by KL Kreig
Time Stamps
K. L. Kreig
Contents
Time Stamps
Prologue
1. Haven’t Met You Yet
2. Nice To Meet Ya
3. Today Was A Fairytale
4. She’s Got a Way
5. Just A Kiss
6. Happy
7. The One
8. Feels Like Letting Go
9. Tuesdays
10. Songbird
11. Some Kind of Love
12. Tenerife Sea
13. I Could Not Ask for More
14. At Last
15. I’m Gonna Be (500 Miles)
16. Single Ladies (Put a Ring on It)
17. A Safe Place to Land
18. Angel
19. Gravity
20. Autumn Leaves
21. A Sky Full of Stars
22. The Pina Colada Song
23. Grow Old With Me
24. Don’t Forget About Me
25. Sorry Seems To Be The Hardest Word
26. Never Stop
27. Brighter Side of Grey
28. I’ll Follow You
Epilogue
Musical Inspirations
Support
Other works
Book Babbles
About the Author
Tiny Paper Airplanes (coming soon)
Time Stamps
by:
K. L. Kreig
Time Stamps
Copyright © 2021 by K. L. Kreig
Published by K. L. Kreig
ePub: ISBN-13: 978-1-943443-29-1 ISBN-10: 1-943443-29-7
mobi: ISBN-13: 978-1-943443-51-2 ISBN-10: 1-943443-51-3
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, write to the author.
This book is a work of fiction. The characters, events, and places portrayed in this book are products of the author’s imagination and are either fictitious or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.
Cover Art by Veronica Larsen
Editing by Nikki Busch Editing
Published in the United States of America.
Created with Vellum
To my love ~ you are my reason, my imperfection, the very breath I breathe. I love you today. I will love you tomorrow. My love for you withstands the cruelty of Time.
Prologue
Let Me Hold You
Roth
Present
June 15, 11:15 a.m.
“Are you sure?” she asks.
Her words wobble. Her body shivers uncontrollably. I squeeze her hand tighter, unable to look at her when her whimpers resemble that of an injured animal. It makes me feel like shit.
“I am sorry, Laurel.”
That’s it? I’m sorry? Never was a more worthless apology spoken.
Dr. Nuess gauges us both. He looks sorry. He sounds sorry. His body language even screams sympathy.
None of it matters, though. I am in another place entirely. It’s dark and dank and stinks of mortality. I fly through a dozen emotions in a blink, watching the prize wheel spin.
Click.
Click.
Click.
The wheel slows.
Click.
Cliick.
Cliiiiick.
The metal needle bounces between two rubber stoppers until it finally comes to a complete halt, my spoil chosen.
White. Hot. Fury.
Seems appropriate, because I am hemorrhaging rage at the unfairness of it all.
Why her? Why me? Why us? Why now? Why ever?
Why? Why? Why?
I force myself to look at Laurel now. Her lips tremble. The color of them always reminds me of cotton candy. I fell in love with those lips the first time I laid eyes on them. I watch them when she talks and smiles and yells at me. Those lips. I still dream of them, ever grateful that they’re awaiting me when I wake.
My breath catches. Frozen.
I can’t wrap my head around this. I refuse to. This cannot be it.
Looks like my prize wheel has slipped straight to the next square: denial.
With my free hand, I cup my wife’s cheek, round and rosy. Her long, inky lashes are dampened with droplets of grief. Her brown eyes, the shade of mud puddles I used to play in as a boy, are glassy and wild with unspoken apologies. She has nothing to be sorry for. Nothing at all.
Even blotchy-faced and snot-nosed, she is so beautiful, so pure. I love her with all that I am, all that I will ever be. I attempt to wipe the moisture away with my thumb, but it’s futile, immediately replaced by an overflowing river of anguish. She tries to stifle a sob, but she fails and, “It’s okay,” I tell her softly, reverently. “It will be okay.”
We both know I lie, but in this moment the lie serves to fend off the reality we’re now forced to face, even if for the briefest of time.
Time. Something we are severely short on.
Click.
Cliick.
Cliiiiick.
My rage burns out of control, as if fueled directly from the center of the Earth.
I turn my attention back to the Harvard-trained oncologist, best in his field, who was unable to save our future. “How long?” I demand.
My throat feels as if it’s been lit by a backdraft of fiery blue flames. An inch of ash now coats my vocal cords.
“I don’t—”
“No I don’t bullshit,” I grit out through the muck. You don’t get life-shattering news and say welp that’s that, dust your hands off, and walk away. You cry foul. You demand answers. “You do. Ballpark it.”
I know. I already know. I can Google as well as the next guy.
“Mr. Keswick, I don’t have a crystal ball.”
I snort. It’s filled with vile derision and acrid bitterness.
“Roth, it’s okay,” Laurel whispers, sensing I’m about to break. I should be the one comforting her, not the other way around.
