Anything Between Us (Starving Artists Book 3)

by Mila Ferrera

  He shakes his head. “Don’t do this, baby. I’m here. I love you. Let me help. You don’t have to do any of this alone.” His shoulders are squared. He hasn’t moved.

  I realize I have to make him, no matter how much it hurts, no matter how badly I want to step into his arms and let him shield me from all of it. “This is stupid, Nate,” I snap. “Don’t make me deal with you on top of everything else.” And then I hit him in the most sensitive spot, the biggest fear he has. “I don’t need one more person to take care of, especially not a boy who can barely deal with himself, let alone with me.”

  I see it in his eyes, the shock and hurt as the bullet hits home. He takes a quick step back as he absorbs the blow. “Is this really how you want it?” he asks quietly.

  No. No-no-no-no-no. “Yes.” I make my voice hard as a diamond. “Like I said, I enjoyed our time together, but I don’t have the energy for it anymore.” Another strike, another bullet in his gut.

  His jaw is clenched as he looks away, maybe to hide the sheen in his eyes that almost makes me sink to the floor and beg for his forgiveness. “Got it,” he says to the wall. “Just checking here: you’re not planning to kill yourself tonight? You don’t have some pills in a drawer or razor blades in the cabinet?”

  I blink at him. By all rights, he should be telling me I can go fuck myself as he storms out of my house. All he’s done is help me tonight, and all I’ve done is be the worst person on the planet. Instead, he’s checking to make sure I’m safe. I grit my teeth to drive away the tears. “My dad needs me. I’m not going anywhere,” I manage to say.

  “All right then.” He opens the door to my room and heads down the steps. “Sasha?” he calls up a moment later.

  My heart pounding with all the things it wishes he would say, I reply, “Yeah?”

  “Once I’m gone, remember to lock the door behind me and move this table back in front of it. It’s a pretty good temporary fix, but you need a lock as soon as you can swing it.”

  “Sure,” I say in a strangled voice. I sink to my knees as I hear the table being moved, then the front door opening and closing again.

  My palms hit the hardwood planks as I listen to his car start, as I hear the gravel popping beneath his tires as he pulls out of the driveway. I collapse to the floor as I hear him pull away.

  The night goes quiet again, and into that silence, I whisper the only words I have left. “I love you, too.”

  CHAPTER

  TWENTY-THREE

  Nate

  After a sleepless night, most of which I spend walking along the river, I drive out to my parents’ house bright and early to take my mom to her chemo session. While she gets in the car, my dad pulls me aside. “You’re looking a little worse for wear—are you sure you can do this?”

  I meet his gaze. “I can totally do this. I’ll see you when you get home from work.”

  He gives me a searching look, and then he chuckles. “I guess you’ve been through more stressful situations than taking your mom to an appointment.”

  “Yes, sir. I really have.” Just last night, in fact.

  During the drive to the infusion center in Grand Rapids, Mom talks about Thanksgiving, only a few weeks away, and how she hopes she’ll be able to enjoy the food. “Your dad’s already planning the meal,” she says with a smile. “If there’s one good thing about having lung cancer, it’s that your dad has finally learned how to cook.”

  “Daniel was right. Your bright-siding is next-level, Mom.” I wish Sasha had a fraction of Mom’s ability to see the silver lining in the darkest of storm clouds. But I also know that this situation is different than hers, for so many reasons.

  Mom grins. “It’s a gift.” She puts her hand on my arm. “But it’s also better this way. I know none of you want to talk about it, but if and when this poor old body can’t hold me anymore, you boys should know that your dad can at least make himself a decent meal.”

  Her words steal the breath from my lungs. Don’t talk like that, I want to say, but I stop the words before they escape my mouth. If I told her to shut up, it would be silencing something real, just to make myself more comfortable.

  Besides, what she’s saying is totally practical. “Maybe I should get in on that action,” I say, taking her hand. “All I can manage right now is ramen noodles and scrambled eggs.”

