Page 74 of Love Beyond Repair
His eyes are bloodshot. His hair is a mess, and the t-shirt he’s wearing has what looks like a coffee stain down the front. But the strangest thing is, when I look down, he’s wearing mismatched shoes.
“Do you know you have two different shoes on?” I ask, giggling.
He looks down at his feet, then back up to me. “Call it trendsetting,” he suggests with a shrug and a shy smile.
I move to the side so he can walk past me into my home. He’s carrying an overnight bag, and my mind races at the possibilities. Why would he turn up at my house in the middle of the night with a bag? Does he think I am some sort of bloody booty call? My hackles rise, but I ignore it, deciding to hear him out.
We stand and stare at each other for a while. He goes to speak, and I signal to remind him Liam is asleep, so totalk quietly. He gives me a slow, sexy smile, and my insides tighten. How can this man still do that to me?
This round of chemotherapy has affected me far worse than any of the others. The headaches, the hair loss, and the mouth ulcers are almost unbearable. The struggle to sleep, and quiet dread woven amongst the silence.
Katie keeps me going. She’s in remission, thankfully. I wouldn’t blame her if she never wanted to step foot in that damn hospital again. But every round of chemo and every support group, she’s there with me, one hundred percent by my side.
Afterward, she must go home to her own life and her own battle. It’s then that I feel completely alone. I haven’t even told Amy. My sister will be heartbroken, and as the months passed, it all became harder to admit to.
Tonight, I must look like an absolute spectacle in my fleece pyjamas with scraped-back hair. My appearance isn’t at the top of my priority list now. I focus on surviving each day, keeping my job, and maintaining a normal life for my son. It’s getting harder, though. My body is struggling.
Ben steps forward and takes my hands in his. He smells divine, he always does, all male and full of testosterone.
“I mean what I said,” he whispers, his voice raw, almost reverent. My eyes lift to meet his, then drop away shyly. He’s willing me to speak, to say something, but I just can’t form the words. I’ve dreamed of this moment for years, and now it’s here. I’m not sure I believe it’s even real.Gathering my composure, I try to collect my thoughts into a coherent format.
“Ben, it’s one in the morning. What do you mean you know about my cancer? How?”
“I volunteer at the center supporting patients.”
How long has he known? I was worried when I heard someone mention a doctor named Jones the other day, but it’s such a common name. I put it out of my mind. It wasn’t something I even wanted to consider.
“My colleague runs the group you attend, one who reports to Doctor Eamon Riley.”
The pieces of the jigsaw all fall into place. Dr. Riley. I’d seen him at the center but kept out of his way. I was sure he hadn’t seen me. How on earth did I think he wouldn’t know?
“Months ago, I saw you, but I couldn’t ask you about it because things have been going so well with us and for Liam. I didn’t want to risk upsetting you. But I would ask for updates on your case.” He pauses, guilt written all over his face. He looks appropriately embarrassed, so I scowl for effect. “Perk of the job,” he says, shrugging his shoulders.
The unsettling thought strikes me that he might have a clearer grasp of my position than I do. It's likely that he’s read every scan report, every single note, and understands my symptoms completely.
Tears well in my eyes as my heart sinks, and I look up at him. “It’s not good news, Ben. I’m scared.”
He rushes forward and folds me in his arms. His warmth surrounds me. We stand like that for I’ve no idea how long. It could’ve been minutes or even hours; his heat soaks through my body. And for the first time in months, I feel warm.
For weeks, I’ve been exhausted, lonely, and incredibly afraid. His chest is broad and strong, and I cuddle in as close as possible. He drops a soft kiss on my forehead.
This is the part I never let myself imagine. Not after everything. Not after Spain, or Liam, or the wedding I watched from the back of a church.
I’ve learned not to trust soft words. But this? This is different. This is action. Presence. A man showing up with mismatched shoes at 1 a.m. just to show he still loves me.
“You’re not on your own now,” he whispers, and I break down into uncontrollable sobs. “We will deal with this together. We will beat it.”
I want to believe him. Hell, I do. But part of me still waits for the catch—for the moment he pulls away again. Hope is dangerous when you’ve built your world around bracing for disappointment. But as I feel his arms wrap tighter around me, something in me unclenches. Just a little. Just enough.
By the time we finish talking, the clock shows 3:00 a.m. Intertwined with him on the sofa, I can’t let go. My legs are thrown over his, and he’s running one hand up and down my backas I grip the other.
We’ve discussed everything. Our past, his marriage, my cancer. It’s been difficult, and there have been a lot of tears from both of us. Going over old ground is always a tough experience, especially when you must face the parts you’re not proud of. But if we want this to work, we must embrace each other, warts and all.
He apologized more than once. Not in grand speeches, but in the quiet truths. The way he held my gaze when he said, “I should have fought for you. I chose the easy way back then. I let someone else decide our ending. I won’t do that again. Not when it matters most.”
Then, he made love to me. Beautifully. Completely. It had been nothing like our stolen and erotic moments from years before. He worshiped my body.
Lifting me from the sofa and carrying me to my bedroom. Laying me on the bed, he undressed me with care, slipping off my pajamas silently. His hands ran all over my body as if to reacquaint himself with it, taking in all my lumps and curves.
