Only In Dreams (Stubborn Love Series) (27 page)

“Jesus, it feels like the room is spinning,” he cries. “ I think I’m going to be sick again.”

I immediately snap into action, standing and pulling him up to his feet. With his vision troubles he is hesitant, but eventually trusts me. “Come on, sweetie, let’s get you in a nice cool bath. Those always help with the headaches.”

I hear him whimper as we move toward the master bath.

“Are you okay?” I ask, trying to look at his face, slightly swollen from the increased dosage of steroids he is now on.

“I’m so sorry,” he groans, his voice cracking.

“Henry, there’s nothing to apologize for.”

“I love you so much,” he insists, as I set him on the edge of the tub, making sure he is secure before turning and switching on the water.

“I know you do, and I love you, too,” I say with a smile. “Now let’s get you out of these dirty clothes.”

He grips my arm, looking up at me. It’s obvious he can’t focus. “I shouldn’t have done this to you, and I’m sorry. You have to forgive me.”

With all of my clothes on, I step into the deep tub. Henry never let’s go of me, but silently tilts his head from side to side, trying to figure out what I am doing. After I immerse myself, I tug on one of his legs and then the other, guiding him and helping to lower him between my legs, his shirt now drenched and clinging to his body.

“What are you doing?” he mutters.

“Shh, shh, shh,” I hush him. “Lay back.”

He does as I instruct. I wrap one arm around his neck, resting it on his chest, and with the other I cup the water and gently comb it through his hair.

I sink lower into the water until my lips are touching the tip of his ear. In a breathy soft voice I begin to sing, “I’ve got a daisy on my toe, it’s not real, it does not grow. It’s just a tattoo of a flower, so I’ll look cuter in the shower. It’s on the second toe, of my left foot. A flowering stem that has no root.”

I feel his body tremble slightly as he snickers. “You’re so weird,” he grumbles before laughing some more.

I ignore him, finishing my silly song; “I’ve got a daisy on my toe, my right foot loves, my left foot so.”

I sit, holding Henry in my arms, the water now rising to his elbows. I think about the water washing away this nightmare, bringing my Henry back to me. I know this won’t happen, but I still think about it. Hope for it. Shifting in the tub, I lift a foot and use my toes to turn off the water. I feel Henry laugh again.

“What’s so funny?” I ask.

“Your story about Emmie having monkey toes—how she can pick up almost anything with them.”

“What about it?” I question.

“Just love that I have a monkey toe girl, too,” he says, and I watch as he closes his eyes, a deep exhale pushing out of his body.

“Are you feeling better?” I whisper.

“Yeah,” he moans, not opening his eyes.

“I don’t want to be anywhere else,” I say softly. “I just want you to know that.”

He nods; I can feel him drifting off to sleep in my arms. I decide to give him a few minutes before we get out. I rest my other arm around him and lean my head back, closing my eyes for a moment. I’m not one to pray, but here in this moment I find myself asking for just a little longer before this new stage becomes our norm.

Two Months Later ...

THE CURTAINS ARE closed. I am careful to make sure they overlap one another, not allowing any sunlight to sneak in between the folds. It seems like the only way this makes any sort of sense is when the place Henry and I had created together, as a home, is shrouded in darkness. I can hear Emmie’s mother in the kitchen, busying herself cooking more food than I will ever be able to eat.

“Can I get you anything, sweetie?” Emmie asks behind me.

I shake my head no. It doesn’t even feel right when I hear my voice. It’s hard to explain, but when I talk, it’s almost like I expect Henry to answer me. None of this new reality seems right. It feels like something I’m going to wake up from at any moment.

Henry’s grandmother has taken care of the funeral details—where his body was to go—but all of the styling options are left to me. I wonder how people do this all the time. Choose a casket, a color for the fabric inside; do you want an image on the tombstone or just words? What music would you like at the funeral? Will there be any special words read at the service? I was his friend for four years and his wife for seven months. How can I possibly answer all of those questions? How could he leave me?

I watch as Emmie reaches up to open the curtains I’d so carefully pulled closed the day before.

“Leave them,” I gasp desperately, reaching up with one hand. Emmie stops and turns to look at me. I know this is hard on her, too. I can see she wants to fix it—that’s what Em does. She fixes everything. But you can’t fix this. It’s like the hole that Henry’s mother warned me about. It’s so deep your body aches, wanting to find something to fill it, and you know nothing ever will.

“Colin called this morning to let me know he and Olivia made it back okay,” Emmie says as she walks to the chair next to me and sits down.

“That’s good,” I reply, staring at a picture on the coffee table of Henry and I on our honeymoon. He looks like my Henry, not the man I said goodbye to. I want to tell Emmie to leave, but I know she won’t understand. It’s hard to be around someone who has her person still, after you lost yours. I never knew I could feel anything except love for Emmie, but somewhere inside me, there lurks a scarier version … a version of me who hates her. I hate Colin, too. I hate anyone who has what I lost.

“He was a good man, Paige.”

I turn my head, glaring at my friend. “Was there ever any questioning whether or not he was a good man?” I snap.

“No,” Emmie quickly replies, trying to find the words to state what she meant. “That’s not what I was saying.”

“Then what were you trying to say?” I ask coolly.

Emmie bows her head, exhaling deeply. “Just that I know you’ll miss him.”

I shudder, my shoulders folding in as I pull my legs close to my body. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have snapped.” My voice cracks as the tears begin rolling down my cheeks once again. I’ve cried so much since Henry died, that most of the time, I don’t even notice when it starts.

“Sweetheart, it’s okay,” Emmie says, reaching out and placing an open hand on my arm. “Nobody can understand what you’re going through but you. You’re twenty-seven years old, you shouldn’t have to deal with this.”

