“You’re the best, husband of mine.”
“I’m only what you made me, wife of mine.”
“Wrong. You’re Ren Wild. The boy who survived and is still surviving.”
Kissing her, I murmured, “And I’ll keep surviving…for as long as I can.”
* * * * *
2030
“Jacob, come here. I found a clue.”
My voice vibrated with love as the lanky eight-year-old charged over the field toward me, his face alight and blond hair glowing.
He was the perfect blend of Della and me. Slightly wary of people but entirely fearless in nature. Blond hair from her and dark eyes from me. Quiet seriousness mixed with effortless charm.
Della had turned thirty, and I’d knocked on forty—time extending the dream I didn’t think I’d have, watching my son change from kid to boy, and my wife grow in wisdom and kindness every day.
The blue overalls Jacob had dressed in—that were usually reserved for helping me grease and oil the tractor—had paint splashes down the front and a bunny sticker stuck to his chest. His nose had a green spot, and his hands had red and yellow streaks from decorating Easter eggs earlier today.
The entire Wilson crew had come together to enjoy a holiday we hadn’t celebrated before.
It had been Della’s idea.
Our kitchen had become a warzone of glitter, stickers, and gemstones as the kids decorated eggs in whatever fashion they chose.
Once the novelty of covering themselves and everything else in paint faded, Della and I ushered everyone outside and gave each group of kids a clue to start a chocolate treasure hunt, then set them loose on Cherry River, searching barns, stables, tack rooms, rivers, and grottos.
“Where’s the clue?” Jacob asked, his wicker basket knocking against his legs as he slammed to a stop.
I pointed at the chicken coop ahead. Chocolate eggs were mixed with real eggs and the key to collecting them was to scatter a handful of feed for the protective mother hens. “In there. Better go fast; otherwise, Nina is gonna pinch all the good stuff.”
“Oh, no she won’t.” He took off with a whoosh of wildflowers, tripping a little in his haste.
Della laughed softly. “You really know how to wind him up.”
“Only because I remember how easy it was to wind you up when you were that age.”
She took my hand, linking our fingers. “I was never that competitive.”
“Bah!” I laughed, cursing my lungs when it turned into a coughing fit. “I just had to mention something you shouldn’t do, and you just had to do it.”
Sunshine dappled her beside me. Her hair was longer—almost down to her ass. Her jeans scuffed and weathered. Her grey jacket torn on the wrist and grass-stained on the elbow.
A typical wardrobe for us.
A normal acceptance that we were part of the wilderness, and a little dirt never hurt anybody.
Seeing her so simple and innocent and gorgeous, I no longer cared about trailing after the chocolate hunting kids.
I wanted to stand still for a moment with the girl of my heart.
Tugging her hand, I waited until she faced me, then looped my arms around her hips. “Hi.” I nuzzled her, inhaling her scent and growing instantly hard.
There was something about this woman that I would never get sick of.
No matter how many years we spent together.
No matter how many miracles I burned through to stay by her side.
I would never stop wanting her, loving her, needing her.
Della tipped her head up, her blue eyes begging for a kiss.
I obliged, lowering my mouth to hers, granting a soft hello before slipping into a sinful command. Pressing her against me, I swayed with her in the meadow, allowing the breeze to shift us this way and that, tuning out the world until it was just us again.
Us as children.
Us as newlyweds.
Us with our entire world spread at our feet.
When we broke apart, we both breathed heavier, and my eyes lingered on our house in the distance, wondering if it would be rude to drag her back to bed.
“Don’t even think about it.” She grinned, clutching my hand and tugging me toward the kids. They fought with high-pitched voices, arguing over who deserved the most chocolate and who would read the next clue.
“What? I wasn’t doing anything.”
“You were thinking it.” She brought our linked hands up and kissed my knuckles. “I love you, Ren Wild.”
I smiled softly, my eyes tracking the blue satin in her hair that was always nearby. Last year, the ribbon wheel had run out, and I couldn’t replace the fading piece of blue anymore.
I’d ensured her favourite possession never tore since I was fourteen. I had no intention of letting her down now, and had it on my list to find another cardboard circle that would last for the rest of her lifetime.
I might not be there in the future to cut it for her, but at least she’d never go without.
As we walked side by side, like any other happily married couple, I winced at the ever-growing pain in my chest. I’d been hiding it rather well. I’d been lying rather successfully.
I didn’t need to hurt her anymore by telling her my stage two had become stage three, and the Keytruda was slowly failing.
My body still fought a hard battle.
And I wasn’t going anywhere just yet.
But…I had to be honest.
I was getting…tired.
My body no longer felt as healthy, and there would come a time that the meat on my bones would be sacrificed to keep me alive just a little longer.
I already feared that day.
I already mourned the inevitable.
I already struggled with how to say goodbye.
CHAPTER SIXTY-FOUR
REN
* * * * * *
2032
“YOU CAN’T GIVE him a knife for his birthday, Ren.”