  “There’s something very sexy about a man who cooks,” she says. “Your future wife will definitely approve.”

  I let out a weak chuckle. “Yeah, well. I’m a long way from that.” But if she’d asked me a few days ago, I almost could have pictured it. Not that I was in a hurry. It just seemed more real.

  Now, it feels like there’s a gaping hole in my chest, the place where my heart used to be.

  “Daniel mentioned you were dating someone,” she says, giving me a hopeful look. “We always have another seat at our table if you’d like to bring her around.”

  I whistle a breath through pursed lips and press my head back as I stare straight ahead. “I really wish he hadn’t said anything to you.”

  “He said we met her at his party—the potter? She seemed absolutely lovely—I still want to get down to that boutique and look at her work.”

  After I get home, I’m going to hunt down my brother and kick his ass. “Mom, that’s not … she’s not …” My throat is so tight that I can barely speak. I blink fast and tighten my fingers over the wheel, trying to keep it together. Sasha called me a boy. Said I couldn’t handle myself, let alone her. Said she didn’t have the energy to deal with me. “We broke up.”

  “Oh. Oh, honey. I’m so sorry.”

  “Not a big deal.” Big words, but they come out so hoarse, so strained, that it makes my mom’s eyes sheen with tears. Great.

  “I shouldn’t have mentioned it,” she says quickly. “I should have waited for you to tell me in your own time. I’m such a nosy little busybody sometimes!” She flings up her hands in exasperation. “Why can’t I leave things alone?”

  “Mom, seriously. Please don’t be upset.” Last thing she needs before a chemo session. “If you come back even more thrashed than usual, Dad’s going to be pissed at me. Come on. Let’s move on, all right? I’m supposed to be taking care of you.”

  She laughs quietly. “Isn’t it funny, how that happens?”

  I glance over at her, and she’s looking out the window like she sees something much more profound than the strip malls we’re currently passing. “What’s funny?”

  “Oh, you. Me. Us. There was a time when I thought I’d always be the one taking care of you. It all turned on its head without me even noticing. And now look at us. My son just said he had to take care of me.”

  “Yeah,” I say. “Because it’s true. And you earned that. You deserve it.”

  “I feel like a burden. Like I’m not doing my job.”

  I think about that for a second. “But doesn’t the fact that I’m here and able to take care of you mean that you actually did your job really well?”

  She gives me this glowing look of approval that feels amazing, even though I’m not sure I deserve it. “You’ve become a truly remarkable young man, Nathan.”

  I squeeze her hand and let it go, focusing on making the turns that get us to the appointment on time. Sasha’s words from last night still ring in my ears. Especially not a boy who can barely deal with himself. Am I that guy, or am I the person my mom thinks I am?

  So often, and especially this year, I feel like a complete mess, but I’ve come to realize that most of the time, that’s only a feeling. It’s not a fact. I graduated from high school near the top of my class. I joined the army and did my job for five years. I got promoted. I led my fire team. I did two deployments in a combat zone. I’ve got a decent rack of ribbons and a few commendations to show for it. I did my duty. I got my honorable discharge. And I saved enough in the process to fund my life for the next few years, until I can get a degree and start a career.

  I can fucking deal with myself. Especially now that I�
��m not reeling with flashbacks and nightmares. They still come from time to time, but it’s not running my life like it was a few months ago.

  But it doesn’t matter. Like I feared, Sasha met me when I was at my worst, when I couldn’t even pretend I was okay. Because she’s a caring person, she wanted to help—and she did. She pushed me into therapy and supported me as I went through it. She was my haven in that storm, my reward for the painful work I had to do to get better. She just didn’t want to stick around to see the result, too worn out to deal with me on top of what she’s going through.

  Stupidly, I want to prove to her that I can handle it, that I’m strong enough. It’s too late, though. If I keep chasing her, I really will be the loser guy who can’t take a hint. Besides, why would I set myself up, if that’s how she thinks of me?

