Never Say Goodbye Page 10

  My entire life, Emmett has been the only person who could pick me up when I was down. And I’m so down right now, I really don’t know if I’ll ever make it back up.

  When I saw he was doing a book signing in New York City, well, it seemed like a miracle. It was as if the universe knew I needed him right now and somehow fate found a way to send him to me. Even after so many years apart, Emmett and I reconnected like no time had passed at all. Tonight, he’d been my best friend again.

  I wasn’t surprised he’d forgiven me so quickly for running away after graduation, even though we’d made promises to spend the summer together. I was young and naive, and stupid. But somehow, he seemed to understand and loved me anyway.

  And yet I’ve done it again tonight, left him alone in his bed, in the bed he made love to me in.

  Who knows if there will ever be a chance to tell him why. And would he forgive me again? Probably not. I can’t blame him.

  I just couldn’t tell him the truth. How do you look at a man you’ve loved nearly your entire life and say, “I’m dying?”

  The surgical biopsy is tomorrow, and I have to admit, even if it’s only to myself, I’m scared to death.

  Ha! How funny would that be? I could die from fear the night before I find out how bad this thing is that’s decided to take over my body. My early tests show it’s probably aggressive since I’m so young.

  Young or not, the statistics are not in my favor. My chances of survival are lower than women over forty, which seems ridiculously weird to me. Wouldn’t being younger and stronger mean I should have an advantage?

  I’m dying, emotionally and physically. I can feel it.

  Leaving Emmett tonight, alone in his hotel room, feels like a slow death already. I love him so much it hurts. Making love with him for the first time tonight felt so right. It felt like coming together with the part of me that’s been missing so long, I ached with need every day. But, tonight, there’d been no ache. No hole where he should have been. He’d filled me entirely, completely. He’d made me his in every way.

  Turning this pain over to him, sharing my heartache with him, asking him to carry the burden of my cancer is wrong. I won’t do that to him. I won’t make him put his life on hold for me. I won’t make him go through the heartache of knowing I might not live through whatever they have to do to get this shit out of my body.

  My battle is just that, mine. My body is attacking itself and I have no idea how to fight back. And I won’t ask those I love to watch me die.

  Breast cancer.

  I’ve written it in my journal a hundred times since my initial diagnosis. Yesterday, I bought a new journal, the one I’m writing in now. It’s going to be the fight journal. The one that records the whole damned battle. The words still feel foreign to me. I refuse to say it out loud.

  Maybe I should name the disease something instead. I could call it The Beast. No, maybe The Sludge. Or maybe just Herman, or something along those lines. Then I wouldn’t have to say the C word. I could go to the doctors and say, “hey, how is The Beast doing today? Is it fighting back or are we kicking its ass yet?”

  The doctors try to give me hope. Survivors try to encourage me with their stories of overcoming the odds. It doesn’t work. I think it’s because I can’t seem to wrap my head around it yet.

  And the sad thing is, I don’t want anyone to know. Is that weird? I’ll have to give up everything I love, everything that’s important to me—my profession as a dancer in New York, my relationship with the friends I’ve made here. I don’t want anyone to know. I just can’t stand the way people look at me when they know.

  And yet my stupid brother, Tanner found out. He's so nosy. And he’s here, in New York. He says he’s here to help me, but I don’t want it. I want to be alone in this fight. Despite what the survivors say, I don't need anyone.

  I’ll go through with my surgery tomorrow. I already know in my heart I’ll need a full mastectomy. I can feel The Beast taking over my body. He has apparently moved in and thinks he’s taking over. I may survive the initial surgery, but I’ll be scarred, for life. Only one breast. And chemotherapy will rob me of my hair—and my dignity. Radiation will burn my skin.

  And still, Tanner refuses to leave. He says he’ll stay as long as I need him. I don’t want to need him. I don’t want to need anyone. But I know I will. I try not to think about how much I need Emmett. The truth is, I need him more than ever but it would kill me to know he was feeling the same pain I’m feeling right now. It would kill me to know he’s sitting up worrying, just the same way I know Tanner probably is.

