"Me too," I said, shoving the letter in my jacket pocket. "It was a pleasure to meet you, Fran," I added, reaching to shake her hand.
"I don't shake hands with family," she said, pulling me in for a hard hug. "You give my girl time. She'll tell you when she's ready to face her feelings for you."
I nodded, though I was doubtful.
"You come back and see me someday," she said, turning to leave. "And bring that girl's handsome father with you," she added with a smile.
I waited until she was back in her house before I headed back to my vehicle with the letter burning a hole in my pocket. I drove past the Woodfalls welcome sign, unable to believe it had been just more than a week ago that I drove by it the first time. Merging onto the highway, I ignored the letter in my pocket that taunted me every mile I put between Woodfalls and me. Several hours later, I finally pulled off the highway into a rest stop that had been placed in the middle of a wooded area. I reached in my pocket and pulled out the letter, opening it slowly.
Nathan,
How do you write a Dear John letter to someone who changed your life so completely in one short week? I've spent the entire night wondering how I would ever be able to tell you how sorry I am for hiding the truth from you. I thought if I kept things casual neither of us would get hurt. I was wrong. You were right about me. I've been so scared of facing the sickness again. I was scared if I decided to fight, it would win in the end anyway. What I wasn't counting on was meeting someone who would give me a reason to fight it. Someone who would change the way I looked at things, someone who would make me believe in love even when facing mammoth obstacles. So I'm going to fight. All I ask is that if my feelings aren't one-sided that you wait to come to me. Wait for me to fight it. I plan on beating it again but if I don't, I can't stomach having you watch me die. If you feel anything for me, I ask that you respect my wishes.
Love with all my heart today, tomorrow, for the rest of my life,
Ashton Garrison
Chapter 25: Going Home
Ashton
The drive back to Florida was bittersweet for me. My dad decided to drive with me, which gave us a chance to catch up. It wasn't until we were able to finally talk that I realized how much I'd missed him. It shocked me to learn he never believed my letter and had known all along I was sick. I knew my absence had hurt him, but he did not try to make me feel bad about it. He expressed that he was glad I was finally able to do something that made me happy. He worked to keep the conversation flowing so that each mile we put between Woodfalls and us wouldn't hurt as much, but no amount of talking could ease that pain. Saying goodbye to Fran and Tressa had been heartbreaking, even with Fran trying to make me laugh through my tears by hitting on my dad.
"Please make sure you call Brittni. She's gonna be crushed knowing she wasn't here when you left," Tressa pleaded.
"I will," I promised. "You stay away from assholes. They don't deserve you," I whispered as she pulled me in for a hug. She tried to wipe the tears from her cheeks to no avail.
I turned to Fran who held out her arms. "Thank you for everything," I said.
"Honey, I should be thanking you," she replied. "But I want you to do something for me. Fight. Fight hard. If anybody can beat this, I know it's you. I believe it in my heart."
After swearing to them both that I would come back for a visit when I "beat the cancer's ass," Tressa's words not mine, we loaded up in my car and drove out of town. The hardest part was leaving without saying goodbye to Nathan. Tears had cascaded down my cheeks as my father steered the vehicle onto the highway, leaving Woodfalls and Nathan behind. Writing the letter had of course been another cowardly act on my part. I had stood at the window the previous evening listening to my father and Nathan's conversation. My heart had stuttered before racing out of control when Nathan professed his love for me. At that moment, I knew I would try and fight the cancer, but I couldn't ask him to stand by me if in the end I lost.
Wilma was actually the thing that wound up distracting me from my grief. She made it known right off the bat that she didn't like the carrier we had picked up for her to ride in. We'd barely been on the highway for ten miles when I eventually caved and let her out. Placing her on my lap, I was relieved when she immediately calmed down and curled up in my lap and promptly fell asleep. She was the comfort I needed as I stroked a hand over her furry back.
The trip home was longer than I remembered. I chalked it up to the frequent kitty bathroom breaks. By the time we'd on the road for a few days, I was just ready to be home. I felt completely exhausted, even though I did none of the driving, but even watching the changing landscapes as we drove had become taxing. My dad insisted on driving the entire time. I tried to argue, but the truth is I was grateful. Wilma continued to sleep on my lap, so I let her stay out of her carrier the entire trip. Each mile that separated Nathan and me weighed heavily on me. It seemed impossible to miss someone as much as I missed him. It went beyond the sexual connection we shared. I missed the conversations we shared and how we seemed completely in sync with each other. Maybe all of that had just been an illusion since he was trying to get close to me, but something inside me told me otherwise. By the time we arrived back home, my brain was a muddled mess and I no longer knew what I should believe.
We arrived back in Florida on a balmy eighty-degree day and I acutely missed the cooler temperatures of Woodfalls. Wilma and I settled into my father's house since I had given my apartment up when I had left four months ago. I left my boxes in storage, seeing no point in dragging them out until we knew what we were facing.
Two days after arriving home, I was back at the one place I'd wished I would never have to visit again.
"Ashton, I hear we may have a problem?" Dr. Davis said, entering the room where I was perched atop a paper-covered exam table wearing nothing but a smock.
"I think so," I said as he washed his hands in the small sink.
"Symptoms?" he asked with his back to me.
"Fatigue, loss of appetite, aches and pains and sleepiness," I parroted, fidgeting on the table.
"And you've had these symptoms how long?" he asked, putting his stethoscope to my chest.
"Four and half months," I admitted, waiting for his ridicule.
"I see," he clucked. "Are they the same now or worse?"
"Worse," I answered as he checked my lymph nodes with his fingers.
"Fever?"