Chapter 12
Alexander cancelled the wedding the next day.
He did it by phone, in three sentences, while sitting beside my bed.
"Meredith. The wedding is off. I'm not coming home."
I could hear her screaming through the speaker. Then crying. Then screaming again.
Alexander listened for exactly seven seconds.
Then he hung up.
Within the hour, his phone was flooded with messages. From Meredith. From her family. From mutual friends.
He read none of them.
Instead, he turned to me and said, "What do you want to do today?"
I blinked.
"What?"
"Today. Right now. What do you want to do?"
I looked at the IV in my arm. At my legs, which had not carried me more than ten steps in days. At the pill bottles lined up on the nightstand like tiny soldiers.
"I want to go outside," I said.
So he took me outside.
He carried me down the stairs because there was no elevator. He set me in the wheelchair my mother kept by the door. He wrapped a blanket around my legs and a scarf around my neck and wheeled me into the weak winter sunlight.
We went to the park.
The same park where he had first told me he loved me, when we were seventeen, sitting on a bench by the pond, both of us so nervous our hands were sweating.
He wheeled me to that exact bench.
Then he sat beside me and held my hand, and for a long time, neither of us spoke.
"I wasted five years," he finally said.
"Don't count them like that."
"How should I count them?"
"As years Ethan got to live because of what we gave."
He turned to look at me.
"You gave," he corrected quietly. "Not me. I did nothing. I wasn't even there."
"You were the reason I did it."
His hand tightened around mine.
"Tell me what the last five years were like," he said. "All of it. Don't leave anything out."
So I told him.
The collapse six months after the third donation. The kidney failure. The hospital stays that stretched into weeks, then months. The first cancer diagnosis. My mother selling the house. The clinical trials that failed one after another.
I told him about the nights I lay awake, delirious with pain, whispering his name into the dark because it was the only word that felt safe.
I told him about the photo of us I kept under my pillow until the edges wore soft.
I told him about every time I almost died and how my mother would scream, "Think of Alexander! You promised you'd see him again!" and how that was always, always enough to bring me back.
By the time I finished, Alexander was crying again.
Silently this time. The tears slid down his face and he did not wipe them away.
"I should have known," he said. "Somehow, I should have known."
"How could you? Your mother made sure of it."
"I should have trusted you." His voice was barely a whisper. "I should have trusted that the woman who loved me since we were children would never betray me. But I was so angry. And the evidence she planted was so convincing. And you never denied it. Why didn't you deny it?"
"Because she told me it was the only way to set you free."
He closed his eyes.
"And you believed her."
"I was twenty-two and I had just been told my immune system was failing. I wasn't thinking clearly."
"God, Sophia." He pressed my hand against his cheek. "You should have let me stay. You should have let me come home. I would have dropped everything. Everything."
"I know." I smiled at him. "That's exactly why I couldn't tell you."
We stayed in the park until the sun went down.
Then he took me home and carried me back up the stairs, and when he set me in bed, he lay down beside me and pulled me against his chest.
"I'm not leaving," he murmured. "Not for a second. Not ever again."
I pressed my face into his shirt and breathed him in.
Soap. Winter air. Home.
"Okay," I whispered.
He did it by phone, in three sentences, while sitting beside my bed.
"Meredith. The wedding is off. I'm not coming home."
I could hear her screaming through the speaker. Then crying. Then screaming again.
Alexander listened for exactly seven seconds.
Then he hung up.
Within the hour, his phone was flooded with messages. From Meredith. From her family. From mutual friends.
He read none of them.
Instead, he turned to me and said, "What do you want to do today?"
I blinked.
"What?"
"Today. Right now. What do you want to do?"
I looked at the IV in my arm. At my legs, which had not carried me more than ten steps in days. At the pill bottles lined up on the nightstand like tiny soldiers.
"I want to go outside," I said.
So he took me outside.
He carried me down the stairs because there was no elevator. He set me in the wheelchair my mother kept by the door. He wrapped a blanket around my legs and a scarf around my neck and wheeled me into the weak winter sunlight.
We went to the park.
The same park where he had first told me he loved me, when we were seventeen, sitting on a bench by the pond, both of us so nervous our hands were sweating.
He wheeled me to that exact bench.
Then he sat beside me and held my hand, and for a long time, neither of us spoke.
"I wasted five years," he finally said.
"Don't count them like that."
"How should I count them?"
"As years Ethan got to live because of what we gave."
He turned to look at me.
"You gave," he corrected quietly. "Not me. I did nothing. I wasn't even there."
"You were the reason I did it."
His hand tightened around mine.
"Tell me what the last five years were like," he said. "All of it. Don't leave anything out."
So I told him.
The collapse six months after the third donation. The kidney failure. The hospital stays that stretched into weeks, then months. The first cancer diagnosis. My mother selling the house. The clinical trials that failed one after another.
I told him about the nights I lay awake, delirious with pain, whispering his name into the dark because it was the only word that felt safe.
I told him about the photo of us I kept under my pillow until the edges wore soft.
I told him about every time I almost died and how my mother would scream, "Think of Alexander! You promised you'd see him again!" and how that was always, always enough to bring me back.
By the time I finished, Alexander was crying again.
Silently this time. The tears slid down his face and he did not wipe them away.
"I should have known," he said. "Somehow, I should have known."
"How could you? Your mother made sure of it."
"I should have trusted you." His voice was barely a whisper. "I should have trusted that the woman who loved me since we were children would never betray me. But I was so angry. And the evidence she planted was so convincing. And you never denied it. Why didn't you deny it?"
"Because she told me it was the only way to set you free."
He closed his eyes.
"And you believed her."
"I was twenty-two and I had just been told my immune system was failing. I wasn't thinking clearly."
"God, Sophia." He pressed my hand against his cheek. "You should have let me stay. You should have let me come home. I would have dropped everything. Everything."
"I know." I smiled at him. "That's exactly why I couldn't tell you."
We stayed in the park until the sun went down.
Then he took me home and carried me back up the stairs, and when he set me in bed, he lay down beside me and pulled me against his chest.
"I'm not leaving," he murmured. "Not for a second. Not ever again."
I pressed my face into his shirt and breathed him in.
Soap. Winter air. Home.
"Okay," I whispered.