  “You’ve got a lot on your mind,” Mom comments as I pull into a spot in the parking garage and tuck the ticket into my pocket.

  “Onward,” I tell her. “Don’t worry about me.”

  She sighs and nods, and then we head inside.

  While my mom is getting her infusion, I walk out to a coffee shop and load up on caffeine. There’s frost on the grass, and the air has that dry, frigid bite that whispers of a dark, bleak winter. It matches my mood perfectly.

  After I acquire a small bucket of black coffee, I sit at a table and stare out the window. I should be pushing Sasha as far out of my mind as I can—much like she pushed me away last night. But she’s right there, refusing to leave. The pain in her eyes when she realized what had happened with her dad still makes my chest ache. Tom wasn’t complaining, and he wasn’t hurt—he was like he always is. Pretty quiet. Pretty confused. But it seemed like she was seeing him with new eyes.

  Is that her future? She says it is, but I don’t get how that can be true. She seems so healthy. So sharp. She runs her own business. She’s one of the most creative people I’ve ever met. She just comes up with ideas, and she can make them real using only her hands. It’s hard to imagine her becoming like her father.

  I guess I didn’t know him before, though.

  I pull out my phone and Google early-onset Alzheimer’s. She said it was genetic, so I look for that specifically. It turns out the mutation is pretty rare—and devastating. Like the opposite of winning the genetic lottery, I guess. The disease is insidious—two different proteins basically start attacking nerve cells, one building up in clumps and the other twists and tangles. Both do their damage over time, starting with memory, then moving on to other parts of the brain. It seems like slow, quiet decline, punctuated with eruptions of fear and confusion.

  “Early-onset” is right, too. It’s used to describe Alzheimer’s that starts before age sixty-five, but for these familial cases, it can start as early as one’s thirties, though it seems like Tom’s illness developed later, in his fifties.

  Sasha’s in her late-twenties. She’s staring down the barrel of this thing. And she’s all alone. My jaw clenches. She’s strong, but no one’s this strong.

  Then another thought comes to me.

  What would it be like to watch someone you love lose herself piece by piece and thought by thought? What happens when she starts to forget stuff? That’s how it’ll start. She’ll know it, too. She’ll know what’s happening. She’ll be acutely aware that the slide has begun, and she’ll know where it ends. But what happens to the person who loves her? What happens when he notices her forgetting where she put stuff? What happens when she starts to lose her words?

  What happens on the day she stops recognizing him?

  Why the fuck am I even thinking about this shit?

  I close the browser and shove my phone in my pocket. Coffee in hand, I walk back to the center and pace the waiting room. When Mom comes out a few hours later, she’s droopy and quiet. I drive her home and stick around as she goes down for a nap. I’m still in the living room when Dad comes home from work. He gives me an anxious look. “How did it go? How is she?”

  “She’s okay. Sleeping.”

  “Did she drink a protein shake?”

  “Oh. I’m not sure.”

  Frowning, he heads into the kitchen to check, then goes back to their bedroom. I hear their murmured words, each one a soft caress. Their relationship has been a constant in my life, but it’s different now, the love and care more out in the open instead of tucked into casual moments. There was always a lot of laughter in the house as Daniel and I grew up. I knew my parents loved each other not because they were constantly lovey-dovey, but because they did stuff for each other. She packed his lunch even when he said he could do it himself. He weeded her garden and laid the mulch just so she didn’t have to. It was a bunch of little stuff delivered with affectionate smiles, not grand declarations. Maybe behind closed doors, they traded romantic speeches and quoted poetry, but I don’t think so. They lived their love in the day to day.

  Now my mom is thinking about when she checks out for good, and she’s glad he won’t starve once she’s gone. She’s thankful for meatballs and soup.

  Dad trudges back into the living room and plops down on the couch across from me. “She’s probably down for the day. Might get up to try to eat a little later, but I’ll take care of that. You can take off if you want. I’m sure you have things to do.”

