Return To You Read online

  Return to You

  Jennifer Millikin

  Leia Stone

  Copyright © 2020 by Jennifer Millikin and Leia Stone

  Cover by (Covers by Aura)

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  For inquiries contact Authors: Leia- [email protected]

  Jennifer- [email protected]

  Created with Vellum

  Contents

  Trigger Warning

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Epilogue

  To our readers.

  Trigger Warning

  This book has themes/thoughts of abortion. Nothing graphic.

  Chapter 1

  Autumn

  I judge airplane flights on a drink scale. The drinks being alcoholic beverages, and the scale being how many I should have to get me through the terrifying experience of hurtling through the sky in a metal tube.

  I've checked the weather and I know what the skies have in store for me on my trip from New York City to Phoenix. If only I could use radar to see what's in store for me once I land. Going back home to the small town of Sedona that I left ten years ago doesn’t exactly fill me with excitement.

  The flight-attendant on this flight has a kind, lopsided smile, and the second my backside is firmly planted in my first-class seat, I request a glass of wine from her. So far, it’s a one wine glass kinda flight. That’s bound to change though, especially with the shitstorm of a day I’ve had.

  I smile gratefully when she hands me the dark red liquid. I inhale before taking a sip. I’m not one of those people, the wine connoisseur with the discerning palate. It’s just I find the scent of the wine comforting. It’s my airplane ritual, a signal to my brain that it’s time to relax. Wine and I are old friends.

  My shoulders are the first to relax, inching down from my ears, followed by the unraveling of the muscles in my upper back. Passengers board as I unwind, and I watch them casually, my gaze flickering away if our eyes happen to meet. I’ve always feared prolonged eye contact with strangers. Or … maybe not always. Just since then. I fear that someday a person sensitive to the sins of others will look at me and know. The way an animal senses an earthquake before it happens, they will see in my soul the dark stain of shame.

  Shame stains all of us, but not everybody nurtures it the way I do. I could let it go, but it would take with it more than just its smudge. It would take him, and I’m not sure I can do that.

  I chug the rest of my glass, but promise myself to wait until we're in the air to order another. I can't show up and be drunk in front of my poor sick mother. Her life is hard enough as it is. There's no way I'm going to pile my troubles onto her. She needs a doting, thoughtful daughter, and that's exactly what she's going to get.

  I'm so busy thinking of my mother that I barely register the woman who’s had one too many facelifts until she nestles in across from me. She clutches her tiny Pomeranian like a life raft, her fingers decorated with a diamond ring on each finger. We share a quick glance before I turn away.

  I don't belong up here in first-class. I make good money, but spending it on a fancy ride from the east coast to the desert feels wasteful. I've made this same trek a dozen times since I moved to Manhattan, but I've always flown coach. Until now … until my mom called and asked me to move home. Then I dropped everything: my job, my apartment, and two grand on a last-minute airplane ticket.

  My gaze stays firmly fixed out the window. The sky darkens, but the night steadily lights up. It's mostly white-yellow, the light from apartments, but there are neons too. And tonight, the top of the Empire State Building is purple.

  I shift forward in my seat as the plane backs away from the gate. We taxi to the runway, join the line of other planes waiting their turn, then pick up speed. Nerves claw at my gut as I think of what I’m leaving behind, what I’m going home to—the unknowns that hide in every corner of my old town like hidden shadows waiting to pull me under.

  Fuck this day.

  My fingers press into the cold window, the heat from my skin leaving behind slick marks, as I whisper goodbye to the city I spent six years calling home.

  The plane lifts off and the feeling of weightlessness makes me gasp. The sprawling city twinkles at an awkward angle as we ascend. When I first came here, twenty-two years old and eager, this place smelled like hope and possibility. Now I know better. No matter how good something seems in the beginning, it cannot possibly maintain its luster. Eventually, everything fades.

  "Folks, we have touched down in Phoenix. Current temperature is eighty-six degrees, and unfortunately, it's only five A.M. So, you can expect that number to increase."

  The pilot continues to thank us for choosing the airline, but it's drowned out by the collective moan of passengers after hearing the early morning temperature.

  The heat doesn't bother me. Where I'm headed, two hours north of the valley, it'll be twenty degrees cooler. But, considering what's waiting for me there, it's not an even tradeoff.

  I gather my purse and slip from the plush seat when it's my turn, leaving behind the complimentary blanket and headphones.

  Not gonna lie, first class was amazing, but my wallet can’t afford to make a habit out of it. Now that I’m jobless, I’ll need to go on a budget until I can find something else.

  As I slip past sluggish travelers wheeling heavy carry-ons, I notice their zombie-like appearance. I've always been a morning person, trained to function on little sleep, so the early hour isn't a problem for me. A few hours of sleep on the plane is enough to carry me through until I can grab a nap later. The energy zinging through me now has nothing to do with sleep. Despite the reason I've come back, I'm excited to see my mom.

