Chapter 70 Chapter 70: One Night Stand

Chapter 70 Chapter 70: One Night Stand
One Night Stand; New York Book 3

“What do you mean?”

A warm tear rolled down Catalella’s cheek. She wanted to wipe it off, to show how strong she was, but there was no room for pretense—not now when she was about to lose everything. She was standing in the middle of the living room, in a home she had made with the man she loved. And even though she looked at him, saw his dark curly hair, his amber, honey eyes, and that crooked smile, she still couldn’t believe it was him.

“In sickness and in health, through good and bad times, till death do us part,” she mumbled.

“Well, Cat, it seems like you’re almost there,” he barked out.

As soon as the words left his lips, she could see the regret in his eyes. He combed his fingers through his hair, as he always did when he was frustrated. Ever since she got sick, she realized this simple act had grown habitual.

“I love you,” she whispered, choosing to disregard his last statement.

“And I love you—”

“But not as much as you used to.” She finished the sentence for him—it sounded less painful coming from her than it did from him. Cat let another tear roll down her cheek as she fought for control and to keep her breathing in check. “So, what do you want to do?”

“We can’t be together,” he mumbled, shaking his head. “Sixteen was too young to get married. We should have listened to your parents.”

“Michael.” A bitter laugh rolled through her. “You aren’t leaving because we got married young and you don't love me anymore. You’re leaving because you’re tired of this,” she yelled, pulling off the scarf that covered her bald head. She then pulled the corner of her shirt down to show the chemotherapy port next to her armpit. “You’re leaving because you’re sick and tired of me being sick.”

Her words labored as she said each one with a huff.

“That’s not it,” he shouted, then repeated it, exasperated. “That’s not it. I want kids.”

Cat stumbled back, the weight of his accusation hitting her in the chest like a ton of bricks. “You decided not to freeze my eggs. It’s your fault that we can’t have any kids. The doctor told you the chemotherapy, the radiation, and whatever juice they had me on would fry my eggs.”

“Can we just not argue about this anymore?” Michael waved his hand in a dismissive, exasperated gesture and turned his back on her. He headed to their bedroom, and when he returned, he had his bags with him. “My lawyer will call you. I don’t want to drag this out. You can have anything you want. I will also help with the medical bills.”

“I don’t want anything,” Cat mumbled as she sank into the chair beside her. “Please leave. I don’t want to see you ever again.”

“There’s no need to—”

“Maybe I’ll die even before the papers get here.” Cat laughed, the pain in it evident.

“Don’t do anything stupid.”

“Maybe you aren’t the only one who thinks I’m a burden. Maybe it would be easier if the treatments and the transplant failed once again. Maybe everyone will be able to move on with their lives without me holding them back,” she mumbled, feeling lost suddenly.

“Don’t try and guilt trip me, Cat, it won’t work,” he said.

“I know, because you have an ice box where your heart used to be.” Cat sang it out in tune, then laughed. She slid down on the floor and rolled around, her painful laughter filling each corner of the small apartment.

The sound of the door banging closed pulled her out of her trance. It was done. She was now officially alone.

Cat sat up and the loneliness crept in. She felt desperate, and all she wanted to do was to be free of herself, and to free everyone else in turn. She had a fifty-fifty chance of the transplant and treatment failing a second time, and a one percent chance of ever conceiving. This gave her an equally one percent chance to find a guy who would love her.

With all the odds stacked up against her, she wondered why she should bother with the world any longer when it seemed to have turned its back on her already. Her tired body and mind pleaded for release, asking her why she was struggling with a life that didn’t want her.

She felt a slight shiver and her arms encircled her frail body. She decided on a warm bath. And, in those few steps from the living room to the bathroom, she was going to decide what to do with her life.

Cat turned the tap on and sat on the side of the bath. She pulled off her clothes and stood in front of the full-length mirror. The chemo-port had left an ugly scar above her breast. The treatment had turned her once voluptuous, luscious body to that of a skeleton. The shine of her bald head pulled her attention to where she once had long, thick, curly, jet-black hair. Her once bronze skin was now ashen and seemed to be peeling off.

Cat didn’t like the way she looked, or how she felt. Michael had left her. And although she had her family with her, they were supposed to be there—had been engineered by God to love her.

The only person who had chosen to be with her had walked out the door.

She punched the frail image in the mirror. Shards of glass fell into the sink as a web spread around what was left. She grabbed a piece of the glass and headed for her medicine cabinet. She had a bottle of sleeping pills—they were supposed to help her sleep when she was in pain. She never used them because the pain reminded her that she was still alive, and sleep was the last thing that she had ever wanted to do. The act of sleeping seemed too close to death, so that she often didn’t want to risk closing her eyes… just in case.

But now she felt like she was feeling too much. She wanted to mute the voices in her head and to numb the feelings in her weary body and her broken heart. In that second, what people called an act of selfishness, she thought of as an act of selflessness. Cat climbed into the bathtub with the sleeping pills in one hand and a shard of glass in the other. Once she was comfortable, she popped them in her mouth one at a time and waited for the cold breeze of death to take her away.

~
Catalella’s eyes flew open with a strangled gasp.

Her breath came in ragged, shallow hitches, her heart hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird. The room was dark, smelling of antiseptic and floor wax—the hospital. Not the apartment.

Not the bathtub.

The cold, biting sensation of the glass in her palm was gone. Shaking, she lifted a hand to her face, wiping away the cold sweat and the very real tears that were leaking into her pillow. Her hand traveled higher, reaching for the smooth, bare scalp she had seen in the nightmare.

Instead, her fingers tangled in something soft. Something thick.

She pulled a lock of it forward into the dim light of the heart monitor. It was black. It was curly. It was real.

She stared at the hair between her fingers, her chest heaving as the reality of the successful transplant began to sink in. She was alive. She had hair. But the ghost of Michael’s voice still echoed in the corners of the room, a reminder of the battle that was only just beginning.