Fighting For You (Bragan University Series Book 2) Read online

  The thing is, I wanted to take my time. I needed to do it right because you only got to ask a girl like Hayley once. And if you were going to dare ask, it had to be perfect. Not because she demanded it, but because she deserved it. She was the girl of my dreams—she still is.

  I’d met her in middle school. She’d transferred in after her parents divorced. I couldn’t describe how seeing her for the first time had made me feel—the eleven-year-old me didn’t have the words. I just knew there was something special about her. Her smile made me smile. Her kindness made me want to be better. I remember sitting next to her in class and listening to her go back and forth with the teacher about climate change. The teacher didn’t know what to do with her; she was so full of passion and wouldn’t back down. I knew she was the kind of girl who made those around her better.

  Even though I was young, I knew she was meant to be my girl. She cared about everything. She wanted to change the world; I saw her as my world.

  So yeah, if I was going to ask her to prom, I was going to make damn sure I did it right.

  “Setting up the promposal was terrifying. You were going to hang out with some of your friends—a girl’s day out, you called it. I took advantage of the fact you weren’t going to be home. I talked your mom into letting me use your home for the best promposal ever. Although your mom was hesitant after I told her the plan, she eventually got on board. I said I wanted to make it the best night you ever had.”

  I chuckle as I recall the look on her face. “At first, she thought I was talking about sex, and after I spent a few minutes—a few long, awkward minutes explaining myself—I convinced her otherwise.”

  “I set up string lights all around your house. I placed candles from the entrance all the way to your back patio. Your mom wanted to help, but I insisted on doing it myself. She kept gushing about how sweet the gesture was, and only after she reassured me everything looked amazing did my nerves settle a little. Then she left me at your house while she went to meet a friend. She entrusted me with her little girl, and I knew I’d never do anything to ruin that.

  “I still can’t believe she just let me roam your home freely without supervision. I could’ve burned the place down!”

  “When your friends were on their way to drop you off at home, they sent me a warning text as planned. As soon as I saw it, I lit all the candles, unlocked the front door, and got into position. The candles guided you to find me on my knees. I told your mom I should’ve proposed to you instead, but, as expected, she shut that idea down really quickly. If I’d known your life was going to be as short as it was, I would have …” I pause and look up at the sky.

  I push the thought out of my mind. “I don’t blame your mom for saying no; you were seventeen years old. I couldn’t give you everything you deserved. Not then. I just wish I could have. I wish I’d married you when I had the chance.” I grab one of the small pebbles off the ground and toss it in the air, catching it without looking.

  “You gasped the moment you opened the front door, and I assumed it was because of all of the candles. I recall hearing your rushed steps, your voice getting closer and closer. You called out for your mom, and I just waited patiently—nervously.

  “The look on your face when you saw me on one knee, holding a corsage in one hand and a painted canvas in the other which read ‘Dance the (Prom) Night away with me? " was priceless. I stood up, and you walked into my arms, all still without giving me an answer. When you finally said yes, I spun you around, just listening to your rich laughter filling the air. It was music to my goddamn ears.” I bring my fingers to my face and wipe away a stray tear. Even now, even after so long, they still make an appearance whenever I come to this place.

  I look up to the sky again, hoping that Hayley is looking down on me, and I utter the same words I tell her every time I come to visit her grave.

  “I miss you.” So damn much.

  ZOE

  If you asked me to define chemotherapy, I’d tell you it’s the act of pumping poison into a human body with the hopes it’ll kill the other poison before it kills the person.

  It’s much like picking your poison, except I don’t feel like I had much of a choice.

  I wish I had a choice, but the truth is that even if I did, I wouldn’t know what to choose.

  I sit here in the same room, facing the same wall, even sitting in the same chair like I do every time. The machines continue to beep as I wait for the drugs to make their way into my body. I’m even ready for the nausea, light-headedness, dizziness, and everything else that comes with it.

