A door slams, and the smile I imagined Spencer wearing dissipates. “Abigail? Baby, what’s wrong?”
“It’s Marcie.” I lean forward and rest my arms on the back of the chair in front of me, my forehead on my forearms. “It’s Marcie, Spencer. Oh my god, it’s Marcie.”
“What?” His voice is the opposite to mine. Calm, direct, zero panic, and I can’t even get mad, because I don’t feel like he’s uncaring, but that his training is kicking in, and he knows one of us has to remain rational. “What’s wrong with her? You need to slow down and breathe.”
“I can’t.” I press a hand to my sternum, and drag a laborious gulp of air into my lungs. “Marcie is gone! She’s gone, Spencer!”
“Baby…”
“She’s fucking gone! Does it sound cute when I cuss? Because she’s dead, I’m in a church, and I’m going to swear about how unfair this shit is. She’s seventeen, Spencer! She’s been planning her birthday party for ages, and her wedding.”
“Abigail.” His voice breaks, but the hitch barely registers over my crying. “I’m so sor–”
“You’re sorry?! Everyone is always sorry. I’m sorry for your loss. I’m sorry for your disease. I’m sorry your life sucks and your body wants to kill you.”
“Are you alone, Abigail? Is anybody there with you?”
“Just Jesus and his bullshit reasoning for hurting a child. I’m a believer, Spencer. I believe in Heaven, I believe in God. When you’re a sick kid and you worry about dying, you kind of have to trust that there’s something more. I believe that He only gives us as much as we can handle. It’s never too much, and He is never cruel. He lights our way and, though the road may be tough, he still lights the damn way.”
“Baby, I–”
“What was Marcie’s way, Spencer? What was her higher purpose? What was the point of all the pain? She still died, and soon we’ll have to tell her mom and dad that they lost their only daughter. She was planning her prom dress,” I sob. “She didn’t have a date, but she asked me if she could ask you. She was going to ask a military man almost twice her age if he’d escort her to a stupid dance, and I told her you would accept. Because you would have.” My chest heaves, making it impossible to draw in a solid breath. The blackness surrounds my vision and draws closer. “You would have said yes, because you’re a gentleman when you’re not teasing and saying bad words, and you wouldn’t have cared that she didn’t have any hair.”
“I wouldn’t have cared,” he chokes out. “I would have said yes.”
“I know!” Hot tears torrent over my face. “You’d have been the best date she ever had, because you would have bought her a pretty flower for her wrist, you’d have picked her up at the door. Literally.” I cry. “You would have literally lifted her off her feet, because she hasn’t been strong enough to stand lately. You would have made her night magical, something she would never have forgotten, and the happiness she felt from that date would have made her stronger. It would have given her enough strength to fight another round of chemo the same way Doctor Rhett gave me strength. I wanted to get better, I wanted to impress him. Just like Marcie would have done for you. But she never got the chance, and it’s not fair. It’s not fair.” My tears drip from the end of nose and onto the floor. My chest and back bounce. “It’s not fair, Spencer. She shouldn’t die.”
“I’m so sorry, baby. Truly I am. I’m gonna talk to Soph and Jay today. I’m going to try to come home.”
“Okay.” I nod, despite knowing that no one is here to see me.
“I love you, Abigail. Believe me, okay?”
Again, I nod. “Okay.”
“I’m coming home. Just sit tight, and I’ll be home soon.”
“Two months is a long time.”
“I know,” he croons. “I’m sorry it’s taking so long. I’ll be back soon.”
He hangs up and leaves me all alone on the church pew for what feels like an eternity, but at the same time, just minutes before heavy boots touch the timber floors, and my heart gives a nervous tattoo beat.
I luxuriate in the moment of thinking he’s back so soon, that I’m seconds away from the kind of hug only he can give, the kind of hug only I can receive from him, but then I turn and follow those boots and pant legs up to Kane Bishop’s hardened face, and beside him, Nixon.
Spencer sent them to me. He sent protection because he couldn’t be here.
“Abigail.” Kane’s voice is deep and commanding.
He’s concerned for me, but when he hesitates at the door for a second too long, Nixon strides through and scoops me into his arms. He sits where I was sitting a moment ago, pulls me against his chest, and lets me purge the poison from my chest as though it was my body holding the cancer and chemotherapy. He lets me cry myself raw, and he holds me all along. Then he lets me sleep, and still, he doesn’t push me off his lap.
He holds me extra tight when Marcie’s distraught parents sweep in hours later to pray to a god I’m not sure I believe in anymore, and when they leave again, he holds me while I purge that brand new poison.
The wrong arms hold me, but I’m too weak to push him away. The wrong lips press to my temple, but the right lips aren’t here. The wrong heart beats against my arm, but the one I yearn for is in an undisclosed location and not here, despite the fact he said he would be.
I cry until I have no more tears to give, and when I finally, weakly, push away from my big brother and attempt to stand, I turn to find Kane standing exactly where he stood earlier. Arms folded, jaw set, fire burning in his eyes while he stands sentry and guards the one thing Spencer asked him to guard.
“He’s not coming, is he?” My voice is raw and raspy, but the man understands my words.