Chapter 5

Twenty-eight. I was only twenty-eight. People my age didn' t get tumors. They didn' t face down their own mortality in a sterile hospital hallway.

The doctor' s words were a low hum in my ears. "It' s just a possibility... further tests... surgery..."

The word hung in the air. Surgery. I could die on the operating table.

"We strongly recommend you contact your family," the doctor said gently.

My family. A mother I hadn't told about my decade of heartache, trying to protect her. And a father who saw me as nothing but a disappointment. No, I couldn' t call them.

"What about your girlfriend?" the doctor asked. "She seemed so worried."

I just shook my head. She wasn' t worried about me. She was worried about losing her assistant. She had a new man to dote on her now. I wasn' t necessary anymore. My decision to leave her, to leave InnovateX, solidified into something unbreakable.

The results came back two days later. Malignant. The surgery was scheduled immediately. I took two weeks of medical leave from work, giving a vague excuse about a family emergency.

The day of my surgery, I saw Kendal' s mother, Diane, in the hospital lobby. She was with Kendal, but she wasn' t there for me. She was introducing Kendal to a handsome, well-dressed man.

"Kendal, this is Marcus Thorne," Diane said, her voice dripping with approval. "His family owns half of downtown. You should get to know him."

"Mom, I have a boyfriend," Kendal said, though her protest was weak.

"Brock? That good-for-nothing musician?" Diane scoffed. "He' s a nobody, Kendal. He' ll drag you down. You need a man who can help you, not a charity case."

Kendal insisted she wasn' t looking to get married, that she would only ever marry me. The words were a bitter joke.

Later that day, she called me. I was in a small, pre-op room, about to sign the consent forms.

"Brock, you' ve been on leave for too long," she complained, not even asking how I was. "The new assistant is useless. When are you coming back?"

"Kendal, I' m..." I started to tell her, to explain about the surgery.

"I don' t have time for your excuses," she snapped. "It' s my birthday in two weeks. You know how much it means to me. You better be there."

My birthday. I remembered all the lavish parties I had planned for her, the thoughtful gifts I had spent months searching for.

"Do you want me there?" I asked, a final, desperate test.

"Of course I do, silly," she said, her voice softening, confident she had me wrapped around her finger. "You' re my Brock."

A wave of exhaustion washed over me. I was done. Done with the games, the lies, the endless cycle of hope and disappointment.

"Okay," I said, my voice flat. "I' ll make you a birthday dinner. At home."

It would be our last supper. A farewell meal.

She complained about the idea of a simple dinner but eventually agreed, praising my cooking as if it were a concession.

The surgery was a success. They got the whole tumor. The recovery was painful, but I was alive. The doctor kept asking why Kendal never visited. I just shrugged.

Two weeks later, on her birthday, I checked myself out of the hospital. I stopped at the grocery store, my body still weak, and bought the ingredients for her favorite meal: a rich, slow-cooked seafood chowder. I had learned to cook for her, because she had once promised, with a sweet smile, that she would learn to cook for me once her company was stable. Another broken promise in a long line of them.

I went back to the penthouse and started cooking. I waited. And waited.

The sun set, casting long shadows across the living room. The chowder grew cold on the stove. She never came.

Just as I was about to call, the front door swung open.

Kendal stumbled in, laughing, draped over the back of Jaime Hodge. He was carrying her piggyback, his hands resting familiarly on her thighs.

They were both wearing matching black t-shirts. His said, "I' m with her." Hers said, "I' m with him."

She saw me and froze, her laughter dying in her throat. She scrambled off his back, her face a mixture of panic and guilt.

He wrapped an arm around her waist, pulling her close. The sight of them together, so intimate and casual in our home, was the final, killing blow.