  I shake my head. “How are you?”

  He smiles, but it breaks in half almost instantly. “I hope this works,” he says quietly. “I hope this round is it. Because she’s been telling me she’s not doing it again. She’s had enough.”

  His eyes widen, and I see the tears building there. It’s a weird, world-shaking thing to see my father cry. It freezes me where I am. “What does that mean?”

  His head falls back, and he stares at the ceiling. “It means that if the cancer isn’t completely gone, then it’s only a matter of time. I don’t know how long. We’re not talking about that quite yet. But it sets a horizon in front of us that’s not nearly as far away as I want it to be.”

  My chest tightens. “I would have expected her to keep fighting.” She’s only fifty-two. She’s way too young to be going anywhere. “She’s just giving up like that?”

  “No, Nate. Don’t misunderstand.” He rubs his face and lets his fists fall to his sides. “She’s fighting so hard. Don’t underestimate your mother.”

  “Wouldn’t dare.”

  “But it’s her body. She gets to choose the weapons, you know? I can’t choose for her.”

  “You have to live with those choices, though.”

  He smiles, even as a tear slips from his eye and slides back into his hair. “Well. That’s payment for the privilege, isn’t it? Of being with her?”

  “Watching her be sick? Letting her give up?”

  “First, she’s not giving up! And second, that’s not what I’m talking about. I’m saying that when you love someone like I love her, you accept the risks that come along with it. We’re mortal, right? We get sick. And we die.” He looks over at me. “That, I know you understand.”

  I swallow hard, thinking of Sam. My thumb runs over his initials, and my reminder. Never forget. Sam died in an instant. He might have seen it coming, but he only had a fraction of a second to live that understanding. But Sasha … she has to decide how to live this time between now—when she knows the bullet has already been fired—and then, when it finally hits her.

  Anyone who loves her has to do the same. I told her I loved her last night. And now I’m wondering—is that real? Did I mean that? It felt so fucking real. It has for weeks. Is it different, now that I know this about her? Is it worthy of her, and what she’s going to face? Is it as strong as she deserves?

  Am I? I think of Ed, that old man in the waiting room, and his wife, Rosie, who for a moment didn’t even seem to recognize him. I felt his grief and pain from across the room. I couldn’t wait to get away from it.

  “Dad, what if …what would you have done if you knew the future when you met Mom? If you knew things might get cut short. If you knew how much i
t would hurt.”

  He chuckles. “Isn’t it great that humans can’t ever know that? It’s a mercy.”

  I bow my head and squeeze my eyes shut. “Yeah. It is.” But Sasha doesn’t get that mercy, I guess. My hands are clamped hard on my knees. “What if you could, though? Would you have made a different choice? Would you choose someone different?”

  “Can you really choose who you love?” he asks softly.

  “I’m not sure. But if you could?”

  He’s quiet for a solid minute, both of us dwelling under the weight of such terrible knowledge and the certainty of the pain that follows. And then he says, “Nathan, I would rather go through this with your mother, and live with those choices, than be with any other woman in the world. I’d take one day with her over a century with anyone else.”

  CHAPTER

  TWENTY-FOUR

  Sasha

  I walk with Cathy through the tiled hallway, glancing into a rec room with couches and card tables. There’s a television on one side of the room, a big flat-screen playing cable news. Elderly residents sit in wheelchairs and on easy chairs with their walkers positioned next to them. I think it’s meant to be cozy, but there’s a faint antiseptic scent in the air and all the furniture is made out of a soft-looking plasticky material that I’m sure is waterproof and stain-resistant.

  “The locked ward is this way,” says the clinical director. He’s a wiry middle-aged guy with a gentle, solicitous manner and curly blond hair. “It’s near the rear of the building, but there are skylights and windows along the one side—with a view of the river!”

  “Great,” I say, feeling like I’ve been gutted.