Catching Serenity (Serenity #4) (3 page)

My fingers are in his hair, gripping, directing, guiding him in deeper, closer, and the low, long moan I make is in contrast with the gentle push of my touch against his scalp, then across his forehead, which stops him as he looks up at me, questioning. It’s a look I’ve only seen from him once. The day we met, when I was quiet, when I’d retreated from the hospital at Rhea’s insistence. Quinn across that patio looking at me as though he’d never seen my like. As though I was something remarkable.

And he wanted me for himself.

That’s the gaze I get from him now. Just touching him, fingers gentle, nails running in a tender swipe across his forehead, his scalp, has him pausing, giving me that amazed, astonished look as though he cannot breathe, cannot move until I explain myself.

“Sayo…”

But he won’t finish. He won’t ask me what this small, insignificant gesture means. I won’t let him. “Make me forget for just a little while longer.”

And he does with his mouth again, with his fingers, with the thick, long strength of his dick and Quinn has me flying, floating without the need of things that aren’t here and now. No broomsticks, no magic, no impossible gadgets that keep me from reality.

It is good. I manage to forget that I am not scared. So does he.

It lasts exactly forty-six minutes.

And then, my cell phone rings.

“WELL, I DON’T
think they should call her the
Goddess
of Thunder.”

Rhea sits up in her bed, fussing with the mask covering her nose and mouth to get a better look at the article on the laptop screen and the image accompanying it.

“You don’t?” My little cousin glances at me like I am simple. It’s her customary ‘you’re a dumb adult’ look obscured only by that paper mask. But I know this kid. I know her expressions better than my own. There is only a pause and then she returns her attention to the article, moving her head to the right as though that would help her form a final opinion. “Why not?” I ask her, pushing the screen back with my thumb as I nestle closer to her.

“It’s just stupid. They call Thor, Thor.
Just
Thor. Not ‘Thor, God of Thunder.’”

“They do so.”

When she gets flustered, mildly worked up, her eyebrows move and the smallest hint of her skin brightening makes her cheeks pink. She does this now, and I’m not sure if it’s from her irritation at my teasing or the mild infection that has her skin clammy.

“They don’t,” she says, wiggling up the mattress to turn her body toward me. “I mean like in regular chats. You think Jane says ‘Oh, Thor, God of Thunder, grab me a lemonade while you’re in the kitchen.’ She just says, ‘Hey, hot stuff’ or ‘Yo.’”

“Hey hot stuff?” She nods, eyebrows pinched together above that pale green mask. “So… no one says ‘hot stuff’ anymore. Where’d you hear that?”

A small shrug as though she’s already moved on, and she slips back down against the pillows. “Dad was watching ‘The Dukes of Hazard’ again last night while Mama was out at the store.”

She’s already forgotten her point, scanning the article again. To look at her, anyone would think she was a normal, albeit thin eight-year-old. She is far smarter than she should be, but Rhea has spent most of her brief life reading books and comics while stuck in the isolation of her bedroom or, on the occasions that her platelets were too low or some weird infection took hold of her, at the pediatric ward at Cavanagh Regional Hospital. Marvel.com might be a little above her reading level, but no one can lecture the kid on being a kid. Not when she’s always been expected to tackle the cards dealt her like a war weary solider.

“Well, don’t say ‘hot stuff.’” She offers me only the slightest eye roll and giggle when I give her elbow a soft nudge. “It’s not the 70’s.”

“What should I say?”

“Nothing. You should read your comics and watch
Firefly
.”

Her fingernails are thin, barely covering the tips of her fingers when she waves her hand, telling me with one small gesture that she doesn’t need me lecturing her. “I’m not a baby, you know.”

“Of course you’re not. But you have plenty of time for ‘hot stuff’ and ‘yo.’” When those eyebrows lower further, I shoot a quick glare at her, already knowing why some of the shine in those dark eyes has dimmed. “Don’t give me that. You’re doing fine.”

