Holding on to Forever Read online

  Holding on to Forever

  Siobhan Davis

  S.B. Alexander

  Copyright © 2019 by Siobhan Davis and S.B. Alexander

  All rights reserved.

  First Edition:

  Print ISBN-13: 978-1-7329767–8-8

  Siobhan Davis: http://siobhandavis.com

  S.B. Alexander: http://sbalexander.com

  Editor: Kelly Hartigan (XterraWeb)

  Cover Design: Robin Harper (WickedbyDesign)

  Photography: by Sara Eirew Photographer

  Cover Models: Lucas Bloms and Marie Lapointe

  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. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the authors’ rights. Thank you for respecting the hard work of the authors.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to locales, events, business establishments, or actual persons-living or dead-is entirely coincidental.

  Contents

  Note from the Authors

  1. Adam

  2. Emily

  3. Adam

  4. Emily

  5. Adam

  6. Emily

  7. Adam

  8. Emily

  9. Adam

  10. Emily

  11. Adam

  12. Emily

  13. Adam

  14. Emily

  15. Adam

  16. Emily

  17. Adam

  18. Emily

  19. Adam

  20. Emily

  21. Adam

  22. Emily

  23. Adam

  24. Emily

  25. Adam

  26. Emily

  27. Adam

  28. Emily

  29. Adam - Epilogue

  30. Emily - Epilogue

  Important Hotlines

  Siobhan Davis

  S.B. Alexander

  Books by Siobhan Davis

  Books by S.B. Alexander

  Note from the Authors

  Adult Content Warning:

  This book includes adult language, graphic scenes, and sexual content, and is intended for adult audiences 18 years of age and older. Some scenes may be triggering for some readers (e.g. sexual assault, drugs and alcohol abuse). We cannot be more specific without spoiling the story. If you are worried about a certain trigger, please reach out to one of the authors via email or via Facebook.

  [email protected]

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  1

  Adam

  I tear my helmet off my head, shoving my fingers through my thick brown hair as hard as I can. I can’t seem to throw the damn football to save my life.

  Fuck!

  I start a silent countdown, waiting for Coach Parker to scream his head off. Since the season began a week ago, the team hasn’t been in sync. Hell, I’m not in sync. It seems my arm died a quick death during the off season.

  Carter, Cypress University’s best running back, jogs up to me. “We’ll get in the groove before Saturday. We always do, hoss.”

  I chuckle at his nickname. He calls just about all the guys hoss. I’d learned when Mom, my sister, Phoebe, and I moved from New Jersey to South Carolina four years ago that hoss had a few different meanings. But here in the South, hoss is interchangeable with dude, at least from Carter’s mouth.

  Despite his Southern slang, the loss last weekend to Southern Coast University was gut-wrenching. I hate starting off the season losing to a team who has never won a game against Cypress University.

  After blowing his whistle, Coach Parker shouts, “Get your asses off the field. Grab some water, and find a seat on the bench.”

  Yep, he’s pissed. Hell, I am too. I don’t know why we’re playing like we don’t know the game.

  Some of us jog over to the sideline while others take their time, wiping the sweat off their faces.

  Carter is still at my side cussing about coach under his breath. “He’s been riding us hard since July when we started practicing.”

  I lift a brow at the blond surfer-looking dude. “This is your second year on the team. You know how he is.”

  “Sure,” he says, biting his lip. “But he’s especially ornery lately.”

  I clap him on the back. “Once we get a win under our belts, coach will take a breath.”

  Carter rolls his blue eyes, tucks his helmet underneath his arm, and saunters toward the team. As he does, he casually says over his shoulder, “You hanging around for the frat party this weekend?”

  I shrug, trotting to the water cooler. I hardly do parties. They’re mostly on weekends when I trek the thirty miles home to hang with Phoebe while Mom works double shifts. I hate Mom has to bust her ass while I play football and study. But she insisted, ordering me not to get a job.

  “NFL is your future, Adam,” she’d said. “I don’t want to ruin that for you.”

  Neither do I, and only because the money will be great. Maybe, one day, I can buy Mom a house and have enough money where she doesn’t have to worry about bills.

  She was relieved when Cypress University offered me a full scholarship. We both celebrated the day I received the offer letter.

  Despite that, I’m the only man in the family, and I should contribute. But since moving from New Jersey, our lives have been pretty okay. Mom’s job at the hotel has kept food on the table and the bills paid. Still, if it ever comes down to football or my family, I’ll choose my family in a heartbeat.

  Carter hands me a cup of water before pouring his own. Downing the cool liquid, I use my jersey to wipe my face.

  The hot afternoon sun is brutal to practice in, but the weather is always warm to hot in the South, depending on the time of year. It only starts to cool down in late October, and even then, it doesn’t get that cold, not like the brutal winters of New Jersey.

  At times, I miss living there only because Phoebe and I loved to play in the snow. We had to be careful though. The cold weather doesn’t suit my sister with her cystic fibrosis, which is one reason we moved. Phoebe has less of a chance of getting sick here although the Southern climate isn’t always a guarantee. We also made the move because the cost of living is cheaper in the South.

