by Susan Stoker
“The last few weeks have been great. I’ve loved getting to know you…again. Everything is new for me, and it’s been exciting to learn your likes and dislikes and your quirks. I love your hair. I love the way you smell. I love your snarkiness and the way you’d do anything for your friends. I love how you look at little Annie, and I love how you think of everyone but yourself first. You stand up for the little guy, the oppressed. I see you, Mary. I see how you might tell off a man who didn’t bother holding open the door for someone after he went through it, but then turn around and be polite and respectful to a single mother who looks like she’s at the end of her rope. I love the way you snuggle up to me when we’re watching television, and I love how you argue with me about every fucking thing. It’s you, Mary. Not what you look like. Not how big your tits are. You.”
She stared at him for a beat, then said, “I need to go.”
“Dammit, Mary! Don’t.”
“It’s been a hell of a day and I should go. I need to call Emily and see how she’s doing. And Annie too. They’re having a party this weekend, if the baby is home by then, and I need to see what she needs me to do.”
This seemed familiar too. Mary backing off when things got intense between them. Truck didn’t like it, but he knew he wasn’t going to get anywhere now. Not when the iron shields she held around her were up.
He stood back and gestured to the door. “Running isn’t going to make me love you less, Mare,” he told her. “Running isn’t going to make your decisions any easier, either.”
“Thanks, Einstein,” she mumbled, then headed for the door.
She didn’t say goodbye, and neither did he. She just opened the door, walked through, and softly closed it behind her.
The second he heard it click, Truck let out an exasperated yell and turned and kicked the couch as hard as he could.
Mary heard Truck’s yell of frustration before she’d taken three steps away from his door, but she didn’t slow down. Didn’t go back, even though everything in her was screaming to do just that.
She could barely see where she was going because of the tears in her eyes. She wanted to tell him that she cared. That he’d literally saved her life. That she couldn’t imagine her life without him in it. That his apartment felt more like a home even without her things in it than her own did. That she was proud and happy to be his wife…but she couldn’t.
There was something seriously wrong with her. Every time she opened her mouth to tell him, she froze up. Maybe it was the years of conditioning by her mama when she was little. Maybe it was because the one and only time she’d told someone she loved them, that love was thrown back in her face. She didn’t know.
But she knew she’d just walked out on her one shot at being loved. Truly loved. And she had no doubt Truck loved her. He’d proven it again and again with his words and actions. She knew he wouldn’t give a shit that she didn’t have boobs. Knew that he’d stand by her no matter what her decision was about the reconstruction.
The tears fell from her eyes in a steady stream. Her phone rang with Rayne’s special ringtone, but she ignored it. She couldn’t talk to her best friend right now. Rayne would tell her she was being an idiot. That she should go back and talk to Truck. But she couldn’t. She wanted to be alone. Needed to be alone.
She needed to get used to being alone, because after walking out on Truck, there was no way he’d want to be with her. She was a pain in the ass and she’d just rejected him.
It was better he didn’t know they were married.
Chapter Thirteen
Truck stood in the middle of his destroyed bedroom with his hands on his head, panting. He’d gone a little crazy after Mary left, kicking things, turning over furniture, breaking shit. When he’d run out of things to take his frustration out on in his living room, he’d moved to his bedroom.
He was frustrated that he didn’t remember all the details about Mary being sick. Frustrated that he couldn’t take away her pain. Frustrated that he couldn’t shield her from having to make tough decisions like whether or not to have her breasts reconstructed. But above everything else, he was frustrated that his memory wasn’t coming back as quickly as he wanted.
Taking out those frustrations on his belongings felt good. Turning his dresser over. Picking up his mattress and flipping it up against the wall. The lamp next to the bed had broken, but Truck didn’t give a shit. There were clothes all over the floor and the one picture he had on his wall now had a fist-sized hole in the glass covering it.
Truck was irritated with his doctor and his teammates. He wanted things to be the way they had been…even if he couldn’t remember them. They might not have been perfect, but they had to be better than this.
How could he be with a woman if she wouldn’t even tell him how she felt?
The bottom line was that he wasn’t sure he could be. He needed the words as much as she did.
But the shit thing was, he knew Mary cared about him. She wouldn’t have defended him so staunchly at the bar if she didn’t. She wouldn’t have spent the last few weeks letting him get to know her if she didn’t. She wouldn’t have told him about her cancer if she didn’t.
Cancer.
She’d had fucking cancer. And he’d forgotten about it. How in the hell could he have forgotten that? The woman he loved more than life itself had suffered for months, and he’d fucking forgotten it. And if the few memories that had flitted through his brain were to be believed, it had been one hell of a fight. And he’d been there every step of the way. He had no doubt about that.
The truth hit him like a sledgehammer—and Truck backed up until he hit the wall and slid down it. He sat on the floor and stared blankly at his bed. The box spring was still in place, but the mattress was pushed up against the far wall.
Mary loved him.
She might not be able to say the words, but she did. He knew that as well as he knew his own name was Ford Laughlin.
He was an ass for even thinking he couldn’t have a relationship with her if she didn’t come right out and tell him her feelings.