  It would kill me to know he gave up his life for mine.

  Emmett doesn’t need to see this side of me, the weakling, trying to fight cancer. The fight will be ugly. I will be ugly. He deserves a woman whose body isn’t mutilated. A woman who is beautiful and whole. Not a mangled person trying to survive.

  Tonight, Emmett loved me, completely, in a way I needed without having to tell him. In his arms, I’d felt everything I’d ever wanted—I was desired, cherished, loved.

  It was one night. One night with the man I’ve loved, in one form or another, for nearly my entire life. One night. It wasn’t nearly enough. But it has to be. Because this battle is mine alone.

  Emmett closed the journal and placed his hands on top of the leather cover like it was a sacred artifact. Actually, it was. It was Elle’s heart and he couldn’t read any more. Not tonight. To know she’d needed him and had been too afraid to ask tore his heart apart. He would have done anything for her.

  He swallowed the lump in his throat. She could have died. His Elle. She still could die. The thought unnerved him and he forced himself to push it away.

  “Dude!” Max kicked open his door.

  Emmett jumped in his seat.

  “Have you seen these?” he asked, making his way into Emmett’s room, uninvited as usual, carrying a laptop.

  Emmett pulled open a draw in his desk and slid Elle’s journal inside. “See what?” he asked, turning to look at Max.

  “These videos.” He set the laptop on Emmett’s desk and turned it to face him.

  “What videos?”

  “Of Elle.”

  “Elle?” Emmett asked, knowing he sounded a little like an idiot at the moment. “Videos of Elle? Doing what?”

  “Dancing, man. She’s amazing.” Max pulled up a side chair and butted it next to his.

  “She’s always been amazing,” Emmett said quietly.

  Max turned and stared at him. “Then why have you been so pissed at her?”

  Emmett shrugged. What could he say? He couldn’t tell Max about the cancer. Elle had made that abundantly clear. She didn’t want anyone to know.

  “Look at this one, Em.”

  Emmett focused on the computer screen. Elle stood at the center, surrounded by other dancers on what looked to be a New York City Street. They were dressed in regular clothes—jeans, T-shirts and tennis shoes. Emmett was confused. “I thought you said it was a dance video.”

  “Wait for it,” Max said, pushing play.

  Hip hop music rang through the speakers and the dancers began moving in a modern dance, not ballet. It was amazing to watch but so unlike anything he’d ever seen Elle do before.

  The group was in perfect beat with the music, and each other, with Elle clearly leading the team. Her long hair was pulled high in a slicked-backed ponytail and she wore huge hoop earrings. She swung her head to the music, her hair whipping around her face in a way that made him want to reach out and tug her to him with that ponytail. To pull her in and use it to tilt her head back so he could capture her mouth with his.

  Then it hit him. She had hair. Long hair, the way it had been when they’d been together their one night in New York. This video must have been made before her surgery, before her treatment began. Emmett’s chest seized tight with pain.

  “I thought she only did ballet,” Max said above the music, “but YouTube is filled with her doing all different kinds of
dances.”

  “What are you talking about?” Emmett asked, staring at his brother.

  “I’ve found at least twenty videos with Elle in them. Most, she’s either the lead or the video is a solo performance.”

  “How did you find these?” Emmett asked.

  “I was doing recon on the resort.”

  “Recon? What the hell does that mean?”

  Max paused the video. “I know Ma and Maggie have this grand idea to work with the resort now. I just wanted to make sure they were on the up and up.

  “And what did you find?” Emmett asked.

  “These videos.” Max nodded toward the screen. “I’m kind of ADD when it comes to research.”

  “Show me another one,” Emmett said, pulling the laptop closer.

  “Do you want modern dance, sexy dance, or ballet?” Max asked with a grin Emmett didn’t appreciate.

  “What do you mean, sexy dance?”

  “Dude, some of these dances she does are fucking hot as hell. I’m not gonna lie, I was kind of getting a chubby.”

  Emmett slammed his brother’s shoulder. Hard. “A slow Colorado wind could give you a hard-on. Hell, old lady Parker could get you hot and bothered if the light was just right.”

