Say the Word(127)

My eyes went wide. “Does everyone I know carry a gun?”

“Probably,” Bash said, shrugging.

“Pretty much,” Fae agreed, grinning as she reached into her purse on the coffee table and pulled out the smallest handgun I’d ever seen in my life — it was barely bigger than my fist.

“Jesus Christ,” I muttered under my breath.

“Time to go,” Bash said. “I’ll grab your suitcase and the tote, you grab the dress.”

I cast one final look around the apartment, sure I was forgetting something vital. When my eyes landed on the closet, I smacked myself on the forehead with an open palm. I couldn’t believe I’d almost left them behind.

“Wait,” I called, crossing the room and pulling open my closet door. I pulled down the Jamie Box first, followed by the lock box. Stacking them, I carried both back toward Bash and Fae, who were hovering by the doorway. “Now I’m ready.”

Bash stared at the boxes for a moment with a question in his eyes, but managed to contain his curiosity for the time being. We headed out into the hallway and, locking the front door behind me, I walked away from my apartment, unsure how long I’d be away from it. I felt sad as I loaded the car, hugged Fae goodbye, and climbed into Bash’s passenger seat but, looking over at the man sitting next to me, I knew everything would be okay in the end.





Chapter Thirty-Three





Then


Jamie coughed violently. Huge, hacking coughs that wracked his entire body where he lay in the hospital bed. I rubbed his back in a soothing gesture, waiting for his heaving to subside.

“You okay?” I asked when he finally grew still.

“Water,” Jamie rasped, his throat dry.

I poured a glass and handed it to him, settling in on the bed beside his body. “Small sips. I don’t want you to choke.”

Jamie rolled his eyes at me. “Sure thing, mom.”

I laughed, but it was a weak, unconvincing sound. I couldn’t be happy — not seeing him like this. There were so many tubes in his frail body, I’d lost count. He was fighting off another bout of pneumonia, brought on by his rigorous treatment schedule.

Since moving away from Jackson, we’d had the best doctors and medical care and, at first, things seemed to get better. After the amputation of his left leg, Jamie recovered almost completely. He was practically in remission.

It didn’t last, though.

The cancer came back, metastasizing in his lymph nodes and lungs. He was labeled Stage IV, which, I knew, meant the odds of his survival dropped radically. The nodules appearing in his internal organs were, for the most part, totally inoperable. The chemotherapy drugs were no longer effective.

His doctors had predicted he’d live a year, at most.

He’d lived another three.

My brave, resilient twin had fought for his life — fought hard — these last few years. And though I’d stood by his side the whole time, this was one thing I couldn’t fix. One battle I couldn’t wage in his stead. I could only watch, helplessly, as he got sicker, weaker, thinner. As the life was gradually leached from his body.

“Come on, why don’t you try to eat something. Get your strength up,” I suggested, gesturing toward the tray of untouched hospital food that was slowly growing cold on his bedside table. “You have to eat if you’re going to get better, Jamie. You know that.”

“I’m not.”

“You’re not eating?” I asked, narrowing my eyes at him. “Well, that’s just plain stubborn.”

“No,” Jamie said, shaking his head weakly. “I’m not getting better.”

I stilled, my breath catching in my throat.

Jamie smiled wanly. “Don’t look so shocked, light of my life. You had to know it would happen at some point.”

“James Arthur,” I snapped, fighting the tears that were rapidly filling my eyes. “Don’t you ever say anything like that to me again.”

“Lux,” he whispered, his expression grave. “I’m dy—”

“No!” I leapt to my feet beside his bed, tears streaming down my cheeks. “No you aren’t. This is just like last time. You’ve been sick before. You’ll get better again. Everything will be fine.”

Jamie’s eyes were closed and his head moved back and forth, rejecting my words with each shake.

“Don’t shake your head at me, Jamie!”

His eyes opened slowly and caught my gaze. “This isn’t like last time, sis. You know it; I know it.”

I opened my mouth to protest but he cut me off.

“I’m dying,” he whispered, his words slicing into me like a knife to the heart. “And you know what? I’m not angry anymore.” Jamie sat up straighter in his bed and stared at me with a resigned look in his eyes. “I was angry as hell for a long time. Angry at my diagnosis. Angry at you for being able to walk and run when I couldn’t. Angry at Mom and Dad for being so f*cking weak. Angry at my goddamn self for ignoring that muscle cramp in my left leg for six months so I might get a shot at playing varsity football.”

My tears wouldn’t stop — as he spoke, they only dripped faster.

“I’m not angry anymore, Lux. I know that if a total stranger evaluated my life by what he could see my medical chart, he’d think I spent a miserable twenty-one years on this earth. But he’d be wrong. Cancer isn’t my life. My diagnosis isn’t my destiny.” Jamie smiled at me, courage in his eyes. “Sure, it’s played a part in who I am. But the significant things aren’t written in the doctors’ files. I mean, you’re the most important person in my life, and there’s not a single line about you in the whole James Arthur Kincaid folder.”