  I pray it works because if it doesn’t, I don’t know what else I’d be willing to do.

  I shift around in the chair, desperate to find some comfort, but nothing I do can make it better.

  Just another day. Just another round.

  It seems as if there’s always just one more thing.

  The doctors describe me as ‘lucky’ because I came to the hospital when I thought I just had a fever, which gave them the opportunity to diagnose the cancer before it was too late. Apparently, most people ignore the symptoms because they’re so common. At least my cancer is still treatable…at least that’s what the doctors tell me. They hope the chemotherapy makes a difference and I don’t have to get a bone marrow transplant. My parents hope it doesn’t get that far. I just hope it’s not false hope.

  “Hey, sweetie,” my mother says, coming into the Poison Room.

  “Hi, Mom,” I respond, tearing my eyes from the IV and focusing on my loving mother instead.

  “Where’s your hat?” she asks, searching the immediate surroundings.

  “I left it in the room.”

  “Aren’t you cold?” I can hear the concern in her voice.

  “I’m good.” I smile at her. I can’t help but remember the day chemo started. I can’t erase from my mind the memory of waking up and finding clumps of hair on my pillow. Red hair lying on top of the sheets. Red everywhere. It took me a few minutes to realize it was my hair. I’d forgotten that chemo does that too—causes your hair to fall out. So, when I saw it was happening to me, I cried. That was my immediate reaction. Then I did something about it.

  I had my dad bring in his razor and shave my head. After it was done, I felt better.

  “You’re such a strong girl,” my mother tells me, grabbing a nearby blanket and throwing it over me.

  People keep saying I’m strong: the doctors, nurses, my father’s co-workers, my mother’s friends. Everyone. But I don’t feel strong, and, to be honest, I don’t want to be.

  Strength comes from choosing to stand up against something. Well, if I had a choice, I’d likely succumb to the illness instead.

  I close my eyes and wait for the chemo dose to finish, knowing what waits for me on the other side isn’t much better.

  7

  At It Again

  Zoe

  After a long three days in the hospital, the doctors have cleared me to go home, assuring me that the chemo’s effects are done—for now. I’m free to spend the rest of the time in my house—in my room. The definition of freedom is different to everyone, I guess.

  My freedom will be short-lived though; I’m due to return to the hospital tomorrow, and the next day, and the next. Still, I get to sleep in my own bed.

  “Ready to go?” Mom asks me, a huge smile pasted on her face. She’s smiling because after a couple of rough days, I finally feel better again. And when I feel better, she does too.

  “Where’s Dad?” I ask, looking in the direction of the door.

  “He’s downstairs in the car,” she says, bouncing on the balls of her feet. I can’t count how many times I’ve told her to calm down, that this isn’t the end, but there’s no point. She loves celebrating the small wins.

  “Okay,” I tell her as she starts clearing the room of all of my personal belongings. At this rate, the hospital should just keep this room reserved for me since I’ll be spending a couple of nights a week in this place anyway.

&nbs
p; “What do you want to do on your first night back home?” Mom asks, stuffing a blanket into one of my old gym bags. I roll my eyes because she asks me this question every time. I was home three days ago, but to her, every night I return is something worthy of celebration.

  “There’s not much I can do, Mom, remember? Doctors’ rules and all,” I remind her. But then I see her smile fall a little, and I immediately regret raining on her parade. I don’t mean to be cruel, but we need to be aware of what’s happening, of what could happen.

  “Friends and pizza, then?” she asks, smiling again, and I smile back. Without her constant light, all of my days would be filled with darkness.

  Someone clears their throat, and I glance at the door to find Jesse standing there. I may be sick, but I’m not blind. That boy is hot.

  “Can I come in?” he asks, shifting from foot to foot.

  “Seems like you already did,” I tell him, pointedly looking at his foot over the threshold.

  “Oh, my bad—I’m sorry,” he mutters, taking a step back and effectively removing himself from the room.

  “You should be,” I tease.

