by James, Ella
* * *
Kellan
I can’t.
I think of it. I map whole conversations. Jokes. In my mind, I tell her that I love her. How soft she is, how good she smells. I tell her to stay in bed with me all day, to keep her hands around my dick all night, because I need that. I need her.
But that’s a fantasy, a script. In the real world, I am silent. When she holds me in the daylight, I don’t move. Poison drips into my veins. I tell myself if I don’t speak, if I don’t move my mouth, I won’t get sick. I tell myself if I get sick, Cleo will leave. I can’t be here without her. She is holding up the sky.
THIRTEEN
Cleo
“The heart of another is a dark forest, always, no matter how close it has been to one’s own.” –Willa Cather
September 24, 2014
Chemo day four, Kellan doesn’t eat his breakfast of bacon, a biscuit, and a TwoCal. Dr. Willard comes in and asks him how he’s feeling, and I’m shocked to hear him have a normal conversation with the doctor.
“My hips hurt some. Better, though...”
“We’ve dropped back on the Dil since that pain’s lessened,” the doctor tells him. “What about your stomach? Any nausea yet?”
He shrugs. “Not much.”
“We can go up on the Zofran.” Dr. Willard nods at the stationary bike and gives Kellan a teasing smile. “You been training on that thing?”
Kellan shakes his head, rubbing his forehead, like his head hurts. “I wish.”
The doctor pats his arm. “Take this pretty girl and dance around the room. Just keep him up and down,” the doctor tells me.
Kellan’s eyes meet mine, and I feel warm all over. When did he stop looking at me?
When Dr. Willard goes, and Kellan lies back on his side, I perch on the foot of the bed. “You want to play a game or something? Maybe watch a show?”
He shakes his head. He’s got his phone cradled in his hand, but I can’t see what’s on the screen.
“I think I’ll take a nap.” I swallow, because all of a sudden, my throat is aching. “Do you mind if I lie down beside you?”
“Sure,” he says quietly.
I slip under the sheets, but when I go to spoon myself against him like normal, I find that I... just can’t.
I lie there, staring at the small sky light above the bed. I feel him shift beside me. He turns on his back. I catch his eye and realize he looks more alert than yesterday. As I just saw, when he spoke with Dr. Willard.
I blink, making the ceiling blur.
Did I do something wrong? I thought he’d want me here, but... I cover my face with my hand.
“Cleo?”
I peek my eyes open and see him leaning over me. He grabs my hand and tugs it under the covers, where I find a rock-hard erection.
I stroke up and down his velvety length, slowly at first, because I’m not sure if I want to do this. But I find I do. I need him. I’ll settle for anything I can get. I trace around his head and roll his balls in my warm palm. His chest rises with his heavy breaths.
“Yeah... oh... fuck... Cleo.”
I feel a pearl of moisture on the head of him. I feel wet too.
His thighs flex as he pushes himself into my hand. “Oh God... mm... underneath... my head again. Like that. Fuck.”
I feel his hips tremble. I stroke his balls. I jack him a few times and return to his head, to the silken rim, where the barest stroke of my fingertips has him snarling in my ear and threatening to blow all over me.
I wrap both hands around his thick shaft. He thrusts as my hands pump, and when he comes he groans, “I love you.”
* * *
“And if you are not a bird, beware of coming to rest above an abyss.” –Nietzsche
My hands shake just a little as I fold the square of bright red origami paper into a sparrow. I kind of suck at origami. None of the sparrows look the same, but I don’t care. I’ve got to stay busy...lest I go completely insane.
I’m sitting at the desk, over near the exercise bike, which is right by the room’s big windows. Kellan’s lying on his left side in the bed, eyes on his iPad.
He’s lying on his left side. The side where he has two broken ribs and a fucked up shoulder. The side that puts him facing away from me.
I grab another square of yellow origami paper.
