Total pages in book: 28
Estimated words: 26021 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 130(@200wpm)___ 104(@250wpm)___ 87(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 26021 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 130(@200wpm)___ 104(@250wpm)___ 87(@300wpm)
"Then why?"
"Maybe it's just time for me to move on," I lie.
"Bullshit. You love it here. This is your home. This is your family."
"And they aren't your family?" I ask, arching a brow. "You're retiring, Kris. Why do you care if I stay when you won't be here for the new season, either?"
"That's different."
"No, it isn't."
"I'm retiring. I'm not running," he growls.
"I'm not either. I'm just…" I pause, searching for an explanation he'll accept. "I just…I…"
"You're running."
"I'm not running!" I cry, throwing my hands up. A wave of dizziness hits, forestalling any attempt at convincing him quitting my job is what I want. I drop my arms, reaching blindly for the filing cabinet as the room falls out of focus. My knees grow weak.
"Please, not now," I whimper, fighting to stay upright. It's a useless battle. I stumble into the filing cabinet, already sinking toward the floor.
"Elskan mín!" Kris lunges forward to grab me.
I land in his arms, staring up at heaven through bleary eyes.
God, why is he so beautiful?
"Don't you dare pass out on me," he whispers, brushing his lips across my forehead. "Stay with me."
I want to stay with him. More than anything.
"I'm f-f-fine." My voice trembles almost as much as my body. "I just need my m-medicine."
"What medicine? Where is it?"
"Drawer."
He glances from me to the desk, doing a quick assessment, and then hauls me up against his chest. Somehow, he manages to carry me the few feet across my littered office in his skates before sinking into the chair with me in his arms.
I press my face to his shoulder, breathing him in. Trying not to cry or throw up on him. At this point, either is a possibility. I forced myself to eat breakfast this morning—bad idea. My stomach has been churning ever since.
"Jesus Christ, Kelsey," Kris rasps a moment later.
His horrified tone breaks through the fog in my mind. No. Oh no. I roll my head to the side, peeling my eyes open. The top drawer of my desk is open, and he's staring at the bottles of medication tossed inside.
Most of them are for minor things, but the sheer number of them scream sick loud and clear.
My heart clenches in a vise, guilt, and shame crashing through me in tandem.
"Which one do you need?" he asks after a moment, his tone completely level.
"Blue lid," I whisper.
He plucks the bottle from the desk and shakes out a pill before placing it at my lips. I quickly pull it under my tongue, allowing it to melt.
We sit in silence for several minutes, waiting for it to take effect. He's rigid beneath me, his entire body rock hard. I can practically hear the questions pinging around in his mind, but he doesn't voice them. He doesn't say anything.
For the first time, I feel small in his presence.
"I didn't want you to find out this way," I whisper into the silence.
"Find out what exactly?" he asks. "Because I've got about nineteen scenarios running through my head right now, and every single one of them is fucking me up."
I squeeze my eyes closed and tell him what I never wanted him to know. "I'm sick, Kris."
"Yeah, I'm getting that." He crooks a finger beneath my chin, forcing me to face him. "Do you know what's wrong?"
I nod reluctantly.
"Tell me," he orders, his tone full of command.
"Leukemia."
The color drains from his face.
"The actual name of the condition is chronic myeloid leukemia," I hurry to add, hating that look on his face, as if his whole world is crumbling. Hating that I put it there. "It's a chromosome mutation that interferes with the body's ability to create healthy red blood cells."
"How long, Kelsey?"
"It's not terminal," I whisper.
"I know what it is," he says, his voice a soft rumble of sound. "I've volunteered for the American Cancer Society for years. I'm not asking how long you have. I'm asking how long you've known."
"A while," I mumble.
"Tell me, elskan mín."
My stomach flutters at the way he growls that nickname. "Since I was eleven. It's rare for kids to have it, but I was one of the lucky few, I guess." I give him a weak smile that he doesn't return. My stomach quivers again, another wave of guilt and shame crashing together like cymbals in my chest. "I didn't want you to find out this way."
"You didn't want me to find out at all."
"I…" I bite back the lie and admit the truth. "I didn't," I whisper, tears burning their way up my throat. "I've never made it a full five years without a flare-up. I thought I was going to make it this time without having to restart treatment, but…"
"You're falling out of remission," he finishes for me.
A tear slips down my cheek. "I haven't been in to confirm yet, but yeah, it looks that way."