when my hair started to fall out, I’d simply shave it. Well, I’d been fooling myself because that is much easier said than done.

I don’t want to lose my hair.

I don’t want to be bald.

“Fuck,” I cry, throwing the clippers on the counter. I sink to the floor, a pile of loose limbs and tears. A deep sob rips from my throat and I bury my face in my hands. My mind is racing, battling itself at every turn, one minute telling me to stay strong, and the next telling me to let it all out. My cheeks are flushed and my body starts trembling as self-pity washes through me. My sobs turn into gasps as my lungs fight against the screams that have been clawing to get out.

This isn’t fair. This isn’t fair. This isn’t fair.

Those three words cycle in my head over and over again, until I get so fed up with my own damn brain that I grip my hair in my fists and pull . . . hard. I growl, pushing up from the floor. A chunk of hair falls from my hand and I look down to see dozens of strands scattered across the tile floor. I’m yanking on my hair and reminding myself how unfair life is when the doorknob to my bathroom starts rattling. I stop dead in my tracks, hands in hair, eyes red and puffy, hot tears streaking down my cheeks, and I stare at the wood, waiting to see what’s going to happen.

“Open the door, Laney.” I sigh in relief when I hear Benny’s voice through the door instead of Luke’s. My little brother doesn’t need to see this. No one needs to see this.

“Go away, Benny.” My hands drop from my hair and I turn around, propping them up on the sink. My head dips low and I draw in a ragged breath.