“Two more rounds of chemo and I’m done.” She moves deeper into her pillow, forgetting the small challenge I level, the one she hasn’t been too eager to take lately. “Again.”

I don’t like this negative attitude. It’s understandable, it’s expected, but Rhea thinking even remotely that she won’t win this battle goes against everything I know of my cousin. It’s simply not who she’s ever been.

“Hey,” I tell her, setting the laptop on the foot of the bed. “What did I tell you about grumpiness?”

Most kids her age would pout, protruding bottom lip and all. But Rhea isn’t most kids. She hasn’t been afforded that luxury. “That it’s useless.”

“That’s right and why?”

When I continue to stare, waiting for her response, the kid shakes her head. Crossing her arms is as close to a pout as Rhea will get. “Because all it does is send bad juju out into the world.” When I nod, that head shake doubles. “Claire said the catechism teacher told her that there was no such thing as juju or making things real just by speaking them out loud.”

“Yeah well, Claire’s catechism teacher is Mollie Reynolds.” It’s nearly impossible to keep the affected tone from my voice. Mollie Reynolds was an idiot and a huge gossip in high school. “I went to school with her. Trust me, she’s a big dummy.” A small laugh bursts from her that she tries to conceal behind her thin fingers, despite the mask. I go in for the double kill to keep her laughter loud. “She doesn’t even have a library card. I checked.” That was the highest offense anyone could commit in Rhea’s book, and the tidbit worked. My cousin’s eyes widened as though she couldn’t believe anyone would do without access to the library.

Mollie Reynolds and her post-high school recovery is easily forgotten as Rhea sits up again, pulling a small stack of comics I bought her a few days back—the covers already smudged from multiple readings—onto her lap.

“So, what can I bring you back from Autumn’s?”

“Declan.” The kid isn’t remotely ashamed of herself. Since Declan came into our lives two years ago, Rhea’s been very blatant about her mild crush, as most kids are. She sees no reason to fake offense when I or Autumn tease her about her love for the stubborn Irishman.

“Goofball, he’ll be jetlagged.”

“He owes me a rugby lesson.” Rhea tosses two
Firefly
comics at her feet and I grab one, flipping through the colorful pages while she copies my motion with another Dark Horse comic I can’t quite make out.

“He’ll get around to it, you know that,” I tell her, keeping my voice even. It would be pointless to tell her the same thing my aunt and uncle have been saying for months now. Rhea knows everything she wants to do, especially anything athletic, will get pushed aside until after her treatment. “Declan doesn’t welch on his promises.”

“I can play, you know.” She pauses only for a second, glancing in my direction before she grabs another comic and I make a mental note to stop by Marty’s to check out the new arrivals.

“I have zero doubt about that.”

It’s the small moments like this one, chatting with Rhea, not really saying anything that we haven’t gone over a hundred times, that are the sharpest and clearest in my mind. But then when the future is as uncertain as hers, it’s these moments that are the most comforting.

Plenty of amazing things come in life. There are some moments that are brought into focus first because they are so monumental. But it is the mundane, the modest pleasures from our lives that matter the most because they remind us that even the simplest of lives can be extraordinary. With my little cousin sitting next to me, I realize how beautiful unexceptional moments really are.

That’s why I make a point to spend some time with Rhea every day. The few hours I am with her, sitting and chatting about comics or books or television shows, or the very important topic of Declan Fraser—who Rhea is convinced she’s going to marry one day—reminds my cousin that her life can be normal. It is not all doctors and appointments and the medicine that wears her down. This time together, just the two of us, reminds her of what a normal life is and how remarkable she is to live in it.

She has stopped reading the comic and a glance at her face tells me she’s wondering something but still taking a moment to figure out how to ask about it. It’s her way, being thoughtful, and it’s how she usually gets the straightforward answers she’s seeking. This is no typical eight-year-old. There is a very old soul peeking behind those big, dark eyes and that tiny frame.

