Total pages in book: 116
Estimated words: 114011 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 570(@200wpm)___ 456(@250wpm)___ 380(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 114011 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 570(@200wpm)___ 456(@250wpm)___ 380(@300wpm)
This hurts more than any sports injury. It’s more painful than any public humiliation of striking out in a big game. Losing Palmer is a hurt that I’m quite sure is never going to heal.
How can someone I just met mean so much to me in such a short time?
I never expected that it was possible, or else I wouldn’t have gotten involved with her. Sure, she was pretty and sweet and feisty. Innocent with a slightly hardened edge. But I could’ve, I would’ve, overlooked all that if I’d known this would be the end result.
That I would bleed for the rest of time. That I would feel this sense of . . . failure, like I’ve never felt before. I’ve failed Palmer even more than I’ve failed myself or my parents.
I’ll never see Ethan grow up to be the incredible man I know he can be—I know he will be. I’ll never know Palmer as mine.
Fuck this world.
I stand up and pace the room, retracing the path that I’ve worn on the hardwood ever since I got back a couple of hours ago. The worst part—the only thing worse than the hole in my chest that feels like a fatal wound—is the pain in Palmer’s face.
This disappointment. The anguish. The heartbreak.
The hope that she was misreading the situation because she expected more of me. Because I told her to, and she trusted me.
“This fucking sucks!” I say, but my words only rattle around the empty house.
My bags are packed and sit beside the door. I’ve booked a ticket from Cincinnati to Los Angeles, and all I have to do is head to Fish’s apartment until my flight in the morning. It’s the only place I can be guaranteed privacy.
But leaving feels like the end of my life as I know it.
I sit again. My head falls back into my hands. A stab of fire pierces my temples, making me wince.
I think I’m going to puke.
“Cole! Honey! We’re home!” Mom’s voice rings through the house. “Cole? Where are you?”
A wave of sadness swamps me as I listen to my parents’ footsteps come up the stairs. I close my eyes and pray for help in telling them about my diagnosis.
“Cole?” A soft knock raps against the door.
“Yeah?”
My voice catches in my throat. It’s hoarse, laden with so much emotion that the sound can barely get through.
Dad walks through first. He starts to speak but stops when he sees my bags. “Cole?”
If Mom sees the bags, she ignores them. Her gaze is fixated on me.
“I need to talk to you guys,” I say, clearing my throat.
“What’s going on?” Mom sits beside me. “Are you all right? Did something happen?”
I look at her sadly and reach for her hand. She puts it in mine and then presses her free hand on top of our joined ones.
Dad pulls a chair out from the desk and turns it to face us.
Being with them during the worst day of my life is a silver lining. It’s not something I’ve had in my adult life—the luxury of having my loved ones around when shit hits the fan. Their unwavering support and the love radiating off them make me tear up again.
Fucking baby.
I sniffle. “So, this is a lot to take in,” I say, stumbling over the words. “But I got a call today.”
“From who?” Dad asks, his voice calm and steady.
I look at him. “From my doctor. One of them. Anyway . . . it turns out that I have multiple sclerosis.”
Mom gasps. Her body stiffens, every muscle tightening as she searches my eyes for some hint that I’m kidding. Dad, on the other hand, sits resolute.
“Are they sure?” he asks.
I nod.
“That’s why you retired.” Dad’s statement is that—a fact. It’s not a question or a proposal but rather an understanding of a situation that’s not made sense to him.
“I couldn’t hit anymore. The ball was blurry. I couldn’t read the nuances.” I bow my head. “Everyone blamed the strikeouts at the end of the season due to the shoulder stuff, and that probably didn’t help. But I was having issues before that.”
Dad dips his chin too.
Tears slip down Mom’s cheek as she squeezes my hand. When I look up, she’s staring at the wall.
“What does this mean?” she asks. “Will you be okay?”
I shrug. “Okay” is such a relative term. This morning, I thought I’d be okay because I’d have Palmer and Ethan, and we’d have the excitement of facing a new day together. Now? I’m only okay because I’m not six feet under.
I’m alone, untethered from everything that’s ever made sense to me. But I don’t want to go there with my mom yet. I can’t even sort that in my own head at the moment.
“Yeah. I think so. I mean, I’m fit and healthy otherwise. And there are lots of treatments and things now that there didn’t used to be. The doctor said I just need to focus on staying strong, and we’ll deal with the symptoms as they arise.”