  Carter and I find a seat on the bench when some chick in the stands calls his name. Odd that she’s even in the stadium since our practices are closed.

  Carter blows a kiss to the pretty brunette. “She can fuck like you wouldn’t believe,” he says in a low voice, smirking.

  Whenever I’m around Carter, I roll my eyes repeatedly. I swear he has a different chick in his bed every night. I don’t check out dudes, but one thing I’ll say about my teammate is he’s built to play football—broad in the chest, big in the arms, and the man can run like the wind on a stormy day. Aside from that, Phoebe thinks Carter is hot. So, I guess that’s why he gets the chicks.

  Soon enough, a security guard emerges to escort the brunette out of the stadium. She gives Carter one last wave.

  We both chuckle at the sight until sounds of arguing tickle my eardrums. I whip my head around to investigate. Coach is in a heated discussion with Tom Price, one of our offensive line coaches. The man knows his football, and usually coach lets him do what he sees fit with the offensive line. For a moment, I wonder if their argument has anything to do with my poor performance today. Coach Price ran us through drills hard, and it isn’t his fault I sucked.

  I strain to hear what they’re talk
ing about, but out of the corner of my eye, I spot Sam running toward me like he’s being chased by one of his enemies in Call of Duty.

  What the fuck is my roomie doing here? Sam Spencer has never shown up to any of my football practices. I don’t expect him to either for a couple of reasons. I would have to get approval, which Coach Parker doesn’t usually consent to, and Sam isn’t interested in football all that much. He’s skinny, lanky, and a nerd who barely knows the first thing about sports. Everything he knows about football I taught him, and on occasion he attends a home game, when he isn’t behind his computer.

  Coach Parker storms away from Coach Price, narrowing his hazel eyes and glaring at me.

  As I suspect, their tension was about me. But Coach Parker will have to wait to chew my ass out as my gaze is glued to Sam, my trepidation mounting as he nears. He’s huffing and puffing as he practically skids to a halt on the track that edges the perimeter of the field. His blue eyes radiate with fear, and sweat drips down his temples. He lets out a shuddering breath. “Your mom called me.” He gulps down more air.

  My jaw hits the track I’m standing on. “What happened?” Mom would only call Sam in an emergency. I’d given her his number just in case she couldn’t get ahold of me. She knows my phone is in my locker during practice and games.

  “Phoebe was rushed to the children’s hospital in town,” Sam pants. “The guard let me double-park. Come on.”

  Motherfucker.

  Panic grips me in my chest, and I feel like I’m having a heart attack.

  “Go,” Coach Parker says, having overheard the conversation. “We’ll talk later.”

  I thrust my helmet at Carter and start jogging, not caring that I’m wearing shoulder pads and stink like a skunk has just sprayed me at close range.

  Phoebe is the world to me, and I worry every fucking day about her. Hell, there are nights I can’t sleep wondering how she’s doing, and I hate that I’m stuck in my dorm room and unable to check on her.

  At the age of four, she was diagnosed with cystic fibrosis, a disorder that damages several organs but mainly the lungs. Mom had noticed a salty taste to Phoebe whenever she kissed her. Then she developed a persistent cough that she couldn’t shake. Multiple tests later, the doctor told Mom the bad news, and we’ve been living with it ever since, both of us trying to do everything we can to ensure she’s well taken care of.

  Sam is panting behind me as I all but sprint down the track toward the sports complex. Since Phoebe is at the children’s hospital, which isn’t that far from Cypress University, I briefly debate whether to run through the streets.

  But a stitch grips my side before dizziness hits me like a damn brick.

  Sam runs past me to his cherry-red Volkswagen bug.

  Bending over, with my hands on my knees, I pray that the pain and sudden bout of dizziness subside.

  “You’re dehydrated,” Sam suggests. “I got a bottle of water in the car.”

  I do my best to drag my butt inside, and it’s challenging, because my body is way too big for the small interior.

  It doesn’t help you’re wearing your shoulder pads, dude.

  Sam starts the engine. “Don’t you dare say a damn word about my car.” His voice is light, but there’s steel underneath it.

  Usually, I rib him about his choice in cars, but he didn’t get a say. When his sister trekked off to college on the West Coast, her cute little bug was handed down to Sam. Phoebe adores it, and that says it all.

  It takes me a minute, but I manage to get my shoulder pads off. Once I do, I let out a breath, and the sharp pain in my side eases a little.

  “Water bottle is in the back,” Sam confirms, expertly navigating out of the parking lot like he’s emerging from a race car pit on a NASCAR track.

  I grab the bottle and guzzle it down.

  As Sam flies through the city, dodging red lights, I ask, “Did my mom say anything else?”

  He hands me his phone. “No. Call her.”

  I tap on her name, and within seconds, her voice filters through the phone. “Sam, did you find Adam?”

