43. If Only

43

If Only

Dax

Saturday, June 10 th

8:27 a.m.

My phone pings with an incoming text as I steal a glance out the window, watching Brighton's interaction with Chris. Tension coils tight in her movements as she takes a couple of retreating steps away from him.

She shoves a hand at the mic. Chris thrusts it into her face, and she shakes her head, her hair whipping around her face. He stalks after her as she turns and races up the stairs. She rounds on him at the last second, bouncing down the steps as she closes the distance between them, jamming a finger into his chest as she meets him on the sidewalk. He throws his hands in the air, his face reddening as he yells at her.

I rip open the door, and she jolts around to face me, relief replacing the fear in her eyes at the sight of me. She rushes past me to the open door.

"We're done here," she growls through gritted teeth. "Do not set foot on my doorstep again."

Jenks scowls, raking a hand down his face. "You can't hide forever." He watches us, his sharp eyes not missing anything. His nostrils flare as he stalks off, waving his hand for the camera guy to follow him.

"Hey," I holler after her as she stomps down the hall toward the kitchen. "What's wrong?"

She turns, leaning against the counter behind her. "I wasn't thinking. This isn't good."

My phone chimes again, reminding me of the text. I drop my gaze to it, confused by what it says.

Liam: Can you come home?

"Is everything okay?" Brighton comes to stand beside me, glancing at the screen over my shoulder.

"I don't think so."

"You can take my truck. Or I can drive." She leans over the table, grabbing a set of keys from the middle, sensing the urgency in my stiff posture. She is clearly confused, but before she can ask any more questions, I take off.

I hurry out of the foyer and onto the street, her footsteps following me. I hail a cab, waiting as one passes. Another comes to a stop a few car lengths ahead of me. The commotion draws the reporters' attention, but I hurry past them, ignoring as questions are hurled my way.

" . . . any information pertaining to the recent murder."

" . . . was the victim associated with the hospital murders? Does she work at Mount Sinai?"

" . . . What about the one at the bridge . . . ?"

"I'll call you later." I yank the back door open, halfway leaning in as she comes to a stop beside me next to the cab. I lean out of the backseat and peck the top of her head. "I'll text you if we need anything."

The cabbie drives away as I shoot off a text.

Me: On my way

There's no reply.

"West Fifty-Seventh and Eighth."

I get a head nod as the driver's eyes meet mine in the rearview mirror.

And I try to calm my nerves.

It's temporary.

Fleeting.

A moment.

These are the things I keep repeating to myself.

And I don't know what to do.

Even through sheer determination, I'm failing.

Doing the one and only thing I was told not to do.

I close my eyes as I try to process what this could mean. She needs me. He needs me. I have no way to help either of them. The music drowns out the sound of traffic as we make our way through the city, everything blurring together.

"We're here." The driver's voice breaks me from my trance. I take a twenty from my back pocket and toss it over the back seat as I fly out the back door without so much as a thanks.

I fly past the doorman and launch myself up the stairs, taking them two at a time. Out of breath by the time I make it to our floor, I try to get the key in the lock, surprised by the lack of sounds from my typical welcoming committee. I swing open the door to find all the lights off and both dogs lying guard in front of Liam's room.

"Liam?" I take off through the entry and past the living room, stopping at Liam's door. I pound my fist on the wood and open it after I don't get an answer. "Hello?"

The scent of raw, overpowering vomit and cleaning chemicals stings my nose.

He was sick. Again.

Axel's steps are cautious and reserved as he gazes up at me, asking permission to go to Liam. I ruffle his ears as Bane disappears around the far side of the bed, and the dog's intuition starts to worry me.

The mound of blankets on the bed doesn't budge. I take a few steps into the room, listening for the sound of the shower.

There's nothing but bitter silence.

I'm moments away from panic when he sniffles and utters a strained, "I can't do this."

Relief washes over me. I make my way around the far side of his bed near the windows and find Liam seated on the floor with his knees pulled to his chest, his forehead resting on his forearms. His sleeves cover his hands, and the hood of his sweatshirt is over his head, covering his face. Bane lays a couple of feet away from him, his chin resting on his paws.

"But it's working." I drop onto the lump on the bed, splaying across a pile of thick blankets and pillows. "You only have two weeks of treatment le—"

"I don't care," he interrupts. The words are pained and difficult. The crack in his voice comes a second before his shoulders tremble from broken sobs.

I reach for him but stop at the last second, remembering how much he said touch bothers him. The tips of his fingers, the sensitivity in his feet, the face rash and mouth sores, uncontrollable nosebleeds. He's withering away before my eyes, and I can't do anything to help. To make him feel better.

"Something's wrong." It's barely a whisper, like the words take too much energy. And he starts to cough.

I roll off the heap, dropping my feet to the floor beside him. Axel stays seated a few feet away, whimpering, and Bane joins him. None of us know what to do.

"You have the rest of the weekend and then infusions. You said they make you feel better. You got this."

"Please," he begs, rolling his face to the side so I can see his tear-stained, blotchy cheeks. "Tell her I can't."

I'm not a religious person. And I'm pretty sure I've never said a prayer in my life, but the second those words roll off his tongue, I start pleading. Don't do this to him. Please. Take his pain and suffering and put it on me. Help me help him. This isn't it. This can't be it.

Please, please, please.

I am his feet. I am his determination. I am his strength.

Tears roll off my chin, the droplets blooming as they fall onto my T-shirt.

Liam's chapped, peeling lips turn into an ornery grin when our eyes meet. "Look at you. Pull yourself together."

I wipe a hand across my cheek, chuckling. "We can do this."

"I know. But that doesn't mean I want to."

"I get that."

"It takes forever for me to feel better, and it's getting worse and worse each time. I can't stop the tightness in my chest whenever I think about it." His voice is breathy, weak. He rubs his fingers over his ribs, agony filling his eyes as a coughing fit takes over. He tucks his head against his arms, turning away from me.

"You've made it this far."

He drops his head against the mattress and stares at the ceiling. "She didn't explain this part."

"What part?" His reference to Brighton doesn't go unnoticed, but I don't want to add to Liam's stress. And I don't know how to be near her without screwing everything up for him.

"My wanting to quit."

"That's because you can't."

"What if it doesn't work?" He lolls his head to face me. The purplish hue under his eyes weighs heavy as a reminder of what he's going through, even when he doesn't voice it. He pulls his hood off his head, rubbing a hand over his patchy scalp. "Can you hand me that?" He points beside me on the nightstand.

"You can't think like that." I grab his ball cap, noting Mom's green notecard with Gran's phone number, and turn to watch him. I pocket the paper, hoping he doesn't notice. I don't want them involved. Not now. The reality of the situation hits me. I want to be strong for him, but all I feel is weakness.

I fucking hate cancer.

Liam groans in acceptance, pinching his eyes closed. He uses the mattress for leverage, and I stand, offering my arm to pull him to his feet. My heart races as he takes his first unsteady step, letting go of my hand. I have the urge to walk behind him with my arms outstretched like he's a toddler learning to walk. But I don't, knowing he wouldn't want me to.

"One week off, three more to go." He repeats this to himself over and over as he makes his way to his bathroom. He rubs a hand over the back of his neck, taking a breather against the open doorway as he turns to face me. His sweats and hoodie sag against his lanky frame.

"I don't know if I can make it through this," he says in a low tone. And then quieter. "I can't." His face is ashen. His lower lip and chin tremble as his chest bursts in and out with rapid breaths. He rocks backward, stumbling. His body crumbles as slow as molasses. When his head connects with the vanity, there's a sickening crack.

I can't move fast enough.