Her small fingers drum across the shiny cover of her comic before she stops to glance at me. “Do you think Autumn will marry Declan one day?”

It’s not the first time she’s asked this. It won’t be the last, and sometimes I think Rhea believes she’ll pull a different response from me if she keeps at it. But Autumn is my best friend, and Declan started proposing to her months after they began dating. There’s no way an altar isn’t in their future. “Sorry, kiddo.” Even with the mask, I pick up her frown as the comic in my hands hits my lap. “That’s pretty much a guarantee.”

“Oh.”

She’s too young for wrinkles, but I’ve noticed the faintest lines creasing in the center of her forehead lately. Worry, stress, they are a part of all our lives now. I should be used to seeing the same expression in the mirror on my Aunt Carol’s face. Still, no matter how used to that frown I get, I don’t have to like it.

“He has a brother, you know.” I can see her cheeks pushing up her lower eyelids under the mask. “And, he’s younger.”

“How much younger?” Rhea’s squint is forced, a little over exaggerated.

“Still too old for you.”

A quick raspberry in my direction and she picks up her comic again. “You’re no fun.”

“Oh? So I can take these back to Marty’s?” I reach for the pile of comics—some old school
Gen 13
, some issues of
Buffy the Vampire Slayer
that her illness and its various treatments had kept her from reading regularly. She’d devoured them after only a couple of days of returning home from the hospital, and already they looked old and well loved.

“No, don’t do that.” When I don’t move my hand from the top of the stack, Rhea tilts her head, pleading a little with one look as though that will have any impact on me.

It totally does.

“Fine, but don’t be insulting.”

“I guess you’re
kinda
fun.”

The tease works and we laugh, but then the laugh turns into a small cough which turns into a hack, and Rhea sits up, tears off her mask to cup her hands over her mouth, curving her back as the coughing increases.

“Careful,” I say, rubbing her back while the phlegm and mucus breaks loose in her chest. “I don’t like the sound of that. You need a breathing treatment.” But when I make to leave, Rhea grabs my wrist, head shaking frantically as the last of a wheeze keeps her silent. “What?”

“Not yet, okay?” She inhales, hand on her small chest. “Wait for a little bit.”

“Why?”

“Just wait until you leave for the barbeque.” She blinks, rubs away the moisture on her eyelashes before she smiles. “Just a little bit longer.” There is a small whoosh of air that rumbles the pillow when she leans back against it, keeping her palm over her heart.

The coughing worries me. It takes Rhea longer to get over illnesses, with the cancer and chemo weakening her immune system. The bronchitis she had months ago has left a lingering cough, one that requires breathing treatments when the hacking gets too bad. I hate seeing her suffer. I hate feeling useless. “Maybe I should stay, skip the barbeque.”

“No. It’s stupid here.” She barely lifts her hand from her chest and waves, dismissing my argument before I’ve had a chance to make a good point. “Why should you be stuck here too?”

“Rhea…”

She shuts me up with a shake of her head. “I want you to go so you can remind Declan about my lesson.”

Three comics and a box of Kleenex fall to the floor when I reach for a fresh mask for her from the side table. “You just want him to bring your UK chocolate.”

“It’s so sweet.” Rhea’s voice is still a bit raspy, the words broken when she speaks, but she seems calmer, even helps me slip the white elastic straps of the mask behind her ears. I don’t let her see my frown when even that simple action leaves some of her hair between my fingers.

“Yeah, I know.” This most recent treatment is making her hair fall out. It hadn’t grown out much since the last round of chemo, but in the past year things had gone well. It had been the longest time since she was diagnosed four years ago that she’d gone so long without the cancerous masses returning. Now her hair came to just below her ears and there were thin spots around the crown. She catches me looking over her scalp and frowns.

“I’m going to shave it.”

“Then I will too.” I don’t hesitate, shrugging like the concept is no big deal.

“No. That’s dumb. You have all that pretty pink hair.” Rhea grabs the ends of my hair, curling a wave around her fingers. “Why would you shave it?”