Chapter Two | Avalon
Tears threaten to spill over as I drive home frantically. I’m terrified to tell anybody the truth. I’m going to die. It’s not a matter of if, but when. How can I casually tell Jackson or my mother this?
Soon enough, our familiar apartment comes into view. It looks different than it did just hours ago. It’s weird how things can change so quickly. I pull into the parking garage and turn the key in the ignition, silencing the engine to finally hear my thoughts clearly. I take a deep breath, trying to stabilize myself.
I’ve seen this in movies, the point when the actor finds out he has cancer and chooses to live his last six months to the fullest. Doctor Adams said the same thing before I left his office.
“Avalon, we’re not going to give up on you, but take this as an opportunity. Don’t waste these six months. Live like you’re dying.”
The sentence plays over and over again in my head. I couldn’t really decipher it back at the office, but now I can’t stop analyzing the words. I’ve always been the type to thoroughly plan my next move. In other words, I never do anything spontaneously. Maybe this is life demanding I change that.
I will myself to get out of the car and head for the elevator. I picture how the next moments will go. I walk into the apartment. I break into tears. My fiance Jackson pulls me into a warm embrace and promises that everything will be alright.
When I get to the door with 234 on it, I come to a halt and let out a much-needed exhale. This is it.
I force the key into the lock and turn the door handle, walking into a wonderful aroma of cinnamon.
“Did Jackson light the candle I bought?” I quiz, noticing the odd behavior. Jackson couldn’t care less about my need to fill the apartment with enticing scents. If it were up to him, we would be living in constant filth. The man hasn’t cleaned since we got together four years ago.
I eye the room, noticing how eerily empty it is. Jackson is usually home for lunch right now. I match my stare to the desolate kitchen, trying to see if it looks like food was recently made.
Where is he?
I make my way through the living room and down the hall to the master, stopping right by the door. I swear I can hear two voices coming from inside. My eyebrows furrow as I turn the handle and barge in.
“What the h*ll?”
My stare races between Jackson’s naked body and the topless girl underneath him. I don’t know what to think. I want to believe there’s some logical explanation for this, but how could there be? I just found out I have cancer, and now I walk in on my fiance having sex with another woman?
“Jackson… What are you doing?”
I can barely form the words. My heart has already sunken to the pit of my stomach like an anchor. Four years together, and for what? For him to cheat on me months before our wedding! I am such an idiot.
“Avalon… Why aren’t you at work?” Jackson asks suddenly, pushing himself off of the girl. She looks just as confused as I do.
“I had my Doctor’s visit today you jack*ss. How could you do this? I can’t believe I was actually going to marry you…” I think aloud, sadness and anger mixing inside me like oil and water. My mind wanders to a dark place, and I lower myself to the floor as tears spill from my eyes.
Worst. Day. Ever.
“You have a fiance?” the girl speaks now, her eyes laced with hurt. It looks like I’m not the only one with a broken heart. I try to contain my muffled sobs while Jackson stumbles over one sorry excuse after another, and I’m unsure which one of us he’s apologizing to.
The girl rushes to put her clothes on and exits the room in anger, leaving just Jackson and me. I can’t even look at the man. I spent four years hoping and wishing that he would change, only to find out he will always be a vile human being.
Years and years of cleaning up after him, and begging for attention when it was elsewhere. Years of self-doubt and insecurity, only for our relationship to end with Jackson on top of another girl. I’m unsure what the universe meant by today, but I’m getting the message loud and clear.
“Avalon, I swear this was just a one-time thing. I’ve felt so lonely lately, and you’re always so busy with work,” Jackson tries to rationalize, kneeling beside me on the floor and attempting to wipe my tears. I swat the man’s hand away angrily.
“With work?! When I come home, I focus on you. I focus on us! Not that you would notice,” I spit back. God, the audacity to try and blame this on me!
Jackson searches my face, but he doesn’t deserve the right to see how hurt I am. I stand up suddenly, grabbing the suitcase from under our bed and throwing clothes inside it. How dare he? Who does Jackson think he is?
“No, Avalon. Please don’t leave!” He begs, reaching out for my arm. I pull away instantly and finally meet those blue eyes that betrayed me.
“I’m not leaving. You are.”
Jackson’s eyes widen slightly. Apparently, he expected me to be okay with him fucking another woman. Think again.
“Avalon…”
“Stop using my name. You don’t deserve to,” I cut him off, shoving the suitcase against his chest. Jackson’s stare races between my olive-green eyes, but I don’t care to hear his side of the story. He has been selfish for far too long, and this was the last straw.
Jackson opens his mouth to speak, but I nudge the suitcase again, forcing the man to grab ahold of it.
“You did this to us, so you get to leave. I’m sure you’ll have no trouble finding a place to stay. Maybe ask one of the girls you’ve been screwing.”
I grab Jackson’s phone from the nightstand and hand it to him, guiding him out of the apartment without question. He starts to say something, but I slam the door in his face and lock it quickly.
Then, I put my back against the wood and sink to the floor. The adrenaline races through my veins mercilessly, and every memory from the last four years flashes in my mind. My mom tried to tell me that Jackson was bad news, but I couldn’t help myself from seeing the potential of us. We could have been great, but I was the only one trying.
50% effort never resulted in a fifty-year marriage. It was wishful thinking. Correction… it was stupid thinking. I bury my face in my palms and try to gather my thoughts. I’m having trouble deciding which unfortunate truth to focus on right now.
I grab my phone out of my back pocket and type in the six-number passcode. When the screen unlocks, I rush to Safari and search for the survival rate of stage four cancer.
My stomach turns when I read the Web MD answer.
22%. That’s it?
I throw my phone across the room and allow one final sob to escape.
What am I going to do?