  “Florence Parker, the librarian?” Max laughed. “Is she even still alive?”

  “Yep,” Emmett nodded. He’d visited the local library several times since he’d been back, searching for inspiration for his book. He’d yet to find any.

  “I think Flo the Ho is a stretch, even for me.” Max leaned back in his chair, scrubbing his chin. “But there is something to be said for that whole sexy librarian thing. You think she still has her teeth?”

  “Gross, she’s like a hundred.”

  “True, but still, a mouth is a mouth.”

  Emmett shook his head but his mind had gone back to the videos Max had found. “Are her sexy dances solo or with someone?”

  “Who? Ms. Parker? God, I don’t even want to think about her slow dancin’ with a steel pole.”

  “No, you idiot. Elle’s.” Emmett shoved his brother again. “Are Elle’s dances with another person or solo?”

  Max blinked at him.

  “What?” Emmett furrowed his brow.

  “You sound kind of jealous, bro.”

  Emmett shrugged. Maybe, he thought. He’d probably always feel possessive when it came to Elle, even when he didn’t want a relationship with her.

  Which, he didn’t.

  “She has both,” Max finally answered, “but I’ll show you a solo dance first. I’m warning you.” Max typed Elle’s name in the search bar.

  Emmett was amazed at the number of videos credited to her.

  “You might sport wood during this one.” Max waggled his brow and Emmett saw red, thinking of his horn-dogged brother lusting after Elle. “I’ll leave you alone, just in case you decide to punch-push the donkey.” He looked down at Emmett’s crotch.

  Emmett stood, stepping into Max’s space with the kind of look that told his brother he didn’t give a shit if he was a pro football player, he’d still kick his ass.

  Max raised his hands in defeat, but the smirk on his lips told Emmett he wasn’t finished. “Just don’t get jiz on my new laptop. That shit won’t come out. Trust me.”

  “Screw you, you sick bastard.”

  Max laughed as he reached past Emmett to click the play button, and left the room.

  Emmett stared at the screen as he sank back into his seat.

  Elle lay in a bed wrapped in white sheets, her dark hair fanned over the thick pillow. The music was slow and sultry. God, what he wouldn’t give to be there in that room with her, curled up next to her.

  Her lashes fluttered open as if she’d just woken, revealing the light blue eyes that always stopped Emmett’s heart. When she pushed back the sheets to reveal her tall, sexy body clad in a white, button-down shirt over a black sports bra, he thought he might have a heart attack.

  Emmett watched, slack-jawed as she stepped across the room with grace and elegance, and more sex appeal than any stripper he’d ever seen—not that he’d seen many, but still.

  The performance was as much a play, as it was a dance. She rushed toward the door, leaning against the frame as if trying to hear outside. She was mesmerizing.

  Elle tugged on the doorknob but it was locked. She seemed distressed, like she was trapped. The camera zoomed in on her face and his breath caught. She was beautiful and the video captured every nuance Emmett had already committed to memory years before. He hated to know others saw what he’d always seen—a young, vulnerable woman with more talent than she’d ever known.

  Elle danced around the large bedroom, her steps a mix of elegance and sensuality that kept his gaze glued to the screen. The crescendo of the score matched the cadence of Elle’s dancing. Her movements were erotically intoxicating and Emmett wondered if she’d choreographed the song. The performance was nothing like Emmett had ever seen before.

  Elle twirled and turned and jumped just like he’d seen her do a million times before. She was a woman in this video—a sensual, sophisticated woman, comfortable in her own skin.

  As the video came to a close, Elle slowed and moved toward the bed, only now there was a man wrapped up in the sheets, too. She slid underneath and scooted close to him. Emmett swallowed hard, feeling his gut clench even though she only wrapped her body around his as their eyes closed. The video pulled away and faded into nothing as the credits rolled and he noted the song was “Bleeding Love” by Leona Lewis. He thought it might be his new favorite song.

  Emmett didn’t like to see his Elle wrapped around another man but even he had to admit how artistically beautiful the video had been. Another video automatically loaded.

