Total pages in book: 53
Estimated words: 52357 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 262(@200wpm)___ 209(@250wpm)___ 175(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 52357 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 262(@200wpm)___ 209(@250wpm)___ 175(@300wpm)
“No, Dia, you don’t. That’s the problem. You aren’t scared of me, of this. And darlin’ you should be.”
I think about that moment. She was never scared of what this could be. It was me. I was afraid of what I would do to her, sure, but more so I think I was afraid of what she could do to me. The power of letting her love me and me loving her in return gives her is something I’ve never experienced with anyone but her. It’s also something I don’t want to let go of.
“I’m trying.” I look at her seriously, “I want this, Dia. More than anything.”
She nods once, then goes quiet.
A long silence passes.
Then she looks at me.
Serious.
Brave.
Her face is determined. “I want to marry you.”
My breath catches.
She’s dead serious.
“I know this isn’t the time. And I know you want to wait until things are settled. But—”
“No,” I say, gently.
She flinches, pulling back.
“I mean, not yet.”
I take her hand, pressing it over my chest.
“When I beat this and when you’re holding our baby in your arms, both of you healthy and strong. I’m going to do it right. Talk to your dad. Get the ring. Vows. Everything. You’ll have a dress and flowers and everyone who loves you in one place.”
Her lip trembles. “What if that day doesn’t come?”
I lean in and kiss her, slow and deep and full of every word I can’t say.
“It will.”
Her tears soak into my shirt.
And for the first time in days, I let mine fall too.
Later That Night She’s curled against my side, sleeping lightly. She did let them check her out and as soon as she was given a clean bill of health, she came right back here and climbed right back in beside me.
I stare up at the ceiling, hand resting over hers where it rests on my heart.
I almost lost her.
Again.
And I don’t know how many days I’ve got left.
But I’ll fight for every one of them.
Because this love?
This family?
This life?
It’s mine.
And I’m not letting go.
EIGHTEEN
DIA
"A mother bear's love knows no bounds; nurture your passions with the same intensity." — Unknown
I go to every treatment with him now.
I sit beside Justin in a too-cold infusion room that smells like antiseptic and defeat, my hand wrapped around his while poison drips into his veins.
He always jokes about the chairs, says they’re the most uncomfortable recliners ever made and that the nurses here could probably win bar fights with one hand tied behind their backs. He calls his favorite one “Chainsaw Suzie” because of how fast she rips the tape off his skin when unhooking the IV. It’s like she wants to cut him with tape.
But the truth?
There’s nothing funny about watching someone you love get sicker before they get better.
The treatments make him pale. The nausea comes in waves. Some days his hands shake so hard he can’t hold a fork.
So I cook.
God, do I cook.
Anything I can find online that boosts white blood cells, helps fight fatigue, keeps him steady. Chicken broth with turmeric. Mashed sweet potatoes with Greek yogurt and flax. Smoothies with spinach, ginger, and almond butter, even though he gags halfway through every single one.
“You’re trying to kill me,” he groans the first time I hand him a green one.
I deadpan. “Only your taste buds. Your immune system will thank me.”
He drinks it anyway. Gags dramatically. But he drinks.
That’s the thing about Justin.
He fights, even when it hurts.
Especially then.
We shave his head together.
He comes home one afternoon, looking at me with that quiet resignation that makes my heart crack. “It’s falling out worse than before. It’s time.” he says simply.
I nod.
We sit in the bathroom. He leans over the tub. I buzz the clippers to life.
Neither of us says much while I do it.
But his hand rests over mine the whole time.
When I finish, I smooth my fingers over the bare skin.
He looks in the mirror.
Says, “Damn. I look even meaner now.”
I smile through the tears I won’t let fall.
“You look like the man I’m in love with.”
He turns to me, serious. “Even like this?”
I rest my forehead against his. “Especially like this.”
At night, we lie together in bed, his arm wrapped carefully around my growing belly. He talks to the baby, his voice raspy from exhaustion but still filled with that steady, grounding strength.
He tells them stories about rides through the mountains, about the first time he met me, about how he once punched a guy named Rollo for using the last clean towel at the clubhouse.
The baby kicks when he talks. Always.
It’s like they know his voice already.
And I think maybe they do.
We start birthing classes in the community center downtown.
At first, we laugh our way through the ice-breakers. Our instructor, a perky redhead named Rachel, tries so hard to make everyone feel comfortable.
Justin deadpans his name as “Doctor Doom” when asked to share something unique about himself.