  The thought has me moving faster, propelling me around a family wearing brightly-colored Hawaiian shirts. I sneak a peek at them as I pass, and they all look tired, mildly sunburned, and a little depressed.

  I see my mom as soon as I round the corner. She stands only a few feet beyond security. Any closer and the TSA employee would probably ask her to take a few steps back.

  A grin stretches my face. She looks good. Skinnier than I imagined, but healthy. Bits of silvery gray weave through her shoulder-length brown hair, showing me what I will one day look like. I don't even allow the other half of my DNA into the equation. I think of my dad as a donor, and that's it. He walked out on my mom before my first birthday, so he doesn’t deserve more than a fleeting thought.

  The closer I get to her, the more I take in. I see it now … the way her t-shirt hangs limply on her body, and then I realize she's in a long-sleeve and it's hot out. There are deep dark bruises on her legs and my mouth goes dry. I don't mean for my smile to falter, but it does, and like a reflection in a mirror, her grin falls a
fraction too.

  The cancer has returned. It has hit her not once, not twice, but three fucking times.

  Who the hell gets cancer three times? It’s not fair, but I can’t go down that road right now or I’ll end up cursing God in the middle of this airport.

  The odds aren't good for her … but I am here now and I’ll be damned if cancer is going to take my mother from me.

  Maybe my presence will be the difference. During her first two diagnoses, she'd told me to stay in New York and keep working. I'd argued, but my mom is stubborn and firm. I'd have better luck arguing with a brick wall. So, I listened. I also knew she needed my help financially, even though she didn't say it. The best way for me to help was to stay at my job and keep climbing, making sure those paychecks came in and got bigger along the way. I sent her a chunk of money each month and she accepted it gratefully.

  But this time, when she called to tell me about the current diagnosis, she asked me to come home. She didn't tell me to stay put like she had before. She just told me she’d pick me up at the airport.

  That's how I knew it was bad.

  I won't let her see my fear now. I won't make her console me, not when her energy is needed so badly on the inside. I'm here now, and I will add all my strength to this fight.

  Walking the last few feet past the TSA employee standing like a sentry, I pass the sign that reads No re-entry beyond this point and straight into my mother's open arms.

  She is smaller, and it feels like a role reversal. I am, for the very first time, bigger than her.

  But she still smells like my mom. Her lemon and lavender scent sinks into me, silently providing me comfort. My throat clenches with emotion but I clear it and keep my shit together.

  She pulls back, searching my face. Concern pulls at her eyes, deepening the lines. "Did you get any sleep on the plane?"

  "A little."

  "How many wines?"

  A smile tugs up one corner of my mouth. "It was a two-wine flight."

  "No turbulence, then?"

  Other than the turbulence of leaving my career behind to go and care for my sick mother?

  I shake my head. "Not really." I'd been grateful for the smooth skies during the flight, but I had the second glass of wine because I couldn't shake my thoughts of him.

  No matter how hard I try, memories of Owen Miller are on a tether, connected to me, and the slightest tug brings them bounding back.

  I want to avoid him. It shouldn't be too hard, not in a town like Sedona. There are enough tourists, enough vacationers, and as long as I avoid the places frequented by locals, I won't be likely to run into him.

  None of that will work though. He broke my heart, I broke his, and we walked away from the mangled remains of a love that had burned so bright it was blinding.

  After what we went through, I should avoid him at all costs.

  Too bad he's my mother's fucking oncologist.

  That was karma giving me a big old kick in the ass.

  Thanks, universe.

  My mom knows I'm thinking about him. She can see it in my eyes, and I can see it in the pitying look on her face

  Reaching out, she wraps an arm around my shoulder and steers me toward the elevator bank. "It'll be okay, sweetheart."

  I'm not sure if she's referring to her cancer, or me being forced to have Owen Miller in my life again.

  "Sure, Mom," I agree quickly, slipping my arm around her waist and dragging my bag behind me. My palm rests on her hipbone and I swallow the lump in my throat.

  "Baggage claim?" she asks when we reach the elevators, even though she has already pressed the button.

  I nod, letting my head tip to the side so I can lay it on her shoulder. My mom has different plans though. She lets go of my shoulders and takes a big step away from me. Her eyes light up, mischievous.

  "Guess," she says, raising her eyebrows up and down twice.

  Despite my anxiety, my fear and my sadness, I grin. Quickly I glance around at the numbers above the elevator doors. "Six," I say.

  "One," she counters, her eyes on the small white number.