I love you, too. Asshole. -Sloth
I’m folding that into the shittiest-looking sparrow yet when he gets off the bed and pushes his IV pole slowly to the restroom. After a few minutes, he comes back out. From halfway across the room, I can’t see him very well, but I’m pretty sure he’s going out of his way to avoid looking at me.
This time, he lies down on his right side like a sane person, but he’s quick to get the iPad back in front of his face.
Fury spreads its fingers through me. So he loves me, does he? Or maybe he just loves my hands around his dick. It feels wrong to be so pissed off at him, considering the situation, but I can’t help it. I want to saunter over to the bed and let him have it, but that isn’t fair. I tell myself that’s why I take my own vacation to the bathroom.
For Kellan’s sake.
Yeahhh.
I strip out of my clothes, pull a pair of loose gray sweats and a long-sleeved red t-shirt out of my bag, and seek refuge under the lukewarm stream of shower water. I don’t know if cancer patients can’t get over-hot or what, but this shower sucks.
Still, I stand there in the muggy, not-quite-steamy space a long time after I’m finished shaving and washing my hair.
Even if he really does love me, he’ll never say it again. I bet he won’t. I dry myself slowly and dress more slowly, then stash my bags back in the bathroom closet.
I hang my head upside down to dry my hair, so it’s got a little more body than it has since I got here, and brush and floss my teeth before I brave the room again.
I’m surprised to find him on the stationary bike. His blue eyes flicker over me, then quickly come back to the bike’s small, digital screen. I watch his legs pump for a minute. I can’t help admiring the way his body moves, the way he looks, even with the IV lines in his chest. He’s just…perfect.
I sigh. Fuck me. I thought this would be so different. I thought he’d be glad to have me here. I thought at the very least, he’d share his feelings. Fess up to liking me. Is that selfish? Maybe I’m not being understanding.
He has cancer, after all. The other day I came across the thick stack of consent forms—just for this one particular hospital stay—and learned more about what being here means for him. Trials usually don’t promise specific survival statistics, but I’ve read the stats for repeat bone marrow transplants online…with a reduced intensity radiation regimen (as Kellan had—two sessions of radiation the day before I got here) and—yeah. They’re not so fab. And by that, I mean like fifty percent, or even less.
God, I really am an asshole. Obviously, he’s scared. Who wouldn’t be? He’s scared and feeling bad and I’m here, all up in his space, demanding things. Even if I don’t say I am, I’m sure he can feel it. How I want him to talk to me.
I go to the recliner with my cross-stitching and watch him through the forest of my lashes.
A masochist. He must be. The IV pole stands beside him, and he’s not wearing a shirt. The IV lines pump chemo into his chest. His eyes are sad and tired, his handsome face perpetually tight. I know it now: his look of pain.
I’m so fucking helpless, I can’t stand it. I prick my finger with my cross-stitch needle just to do something. It stings more than I think it will.
I murmur, “Fuck.”
His gaze tugs to my face. I roll my eyes. “Pricked my finger.”
I’m surprised to see his legs slow their cycling. To see him move down off the bike, his motions slow and desperately careful. He walks to me in his lounge pants, pushing the IV pole. My heart beats like a drum the entire time. And then he’s standing right in front of me. Just standing there.
I want to scream.
> He stands there for the longest time. I don’t look up. Not because I don’t want to, but because I know I can’t. All the desperation that’s locked up in me would spill out, and he’d see it and know I care too much.
I care too much. Maybe I really do.
I sit there feeling nauseated. I just watch the needle and the thread, and make the “e” in ‘bitterness.’ Until he kneels in front of me.
His hand drapes over my knee, and I can feel his eyes on my face. “Cleo?”
God—I’ve really missed his normal voice. Not just his dirty whispers, but his real voice.
“Mmm?” I feel terrible for it, but I still can’t look at him.
His hand squeezes my leg and tension builds between us. So much that I think I’ll burst.
“I want to tell you something,” he says quietly.
“That’s new.” I can’t help it.