She’d told him with her actions over and over that she cared. More than simply cared. Even in the last month, he’d seen it. The way her eyes lit up when she saw him. The way she sparkled when they argued. The way she called him Trucker and smiled when she did. The way she sat next to him and played with a thread on his pants. The way she looked right at his scar yet didn’t seem to see it.
Truck closed his eyes and sighed. He’d fucked up tonight. He should’ve waited to tell her he loved her. He’d pushed her too hard. Had pushed for something she might not ever be able to give him. The question was…could he deal with that?
He opened his eyes and nodded. Yeah, he could deal with never hearing the words as long as he had her in his life.
Truck went to stand up, to start cleaning the mess he’d made of his apartment and his life, when something caught his eye. It was a notebook. A plain black and white notebook on the floor by the bed. It must have been dislodged when he’d had his temper tantrum and flipped his mattress.
Truck didn’t think it was his. He could be wrong, though. Lord knew there were a lot of things he didn’t remember about his own life. He walked over and picked up the notebook. For some reason he had the weird feeling he was standing in front of a locked door. On his side, it was dark and rainy. But on the other side, he just knew it was sunny and beautiful.
And the notebook he held in his hands was the key to getting to that other side. Of stepping out of the darkness and into the light.
Slowly, as if a snake would come out of the pages and bite him, Truck opened the cover.
He stared at the writing and instinctively knew it was Mary’s. He couldn’t remember seeing anything she’d written before, but there was no one else he could’ve let have free rein in his home other than her. No one else who would’ve had the opportunity to put a notebook under his mattress for safekeeping.
He read the words on the first page.
> * * *
Mary’s journal
If your name isn’t Mary Weston and you’re reading this—stop it. Seriously. I’ll find you, gut you, and make you wish you could turn back the clock and make a better decision. I’m only writing this shit down because my doctor told me it would make me feel better. I’m not sure about that, I mean, I have breast cancer for fuck’s sake. How is writing my feelings down going to make me feel better? It’s certainly not going to magically cure me. Whatever. Here goes nothing…
* * *
The words made Truck smile. They were quintessential Mary. Taking the journal with him, Truck left his bedroom and went back into the living room. Taking a seat on the couch—which was thankfully still in one piece, albeit shoved halfway across the room from where it had been before his temper tantrum—Truck didn’t even hesitate to turn the page and start reading.
It might be wrong, but he was desperate to understand the woman he loved. Wanted to know everything about her. To figure out the missing pieces of his memory. This might be his one and only shot to get answers. He wasn’t going to pass it up, even if he was trespassing on her private thoughts.
Mary hadn’t dated any of the entries. She’d just started writing, as if she couldn’t get the words on the page fast enough.
* * *
The cancer is back. The motherfucking cancer is back. I can’t do this again. I can’t put Rayne through this again. This must be payback for me being a bitch my entire life. Having a whore of a mama wasn’t enough punishment. Being screwed over by men time and time again wasn’t enough either. Whatever I did in a past life, I’m sorry. Do you hear me, I’M SORRY! Fuck. Damn it all to hell.
* * *
Her pain was easy to feel. They were only words on a page, but Truck could physically feel her terror. She was scared to death and that gutted him. Truck had an inkling of what she felt. Not that he’d ever been told he had a deadly disease, but when the doctor in Germany had informed him that he had amnesia, and that he might never remember the last three years of his life, he’d had many of the same thoughts Mary did when she’d heard her diagnosis. It wasn’t fair. Why him?
The next entry was just as emotional as the last.
* * *
I’ve decided. I’m not going through chemo and radiation again. I can’t. It almost killed me last time. I’d rather die on my own terms than go through that again. I’m also not going to tell Raynie. She’ll put her entire life on hold for me again. She’ll browbeat me until I agree to treatment. But I’m tired. So fucking tired. She doesn’t understand. I might have considered treatment if I knew my insurance would cover it, but after spending so much money on the treatment before, I’m pretty sure it won’t all be covered this time. They said something about a payment cap, which is bullshit. I might make pretty good money, but it’s not enough to pay for all the treatments without insurance help. Hell, one damn anti-nausea pill costs $300. It’s ridiculous. So I’m just going to go about my life and when it’s my time, it’s my time. I won’t put Rayne through the pain of watching me die. I’d never do that to her. It’d scar her for life. When I get too sick, I’ll quit my job and head to the beach somewhere. Some hotel maid will come in one day and find my body. And that’s okay. Better her than my best friend.
* * *
Truck felt sick. The thought of Mary going off to some damn hotel to die made him want to puke. He was not surprised in the least that Mary had wanted to spare Rayne. He knew how close the two women were. But he also had a feeling if Rayne had known what Mary was thinking, she would’ve pitched a royal fit. He quickly kept reading.
* * *
This sucks. I was supposed to be babysitting Annie tonight and I got so sick I couldn’t. Everyone was down in Austin at an Army Ball, and I had to call Truck and tell him I needed help. I hate asking for help. I hate that I’m sick. I fucking hate cancer!
