One Kiss One Vow

By Alora Kate

The night Hayden and Leighton met, they made their very first decision as a couple.

A decision that changed their entire lives.

Despite the nay sayings of everyone they knew, they plunged headfirst, never imagining what would become of one night.

One kiss turns into two.

One vow turns into something much more intense.

Every experience transforms them as a couple and brings them closer together until a single mistake threatens everything they've become.

With the world against them, how can they stand? Only staying together gives them enough hope for the future.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Alora Kate
• Release date: Sep 16, 2019
• ISBN: 9781393604600

Alora Kate

"I hear voices in my head and I love that its totally okay." - Alora Kate  Alora Kate is a multi-genre author who likes to be bold and original; stepping outside of the box and bringing her readers fresh characters from all parts of life. She’s a mother, college student, photographer, and graphic designer. She resides in northern MN with her son, where she plans to stay for a long time despite the cold winters. 

Book preview

Dedicated to YOU!

The person reading this book,

I thank you.

One Kiss One Vow

by

Alora Kate

Chapter 1 – Leighton

It was snowing.

In Vegas.

It felt like I was witnessing a miracle.

Something I know isn’t true.

Miracles don’t happen.

I’m sorry, Leighton.

And those three words were my confirmation. The same three words I’ve heard several times over the last two years.

Slowly, I took my eyes from the view outside and to my windowsill where all my books were lined up. I had more than the twenty or so that were here—the rest were at home, waiting for me on my old bookcase. I loved to read. I loved to escape into other people’s worlds, their lives, and pretend that I was one of them. Pretend, even just for an hour, a day, that I’m not sick, that my time isn’t running out. Reading made me feel like I was normal.

I finally looked at my mother. She was crying, a tissue clutched delicately in between her fingers, dabbing underneath her eyes, sitting on the same cream-colored chair where she’s experienced several painful moments just like this one. I wish I could take away her pain, her tears, and her worries for me, but I couldn’t. I knew the opposite would happen. There would be more pain—for the both of us—and more tears, and I knew, even though I begged her not to worry, she would.  

I looked at my doctor who was standing at the foot of my hospital bed. Dr. Richards could barely look me in the eyes as he tucked my gray folder under his arm.

The tumor didn’t shrink.

My mom let out a gut-wrenching sob.

But not me.

I was done crying.

I knew my body well.

I knew it very well.

The last round of chemo didn’t work—not that I’m surprised. I knew it wouldn’t work before we started the treatment, but I couldn’t be the one to crush my mother’s heart again.

I had to try, one last time.

For my parents, but most of all, for me.

My tumor was located at the top of my spine, causing me to use forearm crutches because sometimes I have numbness in my legs and get vertigo often. My back doesn’t hurt as much as it should, and for that, I’m grateful. At least I can still get around on my own with the help of my crutches. I use them just in case something happens, but for the most part, they’re just accessories. I get migraines a lot, sometimes to the point where I pass out.

I lived in the hospital—we all agreed it was best with how intense my treatments were. But I hated living in the hospital the most. I missed my room at home, with my things, and the freedom that came with it. My room here wasn’t decorated—there were no posters up on the walls, no pictures of me and my friends, no giant scented candles on my dresser. I didn’t even have a dresser, I had a built-in closet, though I didn’t have much inside. I missed my bed, with all of my pillows and soft blanket. Mom offered to bring me more things the last time I was admitted, but I refused. I felt like it would only depress me more. This wasn’t home. This wasn’t where I belonged. I felt like a caged animal, and I knew I was on the verge of breaking down—or breaking out, though I wasn’t sure which would come first.

I glanced at my mom, who was consumed with sadness but somehow still full of hope. I wasn’t sure how she balanced the two. Every other sentence out of her mouth was a prayer, an option, or a suggestion for something new to try. This was her thing—clinging to hope, clinging to a miracle that was never going to happen. 

My dad, on the other hand, was like me. We’ve both accepted it. When he first found out about my tumor, of course, he cried. He cried for the little girl that laid in his arms, he cried for the future we both knew I wouldn’t have. He cried because there would be no more milestones for us—no walking across the stage at graduation, no father-daughter dance at my wedding, no running after little versions of me later in life. But then, as he dried the last of his tears, he turned to me and said, It’s time to get to work, Leighton. Let’s show this tumor what’s what.

But then the scans came back, bringing the results and there was no denying it any longer. I wasn’t going to show this tumor ‘what’s what.’ So, with quiet resolve, we went through the motions, for my mother, maybe for us, though we knew nothing would change the outcome.

He’d be rushing into the room any minute now from surgery because he’s an anesthesiologist. I told him he didn’t need to come today because we both knew what the results would be, but he wanted to make the drive even though it was already dark outside.

My mom would never give up on me, never give up on trying new medication or researching trial drugs. She was always coming up with new ideas and options my doctor had never heard of. She once suggested going to see a specialist in Germany, which I vetoed immediately. I knew what going to Germany would mean not only for me, but for my parents. It would mean quitting their jobs and focusing solely on my health, which I couldn’t handle. It would mean them selling their house, their nest egg for when they were able to retire. I couldn’t take away their future just because mine was in jeopardy.

My parents had my back. Their love and devotion to me was something I could never thank them enough for. But my mom, she was the strong, stubborn one and her will to keep me alive should be enough to shrink this tumor.

But it wasn’t.

I was done trying. In a way it felt like I was giving up, but there wasn’t much hope for it to shrink—something we knew going in. It wouldn’t shrink in size, therefore surgery wasn’t an option for me. It’s made a home of my tissues and nerves and it wasn’t going anywhere.

I’m okay, Mom.