“I didn’t know you could hurt this much.” As I speak, the nasal sound consumes my voice. The pressure in my head clicking and popping as the congestion from the hours of sobbing shifts in my head. “I miss him so much.”

Emmie doesn’t speak; she falls to her knees, and like the perfect friend she is, pulls me into her embrace. I wish I hadn’t had such terrible thoughts only moments ago. I can’t hate her—I hate the pain. Emmie rocks me until I lose track of time, the tears now dry on my swollen cheeks.

“I don’t think anyone can understand your pain. All we can do is be here for you.”

“I wanted to be there for him,” I say.

“You were,” Emmie insists.

“I know he hung on so long because of me. He knew I wasn’t ready. They told us it would be within weeks after the chemo. Dr. Abbott said it was nothing short of a miracle that he held on for five more months. Henry kept telling me he was going to give me an anniversary. He wanted me to have that.”

“He loved you very much.”

“I wish we could have had an anniversary, just one. It would have meant the world to him,” I repeat softly.

“You were his whole world. All that mattered was that he had you in the end.”

I exhale, my chest shaking as I do. “I never realized what people went through when someone they love dies like this. I thought I did. I watched Henry go through it with his mother, but it’s so different when you’re living it. Did you know they give you a list of things you need to watch for if they choose to pass away at home?”

“No, I didn’t.”

“It’s surreal. Thinking back, it’s like it wasn’t even me going through it. I feel like I was watching someone else’s life play out. When your husband is thirty years old you don’t expect to be watching for the signs it could be the end. How fucked up is that?”

“You’re going to get through this. Come to Texas with me, at least for a little while,” Emmie pleads.

Lifting my head, I smile. “I can’t.”

“Why not? We want you to, you’re our family.”

I look away; I don’t want her to see the truth in my eyes. I can’t go to Texas because Christian is there. I can’t be near him. I can’t possibly grieve for Henry with him around me day in and day out. But that’s just the thing. I should have known Emmie would see right through me.

“Colin can tell him about Henry’s passing. You don’t even have to—” Emmie begins.

“No!” I shout, turning to look her in the eyes. “You have to swear you won’t tell him!”

“I don't understand. He cares about you, too. He’ll want to help you get through this,” she argues.

“I said no! Christian might want to help me, but he won’t be able to stop himself. Eventually he’ll want us to try again.”

“Is that so terrible? You two obviously loved each other.”

“Henry’s body is barely cold, and you want to talk about Christian and me?” I can’t hide the contempt in my voice.

“I’m not saying you rush into his arms, but you’re are still young, Paige. You’re going to fall in love again.”

“Not him,” I insist. “I almost cheated on Henry with him. I won’t do that to his memory.”

“Fine, but he’s going to find out about Henry eventually,” Emmie says. “He’s already been asking questions. He knows something’s wrong.”

“Umm—” I hear Em’s mom’s voice from the doorway. “You have a visitor, sweetheart.”

I peer past her and see Christian standing behind her; he looks like he hasn’t had much sleep. I can’t speak. I open my mouth, but the words won’t come. I tell myself I need to shout for him to leave, but still, no words.

Emmie stands up, crossing the room to join her mother. “We’ll leave you two alone.”

Before I know it, Christian is standing right in front of me, alone in the room with the door closed. He crumples a piece of paper he is holding in his hand. It’s obvious, he is struggling just as much as me for what to say. “I’m so sorry,” he softly offers at last.

Finally something clicks in my head—anger—and with that I am able to find the words that have been escaping me. “Damn your brother.”

I watch as he furrows his brow. “He didn’t tell me about Henry. Trust me, I was pretty pissed he didn’t.”

“Then who?” I demand.

Christian hesitates. He looks at the paper in his hand and then back to me. “It was Henry, he told me.”

I shake my head. “You’re not making any sense, what the hell are you talking about?”

Christian quickly moves forward, shoving the piece of paper into my hand, and when he nears, I can see his swollen, bloodshot eyes. It’s obvious he’s cried recently. My heart stops for a moment until he steps back.

“Just read it,” he instructs me.

My hands are trembling; the room is so dark, lit only by a lamp on the other side. I have to hold the note close to my face to make out the words. Immediately I recognize the handwriting. It belongs to Henry.

Christian,

We haven’t officially met, but I feel like I already know you from what Paige has told me. She’s a very special lady, isn’t she? She won my heart the moment I saw her. I’ve spent the last four years trying to show her just how much I love her, and I hope I’ve succeeded.

I wanted to write you this letter to let you know I love Paige so much, and I want her to be happy. As happy as she has made me. I’m not sure if you know, but I’m dying, and if I’ve sent this, I may already be gone. I saw you and Paige on our wedding day. The way you argued so passionately for her heart, and the look in her eyes.

Perhaps it was selfish of me to marry her after seeing that look, after knowing she felt the same way about you. I didn’t want to die alone, and I didn’t want to give up the one person who made me happier than I had ever been.

But now that I’m gone, I want that for my Paige. I want to know that she is going to spend the rest of her life loving and being loved, not mourning me. She deserves that. Help her live her dreams, hold her hand when you’re walking next to her, she loves that, and hold her when she cries. She won’t make it easy on you; we both know that’s not her.

Fight for her, she’s worth it. She’s yours now, so please be there for her, and help her find that joy again. That joy that she gave me every day until my last.

-Henry

My arms drop down to my side, as I clench the letter tightly in my fist. I can feel my chest tightening, my breaths growing shallow. My brain’s not sure what part of the letter to process first. He saw Christian and I on our wedding day? My heart aches to the point where I wonder if it might physically crack. I push that thought aside, and question what Henry could have possibly been thinking. I’m not something he could just give away.