Sloth (Sinful Secrets 1)

Kellan says something. The doctor looks around the room, at several younger people in white coats, and Arethea and a woman changing out the garbage can. “Everyone, we need a minute, just the two of us. And maybe her.” Dr. Willard nods at me.

Kellan says something about, “hurt her,” but I can’t hear him as the room clears out.

“She came here on her own, right?” the doctor asks him. Willard’s eyes flick to me, and Kellan nods once. “If she’s half as tough as you, she’ll do alright,” the doctor tells him.

“You’re late to the ballgame,” Dr. Willard says, “and I know you’re in a lot of pain right now, but once I get you in remission all the bone pain will be gone. If it goes real bad, I’ll make sure you’re comfortable—but I think you can do this.”

A few soft words from Kellan and the doctor presses Kellan’s hand between his, arches his brows at me, and wipes his eyes. And I know I should go.

I’m scared and I should go. Protect myself. But that’s not what I do.

THEY START CHEMO WHILE he sleeps that night. Arethea tells me he’s getting a huge dose of steroids with it, and I should expect him to be restless. I guess restless for someone on a Morphine-like painkiller is occasional twitching and a few soft moans.

Sometime after Arethea’s 2 AM vitals check, he stirs behind me. He runs his hands over my arm and sides, the motion light and reverent.

I’m breathless for a long moment as he settles around me. I think I understand. Why all great things are sad. Why silence aches. Why people lose their way. Why when I see a lone figure, I wonder who she’s missing and not who she’ll meet. Why babies die when they’re not touched. Why young girls cradle letters from strange boys with nameless pain upon their hearts.

We’re not meant to be alone. We’re made with holes inside our souls. The only way to survive is to fill them. I think the catch is, you don’t get to choose with what.

I open my eyes. I think I opened my eyes... but I guess I’m dreaming. Because I’m back at Memorial Sloan Kettering. I blink slowly in the dream and look around the room. The wrong room. The corner room. But dreams are like that.

I inhale. I shut my eyes. It smells like... antiseptic. And the sheets. Hospital sheets with their smell... the stale, papery smell. That fucking smell sends a jolt of terror through me.

Breathe.

I have these dreams sometimes. I have to close my eyes and breathe.

It’s not real, Kelly. It’s just a dream. My inner monologue is always Ly’s voice. Thinking of him...

I open my eyes. There’s the wall, TV, rocking chair.

Cold fear sweeps me. My body tightens and... my legs. My hips and back... They hurt.

Fuck no. Fuck me. All the sweat and... I’m wet. Water. I can see it spray over the windshield.

Cleo. Cleo... water.

I look down, but I know already what I’ll see. It’s not my old line. Not my old line. This central line is new.

I start to pant. I can feel the pain of each breath in my aching ribs. My sore cheek. I’m on my side. I’m in a bed. Hospital bed.

“Oh God.” I think I’m going to be sick. I try to get up off the bed. I try to throw my legs over the side but something’s—

“Kellan?”

Cleo.

Her hands cup my cheeks. My chest pumps, each deep breath a lance of pain. I look down at my central line.

“Oh Kellan... Damnit.” Cleo grabs my face. The left side throbs under her fingers.

“Oh.” She moves her hand. “I’m sorry.” Her fingers skate over my sore jaw. I realize she’s straddling my lap. “Are you okay?”

“Fuck.” I inhale against her hair and pull her closer. I don’t mean to, but I moan... “This room.”

My fingers play with the silky fabric of my jersey... I feel my brother climb into bed. His thin hands on my neck and shoulders. “The day before...” he died “he said he loved me.” He was worried... about me. Lyon was better. I was sick.

I lock down at Cleo, pressed against my chest, and raise my knees around her, holding so she won’t go yet.