“I want you to go after your... after you donate.” His voice is low and husky, making chills roll over my skin. “You’re giving me enough. You’ve been here long enough... You have your own life to get back to. I know I...have to let you go.” The words are thick and soft. I feel a shot of hope. My heart pit-patters as his blue eyes come to mine. “I’m being selfish,” he confesses hoarsely. “It’s my default with you.”
I put my hoop on the table by the chair and reach for his handsome face. His eyes are full of pain. I want to kiss him, but at the last minute, I decide it feels better just to press my cheek against his.
“Kell...” My arm goes around his shoulders. “It’s not like that with us. You know it’s not.”
He inhales, and I can tell it hurts his ribs because he also tenses. He presses his cheek against mine and wraps his right arm tight around my back.
“What is it like?” he whispers. “Tell me.”
I curl my hand around his nape and kiss him near his ear. “It’s like I really care about you. I love you... and I just want to be here with you. Close, so I can see you every day.”
He pulls away. He looks anguished. “I feel like such a fucking bastard.”
“No.” I pull him back to me. “Why would you say that?”
I cup his head, and he lowers his forehead to my shoulder. His arm wraps back around me. I feel his fist clenched above my shoulder blade.
“Everything I do will hurt you.” His voice breaks. “I make you go...” He shakes his head. “I love you, I’m a liability to you. I fucking hate myself.”
“You are not a liability.” He lifts his head at that, his blue eyes wide and pooling with emotion. Which gives me hope. He cares what I say here. I brush his lips with mine. “I love you and I want you any way you are.”
His mouth tightens, as if my words hurt him. He hides his face in my hair again, and for a moment, I can feel him breathing hard.
“It’s gonna get worse,” he says in a broken voice. “You might... watch me die here. I don’t want that for you. Goddamn, Cleo. I want you to go. Just get as far away as you can and don’t look back. If I come through—” he shakes his head, his forehead rocking on my shoulder. “You’re never gonna need this shit.”
He lifts his head. His eyes are wide, intense. “Can you do that? Leave here after the donation?”
I smile sadly. “You know I can’t.” I drift my fingers along his collar bone on the side where he’s still bruised from the wreck. “I’ve got a total Heathcliff thing going for you.” I stroke his neck. “Now I know you know that. You’re English and finance, aren’t you? R. said he was an English major.”
He shuts his eyes. “Cleo, you aren’t Heathcliff. Don’t be. Please?” He peeks his eyes open and pulls me close enough to kiss me. But he doesn’t kiss me. His lips move against my chin, and I can smell the wintergreen mouth wash he’s been using. “You be Cathy. You be rational… Be safe.” His voice is soft and low. I love the sound of it. The feel of his words against my jaw.
“You know I’m the one who got your blow-up palm tree, right? And the bubbles for when the marijuana tincture gets here and you’re high? I’m not logical. I don’t want to be.”
I squeeze him to me, nuzzling his scratchy cheek. He hasn’t shaved in a few days, and he’s looking rougeish. “Let’s lay down, okay?”
His eyes slip closed just for a second, then he nods. He reaches around me for the chair, and I step out of his way.
“Can I—” help, I’m going to ask. But he pulls himself up, wraps his hand around the IV pole, and steps over to the bed. I hang back and let him get settled on his own. It’s hard because I can tell he’s sore, and I feel so bad that I let him kneel there for so long.
When he’s lying on his not-sore side, I climb up behind him and snuggle up against his back.
Silence wraps its arms around us. I shut my eyes and focus on the heat of Kellan’s body. I promise myself he’ll be okay. All that stuff he said about me leaving... I tell myself it’s not some prescient feeling he’s having that things will go badly for him. He’s just showing me he loves me.
I rub his back, so smooth and warm, still rippling with muscle, which feels more rigid than it ever has. “I’m really not leaving. I need you to believe that... and trust me.” Tears make my throat feel thick. I swallow. “I don’t want to be away from you.”
