Within These Walls (Within These Walls #1)(29)

“Sounds perfect,” I answered, not turning away from his harsh stare.

I knew my stubbornness meant I’d never see my mother again. I could never go home and hold her, and I’d forever be a failure in her eyes. But I also knew that I’d never be anything but what I was now. I was already a failure. It was best if she never saw it.

Roman took the remaining steps and walked over the threshold. He turned, his gaze downcast and his brows furrowed, like he was choosing his last words carefully. “How did you know she was the one?” he asked, catching me off guard.

“What do you mean?” I stepped forward in anger.

He took a step back and held out his hands again in silent surrender. “I’m not trying to cause another fight. I just want to offer a bit of parting wisdom, little brother. If she was the one, why are you alone at twenty-two? Surely, life wouldn’t be so cruel.”

I squeezed my eyes shut, holding back the wave of emotions threatening to take over. Keeping my voice even and my anger checked, I replied, “When you’ve lost the one person who makes life worth living, give me a call and let me know what you think about the cruelty of it all.”

My brother had made good on his threats that day.

I hadn’t heard from my family since, not even my mother.

The only information I had were the brief financial updates I would hear on the news, but I tried to avoid anything related to the family business.

I was nothing more than a help line for Roman when things got rough. He’d always wanted all the glory, but he had never been willing to put forth the effort to achieve it.

When he’d shown up on my doorstep that night so long ago, I’d had a glimmer of hope that he’d come because he cared, but I should have known better. All my brother cared about was the bottom line at Cavanaugh Investments and whom he would be taking home that night.

As I sat on that familiar bench, looking down the hallway where I’d spent countless hours over the last three years, his parting words came back to the forefront of my mind.

If she was the one, why are you alone at twenty-two? Surely, life wouldn’t be so cruel.

No, life really was that cruel because as I withered away the afternoon, silently sitting on my bench, I thought about Lailah and the life she’d had and all the opportunities she’d never gotten to experience. Making a meal together today was only the tip of the iceberg for her. Dozens of things she’d missed out on were written in that book because she’d spent her life in a hospital.

What if she never gets the chance to do any of them?

That was the definition of cruelty—keeping a special person like Lailah locked inside where no one could see the fire in her spirit and the beauty in her soul. The ironic part, the real twist of the story that made the fates laugh and cackle high up in the clouds, was the realization that I hadn’t even seen the extent of life’s cruelty yet because in that moment, I realized two things.

One, I was falling for Lailah Buchanan.

And two, she was dying.

Eleven: The Promise—Lailah

“I’M GOING TO miss you,” Abigail said softly, wrapping her small arms around my neck. “And I’ll come visit you every week.”

I held her in my arms as her tiny body wrapped around me. Squeezing my eyes tightly, I knew one thing.

She isn’t going to come back.

I’d heard this promise of visits along with promises of phone calls, letters, and emails from many friends throughout the years. But after the first few attempts, the effort to keep in touch would taper off and eventually stop altogether.

It didn’t make me angry. It was the way it was supposed to be.

Life carried on outside these walls.

Abigail’s grandfather, Nash, was being discharged today. He would no longer be confined to a hospital bed. His life was moving on, and so too would Abigail’s. She would have no more visits to the hospital and no more long conversations with me. She was leaving, going back to the life she’d had before she was introduced to scary things like heart surgeries and IVs. Her world would return to the simple life of a nine-year-old, which was exactly how I wanted it to be. No little girl should have to grow up so quickly.

I hugged her a bit tighter, sending a million wishes for her future with every firm grasp.

“Keep writing,” I said into the crook of her neck. “But don’t do it to please your grandfather or because I said so. Don’t write what you think you’re supposed to. Write what makes you happy even if you write about pandas and dolphins every day for the rest of your life.”

She pulled back from our embrace, and the tiniest smile kissed her precious face. “Well, I do like pandas,” she said with a faint giggle.

At that moment, her mother appeared in the doorway to collect her. I gave Abigail another quick hug, and she hopped off, sprinting out the door and down the hallway back to her grandpa’s room.

I thought about Abigail for the rest of the day, seeing her little cherub face in the back of my mind, as I reread Anne Frank: The Diary of a Young Girl and later wrote in my journal.

Would she be a writer or grow up to do something entirely different? The world was at her feet, and she didn’t even know it. None of them did—the normal ones; the ones who didn’t have to worry about the day to day, hour to hour, and minute to minute; the masses of people who woke up each and every day not fearing the hours ahead and the day that would follow; or those who didn’t have to wonder if they’d be around to celebrate the next holiday.