The Last Letter(94)

Everything went blurry, and Beckett’s hands wiped at my cheeks.

I laughed when I realized I was crying.

We listened to Dr. Hughes explain that it wasn’t a full remission. She had made significant progress but hadn’t been cured. She was hopeful that the radiation treatment would wipe out the rest, and then we could schedule immunotherapy.

Then she reiterated that over half of all kids with aggressive neuroblastoma relapsed after they’d been declared in full remission, that this wasn’t a guarantee but a much-needed break. Her weekly scans could even be done locally in Telluride, and she’d review them in Denver, no need to drive to Montrose.

I wrote down everything I could process in her binder, hoping I could make sense of it all later. Then Maisie hopped down from the table, and we walked to the car. Maisie and Beckett chattered and laughed, joking about how much ice cream she was going to eat while she had a couple of months off treatment. She declared she was going to eat an entire Easter basket full of chocolate and peanut butter cups.

Beckett hoisted Maisie into the truck, and she buckled in. Then he shut the door and caught my hand as he walked me to my side of the truck.

All at once, it hit me. Maisie had been talking about Easter, which was two months away. My vision swam, and I covered my face with my hands.

“Ella,” Beckett whispered, pulling me against his chest.

I gripped the edges of his coat and sobbed, the sound ugly and raw and real. “Easter. She’s going to be here for Easter.”

“Yeah, she is,” he promised, running his hand down my back in sweeping motions. “It’s okay to plan, you know. To look ahead to what life will be like for the four of us once she’s healthy. It’s okay to believe in good things.”

“I’ve been stuck for so long. Just living scan to scan, chemo to MIBG. We didn’t even buy presents until the week before Christmas because I couldn’t see that far into the future. And now I can see a couple of months out.” Sure, there were weekly scans, but a couple of months felt like an eternity, a gift of the one thing we’d been denied—time.

“We’ll just enjoy it and take advantage of every minute she feels great.”

“Right,” I agreed with a nod, but with the word “remission” being tossed around like a beach ball at a concert, I felt the gut-wrenching longing for more. I’d always pushed thoughts of Maisie dying to the side, but I also hadn’t thought about her living. My world had narrowed to the fight. My infinity existed within the confines of her treatment, never looking too far ahead for fear it took my eyes off the battle of the moment. “I think I’m getting greedy.”

“Ella, you’re the least greedy person I know.” His arms tightened, grounding me.

“I am. Because I’ve been begging for weeks, and now I see months and I want years. How many other NB kids have died while she fought? Three from Denver? And here I am seeing this light at the end of the tunnel and praying it’s not a freight train coming our way. That’s greedy.”

“Then I’m greedy, too. Because I’d give up anything for her to have the time. For you to have it.”

We headed home with Maisie singing along to Beckett’s playlist. Her earlier worries shoved aside for another day and another test.

My worries lingered. Wanting something that was so out of reach had been a distant thought, and now that it was a real possibility, that want was a screaming need that shoved everything else aside and demanded to be heard.

I didn’t just want these few months.

I wanted a lifetime.

For the first time since Maisie was diagnosed, I had real hope. Which meant I had something to lose.

…

Two weeks later, my back hit the wall in my bedroom, and I barely noticed. My legs were around Beckett’s waist, my shirt lost somewhere between the front door and the stairs. His fell somewhere between the stairs and the bedroom.

His tongue was in my mouth, my hands were in his hair, and we were on fire.

“How long do we have?” he asked, his breath hot against my ear before he trailed kisses down my neck, lingering on the spot that always brought chills to my skin and fever to my blood.

“Half hour?” It was a rough guess.

“Perfect. I want to hear you scream my name.” He carried me to the bed, and a few seconds and some shedding of clothes later, we were both blissfully naked.

We were experts at quiet sex, the kind where mouths and hands covered the sounds of orgasms, where you stole showers or middle-of-the-night sessions to avoid the inevitable kid interruptions. We’d long since moved the bed’s headboard off the wall.

But having the entire house to ourselves for a half hour? It was an excuse to be downright hedonistic.

He moved over me, and I cradled his hips between mine as he kissed me to oblivion. No matter how secretive he might be about his time in the military, he was an open book while we were in bed. Our bodies communicated effortlessly, and we somehow managed to get better at it every time we made love. The fire I’d half expected to fizzle out only burned brighter and hotter.

“Beckett,” I groaned when he took a nipple into his mouth and slipped his hand between my thighs.

“Always so ready. God, I love you, Ella.”

“I. Love. You.” Each word was punctuated by a gasp. The man knew exactly how to bring me to the brink with nothing more than a few—