  “Young lady! You need to be kind,” my mom reprimands, and I burst out laughing. She knows I’m joking, but the way Jesse looks right now makes me think he doesn’t.

  “That was me being kind, Mom; you know that!” I smile, and Jesse chuckles but doesn’t close the distance. I stare at him expectantly, lifting my brows to indicate he should let himself in.

  “You really need to get better at just entering rooms,” I tell him.

  “Would it be—”

  I sit up slowly, dangling my legs off the side of the bed. “Get in already.”

  “Hi,” Jesse says, his eyes looking directly at me, and I tilt my head to the right, finding myself fixating on the dimple on his cheek.

  “I’ll go get the release papers from the front desk,” my mom says, scurrying out of the room. She looks back from behind Jesse’s large frame and winks at me. I know that the moment we get home—and away from Dad, who still looks at me like I’m five—she’s going to be grilling me about him. I know she’ll question his ‘intentions’, ignore my answers, and come up with her own conclusions.

  “Hello.”

  I roll my eyes at him greeting me again. “There’s that word again,” I tell him.

  He takes a few steps closer. “Sorry. Dr. Roman wanted me to stop by and ask if you have any other questions before you head out.”

  “Nope. I know I’m basically not allowed to do anything. I have to wear a mask while I’m at home. I can’t have any visitors… I’ll be living in my own personal sterile bubble. Did I miss anything?”

  “I think you’ve got it down pat,” he says with a blinding smile.

  “I’ve done it enough times.” Too many.

  “Only a few more weeks,” he says, trying to make me feel better.

  I echo his words, not really believing them.

  “You can have friends over. They just need to wear masks too.”

  “I don’t have to worry about friends showing up. They sort of left weeks after I became the Girl with Cancer,” I say and immediately cringe. Why am I sharing this much of my life with him? I didn’t even tell my parents why my friends stopped showing up. But with this guy, I’m apparently in a soul-bearing mood.

  “Are you serious?” he asks, his voice clipped, his eyes growing dark. I look down at his hands, clenched at his sides. I must have struck a nerve.

  He probably pities me.

  “Yes, really,” I say, pretending it doesn’t affect me. “I’m sorry I shared that. I don’t usually tell strangers my life story.” I glance up at him. “I don’t want your pity either,” I snarl. “I’m not broken.”

  “I… I don’t. Pity doesn’t do shit. I just can’t fathom why your so-called friends would leave you when you need them the most. Those are the kinds of people I pity.” Jesse stops and takes a deep breath before adding, “They weren’t friends to begin with, you know?” His tone has changed to something I can only describe as sweet. I look down to find he’s no longer balling his hands into fists.

  I nod. “I know that now.” I’ve learned that regardless of how tough things get, friends don’t leave you behind. Friends pick each other up. They should have called me out on my attitude– not abandoned me.

  “Also, feel free to share anything you want with me. I’m not a stranger, remember. I’m your Good Doctor,” Jesse says, causing me to laugh out loud.

  “Intern, you mean?” I correct.

  “Good Intern, hopeful Good Doctor?” he says, smiling, and I’m afraid to admit I’m a little taken by him. A school girl crush—that’s what I’d call it.

  “Maybe one day,” I tell him.

  “Definitely one day.”

  “You’re sure about that?” I don’t know that I’ve ever been as certain about anything as he seems to be about becoming a doctor.

  “I’ve only been sure about one other thing in my life,” he says, his mood clearly darkening once again. I wonder what that other thing is and find myself about to ask when my mother walks back into the room.

  “Ready to go?” she asks, unaware of the moment she’s just interrupted.

  “Yep,” I tell her, getting up from the bed.

  Jesse takes my elbow, gently guiding me off the edge of the mattress. “Good luck at home. If you need anything or feel like anything’s wrong, come straight to the ER. Don’t risk anything. A fever, a long-lasting headache, nausea, whatever it is. Come to the emergency room. And if you need anything else—don’t be afraid to let me know,” he says to me. He sounds like a parent making sure their child is aware that they can’t stay out past curfew—no excuses.