I feel him stop breathing for a moment. “And if you stayed?” His voice sounds strong, more firm than what’s normal in the last few days. “If you stayed and...things end badly?” he says, quieter now. “How do you think you’d feel about it then?”
All his muscles tense as he awaits my answer. I close my eyes and try to really go there. To imagine if he wasn’t moving and his skin was cold, and this would be the last time I would be with him.
I swallow, because the first thing I think is, we would never get to be together in the long-term. Which makes it crystal clear what my heart wants. I press my forehead against his back. “It scares me...to keep saying this when I’m not sure how you feel. But I love you. I can’t help it,” I whisper. “I...need you. In this way that doesn’t make sense, logically. But feels natural to me.” My heart pounds, because it’s terrifying, being so straightforward. “But if you died? I think I’d get comfort knowing I was here as long as I could be. Kinda saw you through... and didn’t leave, you know?” Tears drip down my cheeks, trekking across my face toward the pillow. “I couldn’t leave you. I just can’t, so please don’t make me.”
I guess he hears the tears in my voice, because Kellan takes the IV lines in one hand and, with a wince, turns over to face me. He frames my face with both his hands, even though I know it hurts to move the left one.
“I didn’t think you’d come up here. I hoped you wouldn’t find out Ly was your recipient. But now—” he looks into my eyes—“I know I fucked you over. I should never have let things keep on with you. Selfish.”
The low beeping that I’ve almost tuned out picks up, and I realize his heart is beating fast.
“What were you really? You’re not selfish. Were you curious? Once you found out I was ‘sloth’... what was that like?” It’s a question I’ve been longing to ask him.
He shuts his eyes and squeezes my hand. “I loved you too. Before we even spoke. Just watching you.” His eyes open and focus on my face. “I didn’t know it at the time, that that’s what all the interest was. If you tripped on a fucking crack I wanted to go help you. You smiled at someone, I wanted that for me. I would watch your hair...” he works his fingers through it, “and I would want to touch it. See how soft it was. After a while, I realized I didn’t like it, knowing I couldn’t have you. Or anyone, because it wasn’t fair. To let anyone get close to me...”
He leans his head down to my chest and hugs me carefully. “The whole thing... started getting to me. I told myself I was pissed off that you were threatening the business. All the charitable deliveries, they depend on the sales. I thought I just needed to get you under heel. But I think even then I knew it could go more places than that.”
“I think we were meant to meet each o
ther.”
FOURTEEN
Cleo
He looks away from me, and I can sense a wave of pain come over him. I can tell because his body tenses, and after a few seconds, he draws a deep breath.
His eyes shut, and slowly open. “You know, to meet you I have to be sick.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“Both times I met you, it was because of cancer.” First because I donated to Lyon, the second time because Kellan was here getting diagnosed with his relapse when his dealers had a dry spell and noticed me.
He lays back against the pillows and pulls an arm over his eyes. “You know, sloth is a sin,” he says softly.
“I prefer to think of it as an adorable animal.”
He peeks at me from underneath his arm. His eyes are dark. “I knew in March.”
“That you had relapsed?”
He blinks. “Not ‘knew.’ ‘Thought.’”
“What did you do?”
“Nothing,” he says bitterly. “I like numbers, remember?” He lets a sharp breath out. “I didn’t like the odds.”
I feel his jaw clench. “I drove off the bridge.”
Tears drip down my cheeks. “That hurts a little, not gonna lie. It makes me sad that you felt so backed into a corner. I wish you had talked to me.”
He gets off the bed. Starts pacing. “I didn’t want you to be here. I didn’t want this.”
“You want me to go?” My heart pounds.
“Yes—of course I do.”
“You didn’t say that when I got here.”
“A moment of weakness.” His features tense, but that doesn’t stop a single tear from falling down his cheek. “I hurt...worse than ever. The bone pain...the wreck. All I could think of was your hands. I couldn’t live without your hands on me. I knew I couldn’t.”