“No.” I need to get out of here. The walls are closing in. “No. It’s not fucking okay.” I pin Dr. Nuess with a demanding glare. “We came in today thinking we’d discuss the next treatment plan and instead we’re told all bets are off. That there is nothing more you can do for the person who is my entire…” Universe. Life. Existence. You name it. She’s that. “So…” I begin to stand, my six-foot-four, 202-pound muscled frame rather intimidating to most, and ask him again, “How. Long. Do. We. Have?”
But my petite, fragile Laurel is strong in so many ways. So much stronger than I am. One quick pull on my arm and I’m back in my seat and Dr. Nuess can breathe again. He swallows, his oversized Adam’s apple bobbing up and down, up and down. I want to punch it in until it’s sunken deep in his neck. I want to unleash this pent-up, all-consuming, violent tempest and destroy everything in this frosted-glass office until it’s shredded and lies in pieces. Like me.
“You’d better start talking,” I tell him evenly.
I fully realize I shouldn’t act like a spoiled, whiny toddler demanding a candy bar at checkout, threatening a meltdown if I’m not rewarded. Dr. Newcomb Nuess is a smart, caring man who has done all he can for us. Logically, I know this, but when you’re facing the end of life as you know it, when all of your hopes and dreams shatter on a single exhale, you become a different person. One you don’t like much.
“The mean survival rate is…” He stops and shifts uncomfortably. Then his forked tongue spits out my worst nightmare. Its metal
tines embed the writhing entity deep into the floor, holding it firmly in place as it bleeds in front of me. “Less than a year.”
“Fuck,” I mutter.
Three-hundred and sixty-five days? Less than? How many hours is that? Minutes? Seconds?
I feel sick.
Two weeks ago, we were sitting in this very room, having our first consultation with the top hematology oncologist in the country. The best of the best. Test after test, he assured us we’d get answers.
He never assured us we’d like them.
The best of the best has failed.
A sharp bite nips the backs of both eyes. Laurel is now perfectly still beside me. She’s not shaking. She’s not wailing. She’s not breaking apart. She’s probably thinking the same thing I am. In fact, I know she is. We’ve talked about it late at night when the lights are off, and we don’t have to bear witness to each other’s pain. We don’t need to. We can feel it coursing through our entwined hands.
“What’s next, then?” I hear Laurel ask in a voice so calm she may as well be ordering a burger and a Coke.
I don’t know who she’s talking to. If it’s me, I have no answers. I don’t know what’s next. Dr. Nuess was our last chance. We’ve had second opinion upon third opinion upon fourth opinion. Dr. Nuess speaks, but I can’t pay attention because I am lost. So very lost and in so much pain I don’t know if I can survive it. Every muscle, every organ, every bone is constricted, like my entire body is folding in on itself. Turtles do that…hide in their shells for protection. Why are humans left so exposed and vulnerable?
“Thank you, Dr. Nuess.” Laurel stands. I don’t how, but I stand too. We exit his office. I’m on autopilot as we start our trek to the lobby. We’re both silent as the elevator doors open, then close, and in those ten seconds we have alone while we descend, we wrap ourselves around each other, unable to get close enough.
When I look back on this day, I won’t remember much, but I will remember the shaky cadence of her breath, which seeps through my shirt, and the faint flowery smell of her shampoo lingering in my nostrils. I will remember how tightly her fingers grip my sides in fear and grief. I will remember how perfectly she molds her body to mine and the sound of her whispering “I love you” and “I’m sorry” over and over.
Like a hoarder, I start stuffing memories and tidbits away in every shadowed corner of my mind, terrified I’ll forget a single one of them. How many have I already forgotten? They are all important and meaningful, now more than ever. And there will never be enough of them. Never.
Some people want to know which day marks their last. At least that’s what they say, anyway. They claim they will live differently if they know, but I’ve always wondered, why wouldn’t they have lived that way in the first place? Why not tell the people important to you that you love them every single day? Why stay at a job that makes you miserable? Why put off traveling to the places you want to see until you can afford it? Why go to bed angry? Why wake with regret? Why not forgive those who have wronged you? Why not appreciate that sunrise or thunderstorm for the slices of wonder they are?
Now I know.
One’s mortality lifts the veil of uncertainty. And under that veil is a whole new world. Colors pop. Passions intensify. Indignation wanes. Priorities shift.
Finality is embraced.
The automatic doors of MD Anderson Cancer Center open with a soft whoosh, and as we walk from the sterility and stench of death coursing through its veins into the sticky-sweet hum of energy on the outside, I think to my myself…
This is it.
The countdown has begun.
And there is not a damn thing we can do to stop the omnipotent hands of Time from moving forward, click after motherfucking click, inching us closer to the end of forever.
1
Haven’t Met You Yet
Laurel
Ten Years Earlier
February 9, 6:21 p.m.
“Yo, chica. Vamos a darle.”
