Page 128 of When Wildflowers Bloom

With any luck, it’s a debate I’ll get to listen to for years to come.

“And these bowls.” Libby lifts up the bowl of fruit in her hand, tilting her neck slightly to see the bottom. “Did Veda make these, Bo?”

This time, it’s me who smiles. The bowl in her hand is whole yet cracked, held together with colors that showcase the broken instead of concealing it.

“You could say that,” he says, squeezing my knee under the table.

It’s a Christmas meal filled with screaming kids and unfiltered laughs and a man’s ring on my finger.

For the rest of the day, I barely notice the headache I can’t shake.

Fifty-three

Eyes open, the roomis bright. Almost blindingly so.

I glance at the clock—it’s after ten?

The bedroom door swings open, and Bo stands with a cup of coffee and a grin, dimples carved into his cheeks.

“Hey, sleepyhead,” he says with a chuckle. “Christmas wore you out more than the kids.”

I smile, rubbing my head and the slight headache that’s lingered nearly a week.

“It’s so late,” I say, sitting up. “I don’t know what’s going on with me, I’m so tired.”

He sits on the bed as he hands me a mug of coffee, kissing the side of my head. “Of course you’re tired. John was an asshole and got the kids a keyboard for Christmas—we’ll never sleep again.”

I laugh softly, mentally trying to force myself to believe him, as I bring the mug to my lips.

As the days pass and nothing changes, I keep telling myself the same things. Lies on repeat.

I tell myself it’s the stress of the holidays.

The stress of the last months.

The sound of the keyboard.

Just a cold.

But I know better. I know my body better.

Something is wrong.

When the first day of January comes, not only does the dull headache continue, but there’s also a nausea that prevents me from keeping anything substantial down.

After I wake up three mornings in a row with a bloody nose, I can’t ignore it anymore.

All the hours at the gym, organic ingredients, and preventative surgeries haven’t saved me. As ready as I thought I’d be for it, I’m not.

“Bo, I’m sick,” I tell him as we lie in his bed one morning. “I’m going to the doctor tomorrow.”

He interlaces his fingers in mine, brown eyes seeing all of me. “I’m going with you.”

Both relief and devastation sweep through me with his words. Because I need him with me as much as I hate the thought of him seeing.

The falling apart.

The decline that’s coming.

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