No, you’re not, Leighton, but we’ll figure it out. She looked at Dr. Richards, who I saw mentally prepare for my mom’s questions, which would come out in rapid fire. What about another trial? More chemo? Or pills? Whatever you got . . . you know we’ll try anything.

That was the thing, it wasn’t we . . . it was me.

I was doing these things.

I was the one being injected with drugs.

I was the one taking the pills.

It was my legs that gave out on me.

It was my body that was weak and falling apart.

It was my body that had the tumor, not my mom’s.

Yes, she’s been at my side and I’m grateful for that, but she just didn’t get it. It’s been two years and I was tired. I was tired of being sick. I was tired of vomiting. I was tired of not being in control of my life. I was tired of being looked at like my tumor was hanging on the outside for the world to see. I was tired of being a guinea pig, and most of all, I was so damn tired of living in this hospital.

I felt like it was all my mom saw when she looked at me. Knowing she probably didn’t realize it, I never said anything about it. No reason to upset her more.

No. My doctor shook his head at my mom and then looked at me and asked, How are you feeling, Leighton?

I’m tired.

Of course, you are, my mom whined, doing her best to hold back her tears.

I’m tired of chemo. I’m tired of the pills.

They’re working, honey, my mom said, still holding my hand. The tumor hasn’t gotten bigger.

It hasn’t gotten smaller, either, Mom.

It will, honey, it will.

It’s been two years, I stressed as I sat up.

Yes, and you’re still with us.

Most days it doesn’t feel like it.

Can I stop? I asked Dr. Richards, who was glancing between the two of us. I don’t want to do it anymore.

My mom gasped, her jaw dropping to my hospital bed. We aren’t stopping!

We.

Is wasn’t we, it was me.

Mom, I warned, but it was unheard because she started firing off more questions and concerns to Dr. Richards. She mentioned depression to him, and it was the first time she’d brought that up.

I wasn’t depressed, I was dying.

I didn’t want to die, so I was doing everything I could to not die. Every time she thought I was depressed, I had to convince her otherwise. I did everything I could, everything they told me to do, but I was still dying. Dr. Richards handled it the same way I did, I’m sure, by hearing her and nodding, but not really listening to her.

I looked out the window and the snow had already tapered off.

Today was it.

I was done.

Not being able to take anymore, I slipped off the bed, grabbed my crutches, and went for a walk. I felt sorry for my doctor, but he could handle it. He has for the last two years.

I put my hand up to my mom to stop her from coming after me. She’s learned over the past two years that sometimes I just needed a minute away from life. A minute away from her constant questions and watery gaze. I needed a minute away from the constant beeps of the machines and the smell of antiseptic. I needed to see more than just the flat white paint of the hospital walls and the scratchy feel of the blanket on my bed.

I went down the hall and ignored the nurses and other residents who lived at the hospital and went to a spot that us residents visited when we needed a break. When I got to the top of the stairs, I saw the metal door was already being held open by a small piece of wood that I had found last year.

Someone else was up here.

The area was small, not part of anything really, but it was a rooftop. It had a view of Vegas. It was open and free. The sky large and full of the Vegas lights and sounds.

I walked over to the farthest corner where some beat up old chairs were and saw one was occupied. The ground was a little wet from the rapidly melting snow flakes, so I walked slowly. By the looks of the baseball hat and long legs, it was a guy. The lights of Vegas helped me see that he was wearing a gray T-shirt and jeans. He started to cough, and my feet moved, watching the wind take away the smoke that came from in front of him.

He was smoking.

Some of us did when we needed a time-out from reality, or to try it, like me, though I hated it.

I startled him when I grabbed the chair next to him and moved it over. I got the feeling he was a newbie—he was either here for tests, being admitted, or visiting someone who told him about this spot.

Hey, I said as I sat down and watched him take another drag from the cigarette which again, made him cough. He didn’t reply, just flicked the cigarette ashes off, studying it like he wanted to ask it questions. I couldn’t blame him for not talking, he was up here first, so I let my crutches drop to the ground and laid my head back against the chair and stared up at the sky. 

I heard him cough a few more times while I listened to the city and watched the flashes of the lights dance across the sky.

Have you tried it? His voice was deep, and I assumed he was young, probably around my age based on the patients they take here and his body size.

I rolled my head and saw he was also looking up at the sky, but I couldn’t see his face—it was in the shadow of the vent box that he was leaning his chair against. His long legs were stretched out in front of him, just like me.

Smoking? I asked.

Yes.

It’s horrible.

It is.

I rolled my head back and closed my eyes.

Never had the desire to try it, he added.

Until now? I should have kept my mouth shut but it slipped out. I’m so used to talking about my tumor that it doesn’t bother me anymore. But if he was recently diagnosed, then it could be a tough subject for him.

Or maybe he was just here to visit someone, but then he answered me.

Yep.

That’s all he said, but it was enough to know something was wrong with him.

I reached out for his hand. It was something I did here, as part of the care team, to support those in a time of need. To let them know they weren’t alone. I wanted this guy to know he wasn’t alone, that someone was here for him in his time of need. I wiggled my hand again without saying anything and surprisingly enough, he gave it to me. His skin was light mocha-colored, like Luke, who was a few rooms down from me, but I still couldn’t see his face.

We didn’t talk for several minutes, but I got the feeling he knew that I knew what he was going through. He wasn’t alone, that’s what I wanted him to know. That’s what the care team did, and I was happy to help. Happy to listen and support patients, give them advice, and help them sift through their thoughts and feelings. I hated it when my friends felt like they were alone. I tried my best to always be the positive one, always be there for anyone who needed a shoulder.

I finally said, "If you ever want to