Kiss Me One Last Time novel · Chapter 1 of 24
Chapter 1: The Needle
On her birthday Suzette asks her husband for one kiss while giving blood for her stepsister, then pulls the needle out and hands him proof she is dying. He calls it a forgery.
The needle went into my left arm at nine in the morning, and my husband did not look up.
It was my thirty-first birthday.
Finley sat in the vinyl chair by the window of the fourth-floor suite, reading Sabrina's chart on his phone.
He had read it every other Wednesday for two years.
I had never seen him read mine.
The blood ran dark through the tube and into the third bag.
"Mrs. Hollister, you're very pale today," the nurse said quietly.
"I'm always pale," I said.
She looked at the bag, then at the clipboard, then at me.
She did not say what we both knew, that the bag was fuller than the rules allowed.
Roberta's doctor had signed off on it.
Roberta signed off on everything.
"Finley," I said.
"Mm."
"It's my birthday."
"I know. I sent flowers to the house."
"I don't want flowers."
He finally glanced at me.
"Then what do you want, Suzette?"
My mouth was dry, and the room tilted a little at the edges.
"I want you to kiss me."
He stared at me.
"I'm not asking for a party or a ring," I said. "I'm asking for one kiss, right now, while I'm sitting here."
Something crossed his face that I used to think was embarrassment.
Now I knew it was impatience.
"Sabrina's numbers dropped last night," he said. "I'm trying to read what the lab sent."
"It will only take a moment."
"After," he said. "When we're home."
He went back to his phone.
He had said after for two years.
The door swung open and Sabrina came in on a cloud of expensive perfume.
She was twenty-nine and fragile and beautiful, and she wore a silk robe over a fresh manicure.
She kissed Finley on the cheek.
He smiled at her, a real smile, and put the phone away.
"You shouldn't be up," he said.
"I wanted to say thank you," Sabrina said sweetly, turning to me. "Don't faint on the floor this time, okay? The nurses say it's embarrassing."
"Sabrina," Finley said, mildly.
"What? I'm being nice."
She reached for the bag on the hook and hefted it.
"Wow," she said. "Three. Mom says you volunteered for the extra."
"I didn't," I said.
"Well, nobody forced you."
I looked at the tube running into my arm.
I looked at the man who still hadn't looked at me.
I thought about the letter in my coat pocket, folded in thirds, three weeks old.
I had carried it to this room four times.
I had planned to tell him each time, and each time I had waited for him to look at me first.
He hadn't.
My hand moved before I had finished the thought.
I took the tape off my skin and pulled the needle out.
Blood ran down my forearm and dripped on the floor.
"Mrs. Hollister!" the nurse said, dropping the clipboard.
"Suzette," Finley said, standing up. "What are you doing?"
"I'm done."
"Put it back in."
"No."
I pressed a gauze square to my arm with my other hand.
My fingers shook, and not from fear.
"This is the last time," I said. "I'm not giving blood again. Not today, not Friday, not ever."
Sabrina's mouth fell open, and then she laughed.
"Oh my God," she said. "Is this about your birthday?"
Finley took a step toward me.
His voice dropped, low and flat, the voice he used on vendors who missed a delivery.
"You are not doing this in front of her. She needs it."
"I need things too."
"You are not the one who's sick."
I almost smiled.
I reached into my coat on the chair and took out the letter.
The paper was soft from being handled.
I held it out to him.
"Read it," I said. "Please. It's only a page."
He took it with two fingers.
He unfolded it.
I watched his eyes move down the page.
I watched them stop at the third line, where the doctor had written the diagnosis.
Then they reached the sixth line, where he had written the time I had left.
For one second, I thought I saw him go white.
Then his jaw set.
He folded the letter again, slowly, and tapped it against his palm.
"Nice work," Finley said. "Whose letterhead did you steal?"
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