I looked up from wrapping the Swiss Army tool that I’d bought from the local hunting and fishing store. I’d also bought a kid’s size backpack, collapsible pots, mugs, water containers, a cosy sleeping bag, and everything else I wished I’d had when I was Jacob’s age.
“He’s ten, Little Ribbon. He’s not a kid.”
“Ten is exactly a kid.” Della sat beside me, snapping the scissors I’d used to cut the sticky tape to keep the Star Wars wrapping paper in place. “I love you, you know this. And I love that you never let having nine fingers slow you down, but, Ren, I rather like our son with ten.”
She laughed quietly as I dragged her chair closer to mine, obscuring my face as I coughed. Once I had my breath back, I smirked. “He’s not going to cut a finger off.”
“How do you know? He’s a menace to himself. He needed stitches last year from falling off Cassie’s pony. He broke his wrist a few weeks after that from back flipping into the pond and hitting dirt instead.” She clucked her tongue. “I worry about him.”
“Don’t. He’s only testing his boundaries and capabilities.”
Just like I’d tested mine and knew the god-awful conclusion.
My battle was slowly coming to an end.
Della knew.
I knew.
John, Cassie, Liam, and Jacob knew.
I’d had a check-up and treatment last week, and the look Rick Mackenzie gave me was as grave as the image in the mirror. Keytruda had been hailed as the miracle drug. It had given me an extra eight years than the normal prognosis.
But sometimes, it just stopped working.
No one knew why, and no doctor could explain it.
And as much as I would never admit it, my body didn’t feel right anymore.
There was no denying that I had a cancerous passenger inside me and it was finally winning. My hair no longer shone; my eyes no longer sparkled. My skin was stretched over bones that ached more by the day, and the breathlessness that had been cured for so long, thanks to surgery, was back in full force.
I was a
ticking clock, and Della hadn’t left my side for longer than an hour or two, both of us so terribly aware that we didn’t have many hours left to waste.
We’d done our best to protect my disease from Jacob, but he was just as smart as Della, and the kids at school had done their best to tell him what was wrong with me—just like they’d tried to explain to Della about sex when she was young.
Their explanations did more harm than good with terminology that was terrifying. They’d given Jacob nightmares of me being buried and eaten alive by worms because that’s what their dad said happened to great-grandma. Another had promised I’d die but would come back as a zombie and eat him in his sleep.
Turned out, keeping facts from loved ones—no matter how young they were—was never a good idea.
It’d taken a few dinners with Della holding his hand and me talking to him, man to man, for him to calm down and not flinch when I hugged him.
He knew that I wouldn’t be around for as long as other dads.
He knew he couldn’t beg or argue to make that change.
And he also knew he could be angry with me but never at Della because none of this was her fault.
It’d been a depressing week, but finally, either his brain numbed him to the reality of our future, or his upcoming birthday had pushed his worries aside because he was the same happy kid as before.
He had the choice of a party with all his friends for his birthday or a camping trip just him, me, and Della. He’d chosen camping, and that was exactly what I was going to do. Regardless if the thought of hiking miles into the forest no longer filled me with excitement but worry on how I’d do it without passing out.
Della watched my nine fingers as I finished wrapping the boxed knife and smoothed the neat package.
“He doesn’t even realise that that will be his greatest treasure when he’s older.” Tears glossed her eyes, overflowing as she kept staring at my hands. “His first knife from his dad. A dad I hope to God he remembers.”
“Hey…” Pulling her into my arms, I kissed her hair. “Don’t do that. Please. I can’t stand it.”
She clutched me tight, her arms squeezing until I coughed again. She allowed a couple of sobs before shutting the hatch and smiling with salt-wet cheeks. “Sorry. Moment of weakness, that’s all.”
I kept holding her, not letting go.
She thought I didn’t know, but a few times a year, she’d unload her broken heart to Cassie, talk about me, miss me, then bottle it all back up again to be strong for me.
I never asked what Cassie said to her.
I never pried and begged to know what fears Della shared.
I knew enough not to need to.
Living with a dying man was not easy.
Especially when that dying man had loved you since you were born.
I hated that making love to my wife made me pant as if I’d run two lengths of the paddock at full tilt.
I hated that I couldn’t stop the light-headedness and abhorrent sensation of having no control over my body.
I hated everything about this.
Letting Della go, I kissed the soft skin beside her mouth. “It’s important he knows I don’t think of him as a kid. I was eight when I first used tools and farming equipment—”
“I know he idolizes you, but he’s not you, Ren. He hasn’t been thrust into survival mode and forced to grow up far before his time. He doesn’t know hardship like you do.” Her fingers landed on my cheek, tracing the sharper cheekbone and stroking a more angled jaw. “You were never ten years old when you ran with me. You were fifty in a kid’s body. You were never a typical child.”
“And Jacob is not a typical son.”
She grinned sadly. “You’re right. He’s your son.”
“No. He’s our son.” I coughed again, cursing the ever-tightening curse in my chest. “And our son is smart and brave and wise, and he will remember me. Just like you will. You’ll both remember how much I love you and that I’ll never be truly gone.”
Della nodded, unable to speak.