  “Yes, Doctor,” I joke.

  “Does she have your number, young man?” my mom asks, and I turn to glare at her. What the hell is she doing?

  “She does not,” Jesse responds shyly.

  Mom’s hands go straight to her hips as she successfully embarrasses me. “So how does she get in contact with you?”

  “He was just saying that, Mom. He meant the hospital!”

  “What? I mean, he said let him know.” She looks at me like it’s obvious that I need his personal phone number.

  “That’s true, ma’am. I’ll write my number down, and you can give me a call if you need anything. Remember, I’m not a doctor—”

  “Not yet,” I interrupt.

  “I’m not a doctor yet, so if anything, head straight to the hospital.”

  “Yes, sir,” I joke, glad we’ve moved past the awkward mom-getting-hot-guy’s-number-for-me moment.

  “I’m serious, Zoe. Please be careful,” he says, handing me a piece of paper I didn’t realize he’d ripped from his notepad.

  “She will be,” Mom answers on my behalf, smiling widely as she looks at the paper in my hand.

  “Do you have any other questions? I may not have the answer, but I can ask someone that knows,” he says, looking at my mother first and then back at me.

  “Are you an athlete?” she blurts out. The question has clearly been running through my mind, but I didn’t think it was appropriate to ask. Of course, my mother has no fear whatsoever—and no filter either.

  “Yes, ma’am. How’d you know?” He looks directly at me, and I blush in response. From the corner of my eye, I catch my mother giving me a knowing look.

  “Just wondering, sweetheart,” she says innocently.

  “What sport do you play?” If we’re going to do this, we might as well go down the road fully.

  “Football,” he answers, and I nod because that’s exactly what I expected him to play.

  “What position?” I continue the conversation like my father isn’t waiting for Mom and me in the parking lot—like Jesse doesn’t have other patients to see and things to do.

  “Kicker, actually.” I can’t stop my eyes from slowly shifting down to his legs. Football players have great bodies, but kickers have amazing legs. His scrubs don’t gi
ve much away, and I find myself wishing I’d run into him at the beach.

  “From what I know about football, which isn’t much by the way, the kicker is really important. Field goals, punts, kickoffs and all,” I tell him, but it comes out more like a question, and his eyebrows rise in surprise.

  “You know enough to know the right terminology. That’s more than most girls…” He coughs, “Sorry—people I meet.”

  “Eh, you look like a football player, by the way,” I tell him and curse internally for letting those words escape my mouth.

  He gives me a knowing smile. “I do? I hope that’s a compliment.”

  “I don’t know. It could be.” I try to course correct, but it’s too late. I’ve complimented the guy, and there’s no way I can take it back.

  “I’m sorry to cut your flirting short, but your dad just sent me seven text messages in a row. He’s getting impatient,” my mother says.

  “Mom!” I shout. “Not flirting!”

  “Of course you weren’t,” she says sarcastically.

  Jesse apologizes, and I’m not sure if it’s because he thinks he’s making us late or if he considered what we were doing flirting.

  “You have no reason to apologize,” I tell him. I enjoyed our conversation. There’s so much more about him I’d like to know, and I don’t understand why I find myself invested in him. Maybe it’s because he’s the only other person that’s around my age.

  “You sure don’t,” Mom adds, looking up from her phone.

  Argh, could this get any more awkward?

  “We’ve got to go, Jesse. Mom is getting to the age where she can’t tell the difference between people talking and flirting.”

  “Girl, I’ve done my fair share of both and can tell the difference from miles away!”

  WTF, Mom?

  I shake my head, silently begging for her to understand. “Please stop.”

  “I’m just saying. This,” she says, pointing at both of us, “is great. You’ll just have to do it on a different day. Maybe you can text Jesse tonight and he can come over for dinner or something.”