Chapter 4 - The Anchor
I finally reached out and took her hand. It was freezing cold, but I held it tightly between both of mine, anchoring her to the room, to me, to the present.
"You are an idiot," I whispered, the tears finally spilling over my eyelashes.
Sarah let out a weak, broken laugh. "I know."
"You were never a burden," I told her, my voice fierce and completely unwavering. "I was a fool who prioritized a construction company over my own home. But I am here now. And I am not getting on a plane back to Chicago."
Sarah’s eyes widened slightly. "Charles, your company—"
"My company can run without me," I interrupted. "I am staying in Miami. I am sitting in this chair, I am going to every chemotherapy appointment, and I am going to hold your hand until you are entirely sick of me again. You don't get to say goodbye to me that easily."
She squeezed my fingers back, her defenses finally crumbling as she began to sob.
The road ahead was a nightmare of blood transfusions, endless nausea, and terrifying nights where the monitors beeped too rapidly. But we didn't fight those battles as ex-husband and ex-wife. We fought them as two people who had been given a violent, beautiful second chance.
It took fourteen months for Sarah to reach remission.
On the day she was officially cleared, we walked out of Jackson Memorial and drove straight to the beach. We stood barefoot in the sand, listening to the roaring ocean, just like we had that night outside the hotel.
Only this time, there were no secrets.
I reached into my pocket, pulled out a small velvet box, and looked at the woman who had survived the darkest chapter of her life.
May you like
"We did this wrong the first time," I said, dropping to one knee in the warm Miami sand. "Let's try it again."
Sarah smiled, the sunlight catching the tears in her eyes, and pulled me up into a kiss that promised we were finally, truly, home.