For a moment, I let us sit in the puddle of sadness, then I stood, coughed, and tapped her on the butt. “Go get the backpack and the child. It’s time to camp.”
CHAPTER SIXTY-FIVE
DELLA
* * * * * *
2032
WE SET UP camp as a family.
Erecting the tent, we put our sleeping bags in one wing and Jacob’s in the other.
Our journey hadn’t been as easy as previous excursions. We hadn’t gone as far, but it had taken twice as long. I’d carried the backpack—against Ren’s wishes—but I couldn’t allow him to lug more weight when he already struggled with his own.
Ren’s cough crucified him, bending him over a few times, spitting up blood toward the end.
I’d told Jacob to run ahead as Ren clutched my hand through one attack, stumbling for breath, his hand on his heart as it palpitated to an uneven rhythm.
I’d murmured calm nothings, rubbed his back, cursing the noticeable nodules of his spine.
I’d been strong for him and kept my panic hidden.
But it didn’t mean it didn’t grow with every little reminder that things were coming to an end. That our life together was almost over.
My heart was held together with sticky tape and bandages.
My eyes were made of tears and terror.
I couldn’t explain the toll loving Ren took on me when he faded day by day from this world to the next.
Some days, I wished I could stop loving him.
I wished I could pack up my feelings in neatly labelled boxes, and store them in the attic of my mind for a time when dust and time had made them less painful.
But that only made me feel like a weak, wicked woman, and I’d throw myself into loving him even more.
Here, take my heart. Take my soul. Take every second I have left because I don’t want them without you.
By the time we made it to the camp, I was sick with loathing at life and love, utterly unable to talk.
My heart was in knots; my stomach tied up with rotten string.
I missed the man who used to run wild amongst the trees.
I missed the boy who made me believe in fairy-tales.
As we finished the tent, Ren’s coughing couldn’t be ignored and, after a while, he gave me a tear-invoking smile and went to sit by the log we’d chosen as a bench.
He understood that he wasn’t the only one struggling with this.
Jacob hated hearing him cough.
And my nerves were frayed and burning.
As I pottered about doing final tasks, I couldn’t keep my eyes off Ren as he sat whittling a stick with his ever-trusty knife. His face pensive and calm.
My heart swelled with injustice and rage. My motions jerky and harsh.
The backpack was my worst enemy.
The twigs and wilderness my greatest foe.
I wanted everything to hurt as much as I did and stomped around, snapping things and kicking others.
Ren caught me as I moved around him, pulling out the small cooler box with our meat for breakfast and dinner, placing it where the fire would go.
“Ribbon.” He smiled kindly, his face still so damn handsome but so much more defined than before. A definition that came from sickness. A definition that no one could agree was right.
I tried to pull away, biting my lip from saying hurtful things, painful things, things that I never normally let spill.
I was so angry.
So furious.
So hurt.
When I didn’t bow to his touch like normal, Ren’s eyes narrowed. “I know this is hard. But please…don’t be angry with me.”
For a second, I wanted to slap him.
I wanted to pummel his broken chest and kick him in the shins.
It made no sense.
My violence was confused and smarting.
I hated seeing him so skinny.
I despised hugging his once solid, comforting frame only t
o find bone instead of muscle.
I hated my tears and fears and the fact that as the final day crept closer, my strength grew non-existent.
I didn’t like the seething mass inside my belly.
I didn’t enjoy having to control my temper toward my husband and son because it wasn’t them who made me angry.
God made me angry.
Life made me angry.
Love made me so fucking angry.
And I needed to shout at someone, fight something, attack anything to get rid of the tight fury inside me.
My nostrils flared as I continued to look down at him.
He looked so gorgeous and regal. So wise and perceptive and everlasting.
And I wanted to hit him and hit him and hit him because he’d achieved the impossible. He’d run from evil, endured horrors, saved me, guided me, loved me, married me, and now…now he was leaving me.
He didn’t have that right.
He didn’t have that luxury.
He owed me.
He owed me to stay because why else had we been given this life together?
“Ah, Della.” Ren stood, smothering a cough. With hands that still had strength and dominance, he squeezed my biceps. “Yell at me. Scream at me. Tell me what you’re feeling.”
I shook my head, short and jerky. “You know I can’t.”
“Why not?”
“Because Jacob is somewhere close by, and…and it’s not your fault.”
“None of this is anyone’s fault, but I’m just as angry as you. I’m fucking furious that I can’t hold you forever and be beside you as you grow old.” His voice darkened. “Don’t you think I’ve punched things, kicked things? Tried to somehow relieve that filthy pressure inside?”
“I know you have. I’ve patched up your bruised knuckles.” I smiled, doing my best to make a tense moment into a light-hearted one, but Ren didn’t let it go.
“You have to let it out, Della. You can’t allow it to fester.” His eyes cast into the twilight-shrouded forest, a bird twirl whistling from his lips.
A call he’d taught Jacob to recognise and repeat—a way of keeping tabs on him when he tarried off without us.
The Girl and Her Ren Page 46