  A man was running through a warehouse as if searching for someone, accompanied by the sound of pounding rain on the roof. The man found a door and pushed through it, running aimlessly outside into the storm. He was soaked within seconds, white shirt and faded jeans clinging to his body as his hair dripped water onto his face. He slowly fell to his knees, covering his tormented face as if in actual pain.

  Emmett jumped as a loud clap of thunder rang from the speakers. This shit was like a real movie.

  The soft sounds of a soulful R&B song played behind the rain as a woman approached. Emmett’s breath caught when he saw her. Elle, walking—no, gracefully gliding toward the man as only a ballerina could, toes pointed, legs long and toned. A man’s deep voice began to hum and moan in the music.

  Lightning struck overhead, revealing Elle’s flesh colored dress. The material clung to her skin from the rain, revealing every inch of her body as if she wore nothing. Emmett recognized that body. He’d felt it underneath him, over him, beside him.

  That body belonged to him.

  He shook his head at the stupid thought. Elle didn’t belong to him. She never really had.

  The song playing in the video talked about turning down the lights, turning down the bed. Oh, hell.

  Slowly, Elle wrapped her hands around the man’s eyes from behind him as she leaned down and whispered something in his ear. The man turned and lifted Elle, then twisted in a choreographed move that had her landing in his lap where she caressed his face, her hands working down his neck as he nuzzled hers.

  The man gently set her on the ground and Elle slid her body down against his, kneeling as her hands roamed over his stomach and lower, grasping his thighs and arching against him. Shit, the image was erotic, and Emmett’s heart heated with anger, and more than a little lust if he were honest.

  Emmett finally recognized the song. “I Can’t Make You Love Me.” It wasn’t Bonnie Raitt though. This was a man singing, his voice soulful and filled with lust and desire. Emmett could relate.

  Elle pushed away from her partner, dancing around him in classic ballet moves he’d forgotten the names of before turning on her toes and running toward the man. He caught her mid-air, her legs split parallel to the floor as he twisted her body around
his shoulders, turning them around until Emmett was sure they would fall down.

  Emmett sat still, watching as Elle and this man clung to one another, bodies on fire, their movements synchronized in every way, more than just physical. The intimacy between them was heartbreakingly beautiful and he couldn’t help but believe they’d been lovers.

  Another clap of thunder on the screen made Emmett jump again. Lightning streaked against the sky, illuminating the scene. Elle glanced up, the light setting her wet face aglow before she turned to leave. Except for the night he’d held her in his arms, Emmett had never seen her look more beautiful.

  The music faded and the man fell to the ground, hands covering his head as he appeared to weep. Credits rolled on the screen and Emmett noted the dancer’s name was Jonathon Hughes.

  He reached out to close the website. He couldn’t take another video of Elle dry humping some other guy in the rain. Before he could click the browser closed, a song he knew broke through on a new video. It was Elle but this time she was alone in a ballet studio.

  He sat back and studied the familiar girl who’d grown into a beautiful woman. Thankfully in this video Elle was outfitted in classic ballet clothes—black leotard, pink tights and a sheer pink skirt that hung to her mid-thigh. Pointe shoes covered her feet and ribbons wrapped intricately around her small ankles and calves.

  Emmett laughed, remembering how many times he’d watched her fix an old pair of shoes, trying to make them last, believing each pair was luckier than the ones before. Her bedroom had been filled with old ballet slippers hanging on the walls, each pair containing a story she loved to share. God, he’d forgotten how sentimental she was.

  Emmett knew more than most men about how to repair ballet shoes. Hell, thanks to Elle, he probably knew more than most men about a lot of things related to ballet and dance.

  He returned his attention to the video. Elle stood in a classic ballerina pose, her hand gripping the bar attached to a mirror, her other arm gracefully held above her head. He was transfixed by the woman on the screen. Her dark hair was pulled back in a tight bun, her body long and lean as she pointed out one toe. She stared at her reflection in the mirror, her blue eyes glowing as her mouth spread in a wide smile. This was the Elle he knew. She was in her element.