Truck came, of course he did. He’s freaking perfect in every way, but I’d never admit that to him. Of course, instead of bundling up Annie, taking me home, then bringing Annie back to her house and staying with her, he made me stay at her house with him. And of course I ended up puking all over the bathroom floor because I didn’t make it to the toilet in time. And it figures I was too weak to get up so I got it all over my clothes.
I hate my life.
I try to be so fucking brave and tough, but it’s hard. So hard.
And it’s even harder when the most perfect man I’ve ever known comes into the bathroom and sees me lying in my own puke and has to not only help clean me up, but has to clean up the bathroom too.
I wouldn’t wish cancer on my greatest enemy. Not even Mama.
* * *
“Holy shit,” Truck said. He didn’t remember the Army Ball or the incident Mary described, but just reading about it made him tear up. She had to have felt so helpless. It was obvious to him, just by reading her words, that he’d loved her then. If she asked for his help, of course he would’ve given it to her. He’d give her anything.
It was also obvious that her asking for help was big. Huge. Mary didn’t ask for much, even now that she wasn’t sick. He hated thinking about her being so weak she couldn’t make it to the bathroom. The only reason she’d asked for help in the first place was because she was watching Annie. If the little girl hadn’t been a factor, she probably would’ve lain on the floor of her own bathroom until she somehow magically found the strength to get up. God, he hated that.
* * *
Did I say Truck was perfect? I lied. He’s insane. Crazy. Has a screw loose. After the incident at Emily’s house, when I puked in the bathroom, Truck came over to my place and told me he had a question for me.
The daft man asked me to marry him!
All I could do was stare at him in disbelief. I’m dying. Why the hell would he want to marry me? But…the more I thought about it…the more I wanted to say yes. The man drives me crazy, but I think I love him. Heh, I know, I know, I said I’d never love another man for the rest of my life, but this is TRUCK. He doesn’t get pissed when I’m snarky, in fact he seems to find it amusing (which is annoying). He doesn’t let me push him away (again, annoying), and he tells me how pretty I am all the time (which I know is a lie, because hello…chemo hair!!).
But you know what? The second I opened my mouth to tell him yes, that I would marry him and spend the rest of my (limited) days with him, loving him, he had to go and open his mouth again.
I’d stupidly spilled the beans while I was sick at Emily’s house that my insurance wouldn’t pay for any more chemo treatments. That I did my best, but I was done. I was going to let the cancer do its thing and just be done with it once and for all. My only excuse for blabbing was that I was missing Rayne. I haven’t seen her in ages (if she saw me losing my hair again, she’d know what was going on, and I can’t risk it). I’ve only talked to her here and there on the phone. So I was lonely. And I word vomited my plan to go to the beach and die peacefully. Alone. (OK, I know it wouldn’t be peaceful, but I’m trying to fool myself so I don’t scare myself half to death.)
So there I was, about ready to accept Truck’s proposal. Happy beyond anything I’ve ever felt because this perfect, amazing man wanted to marry me. What were the odds?
Well, then he explained that if I married him, I would qualify for all his Army benefits…including his health insurance. Talk about a buzzkill. I was ready to tell him that I wanted to be Mrs. Ford Laughlin, and he had to go and tell me he was only asking to save me.
Fuck my life.
* * *
Truck closed his eyes and concentrated on breathing.
Mary loved him.
He’d been pretty sure, but there it was in black and white.
Then he wanted to kick his own ass. She would’ve said yes if he hadn’t opened his mouth and told her it was so she could be on his insurance, which he was pretty sure had only been a desperate ploy on his part to get her to say yes.
His head was pounding now. With every sentence
he read, flashes of Mary sparked in his brain. She’d lived here. With him. They’d slept in the same bed every night. They’d watched TV together. He’d fixed her meals. Forced her to eat when she was so sick she didn’t want to do anything but sleep.
Mary loved him and had wanted to say yes to his proposal as a result. Yeah, things between them had definitely been “complicated,” as she’d called it.
Wanting to know what else he’d fucked up, Truck read on.
* * *
Truck won’t give it up. He calls me every day and orders me to marry him. Tells me he’s not ready to let me go. That he loves me and wants to see my smiling face every day for the rest of his life. I know he’s full of shit because I haven’t exactly been smiling lately.
Why did he have to bring health insurance into it?
I told him to fuck off.
* * *
Truck shook his head. Yeah, he’d really screwed up by bringing insurance into things. Mary was proud. She’d never agree to marry him for his insurance.
He should’ve been freaking out that he’d asked a woman to marry him and couldn’t remember it, but the only thing he was worried about was if she’d finally given in or not. He kept reading.
* * *
I thought I was dying today. I hoped I was dying. I’ve never felt so terrible. Not even the first time I went through chemo. I couldn’t get out of bed. I haven’t eaten anything in two days. Nothing feels as bad as your body eating itself from the inside out. I have no idea if that’s what’s going on or not, but it feels like it.
I was lying there, praying for death, and all of a sudden Truck was here. My “perfect man” broke into my damn apartment (although I have to admit, it’s kinda hot that he can pick locks!). He used his medic training and told me I was dehydrated and had to eat. Duh.