The door slams behind the lilt of Carmen’s voice. I hear the refrigerator jingle open and close and the distinct hiss of a bottle top being opened.
Help yourself. I roll my eyes. I’d bet last week’s meager paycheck she’s drinking my lone wild berry wine cooler—the one I meant to grab and chug as I primp for a girl’s night out I’d give anything to ditch. A nice serial killer novel sounds far more appealing.
“You ready yet?”
I pause midmascara application, noting Carmen’s reflection in my dresser mirror.
Yep. There it is.
Standing in my bedroom doorway, shoulder wedged against the jam, my fortification is nestled loosely between my best friend’s perfectly manicured fingernails that are so long and sharp they should be registered weapons.
“I was going to drink that,” I tell her. I let my gaze fall to her hand, the bottle already half-empty.
“This?” she replies with more than a hint of disgust. “I don’t know how you can drink this crap.” She takes another deep swallow.
I chortle and shake my head, not bothering to state the obvious. Stuffing the black goo-covered wand back into its container, I give myself a once-over. Even with a moderate dusting of makeup and a few well-placed curls in my hair, I still look plain. Boring. Someone whom you wouldn’t give a second glance. I grab my can of Aqua Net and spray until a cloud of chemicals settles into my hair and pores.
Eh. Good enough.
“It’s suffrage, is what it is,” Carmen prattles on between gulps.
“You didn’t use that word in the right context.” I toss the tube of mascara down and turn toward her, gripping the worn wood behind me.
“What?”
“Suffrage is the right to vote.”
I want nothing more than to crawl into bed with a cup of tea in one hand and a book in the other until I fall asleep. Boring. Both in looks and charisma. That’s me.
“Weeell…” Her eyes widen in challenge. “I think I used it perfectly, then. My vote is that this tastes like ant piss.”
“And yet you finished the entire contents in under two minutes.”
“I am forced to drink what’s available.”
“You weren’t forced to do anything of the sort,” I counter, cocking my head.
Carmen mirrors my stance. Her brown skin shimmers as if dusted with gold flecks. She looks far sexier than I ever could in pale pink skintight pants and a white V-neck tee that showcases her expensive black boutique push-up. Eyelash extensions to fuchsia-painted toenails, every inch of her is toned and appealing.
“We need to go.” Tick. Tick. Tick. She taps her watch with one nail, impatient.
“Ready.”
She runs her eyes quickly over me. “Whaaat?” she cries so loud that Meringue, my Russian Blue-Persian mix, scrambles from the edge of my bed and dives underneath it in search of safety, “in God’s green Earth do you have on?”
The disgust she displayed at my choice of alcoholic beverages pales in comparison to that of her favorite subject: scrutinizing my wardrobe. I hate to admit I may possibly give her cause to. My fashion sense is a little…well, some call it dated, but eclectic is the word I prefer. Everything comes back into style eventually, right?
“You’re not wearing that.” She’s so matter-of-fact that almost anyone else wouldn’t dare argue. I am not anyone else.
Throwing a hand on one hip, I kick it up in challenge, not bothering to glance down at the loose plaid baby-doll dress I paired with neon-green capri leggings. “I am.” I was half hoping it would get me out of tonight.
“Girl, you look like you were spit out of a nineties time warp. All that’s missing are the bangs and oversized gold hoop earrings.”
“Hey…” I like bangs. “Now that is uncalled for.” I scoop up earrings that brush the tops of my shoulders and slip them through the holes in each ear. They happen to be gold. I smile. I wasn’t going to wear them, but…
“I’m gonna let you in on a little secret, chica.” Carmen stops talking for t
he half second it takes her to walk to my standard-sized closet that’s not much bigger than a bread box. “That”—she looks over her shoulder and gestures up and down my body, lingering on my ears—“wasn’t a fashion statement in the nineties. And it ain’t one now, either.”
“Carmen, it’s fine.”
“It’s hideous.” She snorts. “Are you trying to scare men away?”
Like men give me a second glance.
“No.”
Besides, I don’t need to do that with Carmen around. I envy the sultry, 1-800 voice of my best friend. One hello and men fall at her feet, not because she’s drop-dead gorgeous. Don’t get me wrong, she is beautiful, but it’s something else. She has the “it” factor. I don’t know exactly what “it” is, but she’s got it in spades. When I’m with her, it’s a given I’ll be invisible. And truth be told, I am perfectly okay with that. I excel at floating under the radar. It’s freeing to go unnoticed. So much less pressure.
“Here.” She thrusts a gawdy short-sleeve wrap dress the color of dried mustard my way. I snag the edge of it before it falls to the ground, holding it with my index finger and thumb as if it will stain me.
“This is awful,” I lament, studying the little white misshapen flowers that are scattered on it. “Where did I even get this?”
My mother. It has to be from my mother. Christmas. Three years ago. Ah yes, it’s all coming back to me now.
