Page 7 of Entwined
I didn’t tell Colson what Vaughn had done. I never had before, though I knew Colson was aware of his son’s obsession with me. We were lying in bed that night, the room dimly lit by the soft glow of the bedside lamp. As with all his treatments, Colson was utterly fatigued, his body sinking deeper into the mattress.
“I need surgery,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper.
My head shot up from where it rested against his chest. “Why?”
“It’s spread, Joey.” His words were like a lead weight sinking in my stomach.
There was no doubt about what “it” was.
“Where?” I asked, though I wasn’t sure I wanted to hear the answer.
“My liver,” he admitted, his gaze distant. “I’m not sure it will help. I’m on borrowed time.”
I stared at him, my heart constricting with fear and sorrow. “Please, you have to try,” I pleaded, my voice trembling. I grabbed his hand and pulled it to my belly, where our child was growing inside me. Two months along, and I couldn’t shake the dreadful feeling that Colson wouldn’t live to see the birth of our baby. Seven more months—could he really have that much time left?
“Joey…” he began, his tone heavy with resignation.
I silenced him with a kiss, pressing my lips to his. They were dry, chapped from the relentless treatments, but he kissed me back, his tongue sliding gently against mine. It was a sweet, tender kiss, filled with the passion of love and the sadness of knowing time was slipping through our fingers. When he finally pulled away, he cupped my face in his hands, his touch warm and comforting.
“I have secrets I want to tell you,” he murmured, his thumb stroking my cheek. “And I know you have some too.”
Tears welled in my eyes, and I shook my head, my voice cracking as I cried, “I don’t want to know.” The truth was, I did want to know, but hearing his secrets would make everything feel so final, like an admission that his life was ending, and nothing else mattered.
The anger I had buried deep inside—the anger for what he had done to my family—would come roaring back to the surface if he told me the truth. And I couldn’t hate him, not when I loved him so desperately.
“Please, Joey,” he whispered, his voice thick with emotion. “Let me tell you.”
I pressed my forehead to his, my tears falling onto his skin. “Not tonight,” I begged, my heart breaking. “Let me just have tonight.”
Colson sighed, his breath warm against my face. He nodded slowly, his hands never leaving my cheeks. “Okay,” he agreed softly. “Just tonight.”
We lay there in silence, the weight of unspoken words hanging heavy between us. I held him close, feeling the steady but weak beat of his heart against mine, and I prayed—prayed for more time, prayed for a miracle, prayed that somehow, we could escape the inevitable. But deep down, I knew the truth was lurking, waiting for the right moment to shatter the fragile peace we had found in each other’s arms.
Colson had fallen asleep, his breathing steady but shallow beside me. Restless and unable to sleep, I slipped from the bed, pulling my silk robe tightly around me. The coolness of the night air made my skin prickle as I padded down the stairs, my bare feet silent on the polished wood floors.
The house was eerily quiet, the kind of silence that felt almost oppressive. I needed something to calm the storm inside me, and a cup of tea usually did the trick. But tonight, I wasn’t sure if it was the situation or my pregnancy that had my stomach in knots.
In the kitchen, I set the teapot on the burner, the quiet click of the stove echoing in the stillness. As I waited for the water to boil, I felt a wave of nausea hit me, but I couldn’t tell if it was from the turmoil of emotions or the baby growing inside me.
I was staring at the granite countertop, lost in thought, when I heard Vaughn’s voice, soft but firm, cutting through the silence.
“Joey, he’s not going to get better.”
The bluntness of his words struck me like a physical blow. I gripped the edge of the counter, my knuckles white as I kept my eyes fixed on the cool stone beneath my hands. I knew Colson was dying, that our child would never know their father, and that I would be a widow at just twenty-four.
Tears blurred my vision, and before I knew it, Vaughn had turned me to face him. His arms wrapped around me, and despite the constant tension between us, I sank into his embrace, letting the tears I’d been holding back finally fall. My body shook as I cried against his chest, my sobs muffled by the soft fabric of his shirt.
“I’m sorry,” Vaughn murmured, his voice thick with emotion.
I didn’t know what he was apologizing for, and I didn’t have the energy to ask. I just let him hold me, drawing what little comfort I could from his warmth. The high-pitched whistle of the teapot broke the moment, and I pulled away, wiping my eyes with the back of my hand as I turned to shut off the burner. The steamrose in delicate tendrils as I poured the hot water into my mug, the mundane task grounding me in the midst of the chaos.
“Joey,” Vaughn started again, but I cut him off.
“There’s nothing you can say to make this better,” I said, my voice raw with grief.
He moved closer, his hands resting on my shoulders as he began to massage them gently, his touch surprisingly tender. “He was so weak at Toast,” Vaughn continued, his voice barely a whisper. “His hand was shaking when he sipped his wine.”
The image of Colson struggling, trying to maintain the facade of strength, was too much. I felt like I was drowning. “Oh God,” I choked out, the panic rising in my chest. “How will I do this? How will I go on without him?”
