Page 24 of Beyond the Bright Lights

She stands with her coffee in hand. “I don’t believe that’s any of your business, Mylan Andrews.”

“I guarantee you that I’d be better than a donut.”

“Inappropriate.”

I ignore the warmth in my chest at the playfulness in her voice and stuff my own pastry in my mouth. While I don’t moan, it’s still a good fucking donut.

Lana moves into the living room as I’m swallowing my last bite. She opens her laptop, setting it on her thick thighs and clicks away at the mouse pad.

“My television stopped working last year and I never replaced it, so we’ll have to watch everything on my laptop. I had all my videos and pictures uploaded on here a few years back.”

I sit next to her, too close, and she shoots me a scowl. I hold up my hands and move over enough that we’re no longer touching. Though, I can still feel her heat and smell her sweet scent.

It’s hot as fuck inside this loft.

Right on cue, a drop of sweat trickles down her neck and into her cleavage. It takes everything in me not to climb over and lick it dry. Before I do, and ruin everything, she wipes her palm over the line of sweat and stands, handing me the computer to hold. She walks across the living area to the window and pushes some buttons on an air conditioning unit, sending a cool breeze blasting our way.

“The A/C for the bar doesn’t work that well up here,” she explains, taking back her laptop and sitting down. She starts scanning through the videos. “Have you seen the viral video yet?”

I shake my head, not sure if I’m capable of words sitting this close to her. Her vanilla and berry smell takes me back to Friday night when I held her in my arms and kissed her. The way her curves melded into my body. The way my lips begged to be consumed by her.

“Here it is,” she says in a slightly shaky breath.

Shit. I am an inappropriate asshole. Here I am, lusting over this woman who’s emotionally wrecked as she falls into another round of grief.

After a few more clicks of the laptop’s mouse, she makes the video full screen, then hits play and sets the computer on the coffee table. She readjusts on the couch, tucking her legs underneath her and grabs a throw pillow to hug.

Tyler Taylor appears on the screen. He's in a wheelchair, bald, frail, and pale. Pictures decorate the pavilion where his twenty-second birthday is being held. Pictures of Lana and Tyler in high school and college—Tyler in his football gear with Lana posing beside him in her cheerleading uniform, them hanging out with friends at a lake, and them dancing while wearing crowns at prom or homecoming.

Lana was right. We look nothing alike. Tyler had light brown hair and brown eyes with hints of green. From what I can tell from the photos and before the cancer claimed him, he was huge, twice Lana’s size. Makes sense since he was a football player. He had more muscles than me, which is impressive since I work out every day. Or try to when I'm not passed out on my living room floor.

I spot Lana in the video, eighteen years younger, standing next to Tyler and holding his bony hand. She looked like a different person: no tattoos, her natural hair dark brown, and she was thinner, but her curves were just as bountiful.

Lana takes a deep breath beside me, pulling my attention away from the screen. Her eyes are full of tears—full but not yet spilling over. She's trying to hold them back with all the strength remaining inside her. I reach out and rub her arm. She doesn’t jerk away from my touch, but one tear manages to fall. She's quick to wipe it away.

“Hello everyone. My name is Tyler Taylor and today is March third, my twenty-second birthday,” Tyler begins speaking. His words are slow as he struggles to breathe despite being on oxygen. “I have stage four Acute Lymphoblastic Leukemia. I was diagnosed about five months ago. The cancer spread fast to my other organs, faster than normal. I've gone through chemotherapy and any and all treatments available. Nothing has worked. The doctors don’t know why.”

Lana’s hand absentmindedly finds mine, and she holds it so tight it almost hurts. She's watched this video enough times, she’s bracing herself for what comes next.

“My time on this earth is being cut short, but I would like my legacy to live on. I was going to school to become a social worker, because I wanted to help people in tough situations. Now I'm hoping you can help me in this tough situation. I don’t need presents. What I’m asking is for you to donate. With help from my family and my beautiful fiancée, I have created an organization called Tyler's Team. Part of the money raised for this nonprofit will be used for A.L.L. research. The rest of the funds will support families whose loved ones are going through treatments.”

I run my thumb across Lana’s. I hope it’s soothing for her. It is for me, because moments like this don’t happen to me—when someone trusts me enough to show me their vulnerability.

“Anything you can give would help. I don't know how much longer I have left, but every minute of the rest of my life will be spent raising money for Tyler's Team. I'm not letting this disease win. I will fight on.”

A picture montage scrolls across the screen with sad music playing. Once the video fades to black with text providing information on how to donate, Lana breathes. Her grip on my hand loosens, but she doesn’t let go.

“When did he—”

“A week later.”

Lana shakes her head, her eyes lowering. She notices our embrace and releases my hand.

“Sorry, I—”

“It’s fine.”

“It’s not fine. None of this fine.”

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