  We've played this game as long as I can remember. Whoever guesses which elevator will open, or the number closest to it, gets a prize. When I was little, it was a stop for a donut before starting the long drive home from the airport. After I turned sixteen, it was who had to be the driver.

  We wait, expectant, and then a ding fills the air. Our eyes swing toward the sound. Elevator five.

  Mom makes a face. "I lost. I'll drive."

  "No, I'll drive. I miss driving," I tell her, stepping on first and sticking out my hand to ensure the doors don't start to close before she can get on. I can’t believe she has even made the two-hour drive from Sedona to Phoenix in the first place.

  She frowns. "You didn't get much sleep on the plane."

  "I got enough," I argue. "A stop for some strong coffee and I'll be good to go."

  She looks tired. There is no way I am making her drive.

  Mom relents, and instead of relief I feel sadness. The mom I've known my whole life would insist on being the driver. She’d dig in her heels and order me to get in the car.

  Not anymore.

  After we collect my bags, I wheel them to her car and get in the driver seat. I turn on the air conditioning, but after fifteen minutes my mom reaches into the backseat and grabs a sweatshirt. When she pulls it on, I turn down the air with a frown.

  "Nonsense," she argues, "that's why I'm putting this on."

  "I was getting cold too," I lie. Does she not have enough fat on her bones to keep her warm? The thought completely freaks me out and my knuckles go white on the steering wheel.

  I stop for coffee, ordering a double espresso for me, a tall morning blend for mom, and two breakfast sandwiches. The two-hour drive isn’t bad, but I want to get on the road before rush hour traffic, so I shoot the espresso as if it's tequila and we keep going. In between chatting, we eat our breakfast sandwiches as I point the car north. For the next ninety minutes, I stay on the same interstate, watching the scenery switch from bustling city, to suburbs, to saguaros, to scrubby brush. Beside me, my sweet mom sleeps against the glass window.

  I alternate between driving and glancing at her. My mom. My protector, encourager, and teacher. I cannot live without her.

  Owen has to save her.

  Chapter 2

  Owen

  I never knew what tired meant until I became a doctor. I imagine it's like having two newborns on opposite sleep schedules. Not that I would know from experience.

  It's not really the hours I spend at the hospital that exhaust me. I'm fine on my feet for extended periods of time. It's the emotional exhaustion I'm referring to.

  Working in oncology will do that to you. Having patients die regularly hardens your soul.

  Especially this morning. I wish with all my strength that my ten o'clock appointment wasn't with Faith Cummings.

  In med school, I'd heard of patients who became like family. But what about people who were like family and then became patients? Med school didn’t have a chapter on that one.

  I was an intern the first time Faith was diagnosed. The second time, I was a resident. This time, I'm her doctor. As my career developed, so did Faith's cancer. The maudlin parallel isn't lost on me.

  I'm not stopping at oncologist though. I'm in a surgical fellowship, and when it's over I'll be a surgical oncologist.

  Which basically means I can remove tumors from patients here in Sedona instead of sending them down to Phoenix. Tumors have always fascinated me. When you resect the pink healthy tissue, there it is, like a wadded piece of gum, so clearly alien to its surroundings.

  Before I can head into Faith's exam room, I need food and coffee. I have to fuel up before I see her, because each appointment with her leaves me emotionally drained. It’s not the fact that she looks so much like her daughter, a daughter who was simultaneously the great love and complete destroyer of my life—okay, it’s a bit that—but mostl
y it’s the fact that Faith is like a second mother to me and the pressure to save her life is so heavy … at times it crushes me.

  "Hey, Theresa." I stop in front of the stout brown-haired woman sitting behind the nurses' desk. She looks up slowly from the computer, her chin leading the way and her eyes the last part of her face to rise.

  "What's up, Doc?"

  I want to make a joke about Bugs Bunny, but I don't dare. Theresa is no-nonsense. To be honest, she scares me a little. But what she lacks in warmth, she makes up for in ability. Nothing shakes her. If I needed medical care, I'd request Theresa as my nurse any day.

  My gaze shoots down the hall, then back to Theresa's cool expression. "I'm mentally preparing for Faith Cummings' appointment."

  At the mention of Faith, warmth trickles into Theresa's chocolate-brown eyes. Theresa loves her work, but she especially loves Faith. After all the years Faith has been coming here, they've formed a friendship.

  She leans forward, her floral printed scrub top crinkling against the edge of the desk. "Don't tell anybody, but, about ten minutes ago, I put homemade cinnamon rolls in the staff room." Her tone is hushed when she says the words homemade cinnamon rolls. My palms meet in front of my chest, pushing together as if in prayer while I try to contain my drool. "Thank you," I mouth. Theresa is an amazing nurse but an even better baker.

  She sits back in her chair and focuses on whatever she was doing at the computer, as if I never stopped by.