  “It’s me, Mom.”

  She emits a relieved sigh. “Are you on your way?”

  Sam guns the gas before the yellow light turns red and keeps his foot pressed down on the pedal as he navigates one more light and two turns before the hospital comes into view.

  “We’re almost there, Mom.”

  “I’ll meet you in the emergency room lobby,” she says before she ends the call.

  Less than five minutes later, Sam screeches to a stop in front of the emergency room entrance. Tossing his phone into the cup holder, I jump out of the car, almost stumbling.

  “I’ll meet you inside,” he shouts before peeling away to park.

  I sprint through the automatic doors of the hospital, my cleats clicking and clacking as I go. Cold air-conditioned air sweeps over me, and I inwardly moan at how great it feels on my heated skin as I search the large waiting room.

  My gaze skims over a screaming baby being cradled in a woman’s arms, a man pacing with a look of abject fear on his face, and various other people who are hanging around. Some are sitting, some are dozing, and others are engaged in whispered conversations, while some stare blankly at the TV, but I don’t see my mom yet.

  Fuck.

  My pulse is all over the place. I should’ve kept Sam’s phone.

  When I run up to the information desk, I collide with a patient in a wheelchair, who seems to have come out of nowhere. I’m propelled forward as my face lands in her reddish-blonde hair.

  The scent of coconuts invades my nostrils, and I inhale deeply. It takes me a second to right myself. “Sorry.” I apologize to the man in tan scrubs pushing her.

  The woman hangs her head, and her long, wavy hair falls around her face.

  The assistant, who looks to be in his late twenties, narrows his dark eyes. “Watch where you’re going.”

  “I’m very sorry, Miss. I didn’t see you until it was too late,” I say, deliberately ignoring the asshole and apologizing to the woman directly. She tilts her chin up, and our gazes meet.

  I suck in a gasp, instantly forgetting how to breathe.

  She’s beautiful with these big blue eyes, pale skin, full lips, and a cute heart-shaped face. She’s around my age, if I had to guess, and there’s an aura of haunted vulnerability surrounding her that makes me want to wrap my arms around her and protect her.

  I open my mouth to say something, but Mom calls my name. “Adam!” Her voice is frantic, and the girl is instantly forgotten as I remember why I’m here.

  I rush over to her near a door that leads into the hub of the emergency room. “What happened? Where’s Phoebe? Is she okay?”

  Tears slide down Mom’s cheeks. I brush strands of her brown hair from her face then hug her, my heart slamming against my ribs.

  We don’t talk for a long minute as she sobs into my chest, and I run my hand up and down her back in a soothing gesture as I try to get a handle on my fear.

  I do everything I can not to lose my shit. We both know CF is a disease that gets worse with age, and as Phoebe grows into a teenager, her lung function is going to decline. But with routine care, there’s hope she can live a long time.

  Mom pulls away, placing a delicate hand on my cheek. “Phoebe’s regular doctor is on vacation. Doctor Harmon is filling in for him. He’s with her now. He thinks Phoebe has pneumonia.”

  I want to punch the white sterile wall until my knuckles bleed. It’s a familiar sentiment. Every time we have a setback, frustration builds inside me until it feels like I’m going to explode. I hate my sister has to suffer like this. It’s so unfair, and I curse genetics.

  I want to do something to cure my sister, but I feel helpless, like I always have, and it makes me want to scream and tear through walls, anything to release the torment clawing at my insides.

  Mom takes my hand, squeezing it for reassurance, and we walk through a set of double doors with hospital personnel on
ly stenciled on the front.

  Once inside, phones ring, nurses hurry around the hallways, and machines beep from the glass-encased rooms that patients are in.

  Mom cranes her neck up at me as she stops at a water fountain. “There’s something I need to tell you.” Worry lines furrow her brow, and I instantly know I’m not going to like it.

  A white-haired man wearing blue scrubs beneath a white lab coat emerges from a room, interrupting us before Mom can tell me her news. “Mrs. Miller.” His name badge confirms he’s Doctor Harmon, and he glances at me briefly before focusing on Mom. “We’ve sent Phoebe’s blood down for analysis, and we’ve hooked her up to a breathing machine. We’re going to get a chest X-ray, but I suspect she has pneumonia as we discussed earlier.”

  Pneumonia is a condition that is practically the norm for people with CF, and this isn’t the first time she’s succumbed.

  “You mentioned she was playing outside with her friends when she collapsed?” he asks, and Mom nods. “How’s her diet? Has she been keeping up with her vitamins and eating healthy? Also, her records indicate that she has a vest to clear her airways. Has she been doing her therapy?”

  Phoebe hates to use her vest, a device that is essential in helping her expel all her built up mucus, and Mom regularly battles her over it.

  Mom shakes her head. “It hasn’t been working.”

  I rear back. “Since when?”

  Doctor Harmon also startles. “The vest therapy is critical in her condition. I’m sure Doctor Johnson has told you.” His tone permits no argument.