Page 10 of The Immortal’s One (Bound to the Immortals #1)

“Darcie? Got a minute?”

I glance up from my oatmeal, the unsettling sense of foreboding that’s been following me all morning tightening around my chest.

Dad stands in the kitchen doorway, his laptop clutched in one hand, brown hair messy, looking like he’s been up for days. The weight of exhaustion hangs on him more than it ever has before. The dark circles under his steel blue eyes are so deep now that they seem permanent.

“Of course.” I hesitantly lower my spoon into the bowl. “Is everything okay?”

“As good as it gets, I guess.” He shuffles into the kitchen, moving slower than usual. His skin has a strange, ashen quality, and the faint tremor in his hand as he sets the laptop on the counter doesn’t escape me. It's impossible to shake off my worry every time I look at him.

Dad shuffles over to the coffee maker, almost dropping the coffee mug he takes out of the cabinet above. I bite my cheek, the urge to help him nearly unbearable. But I know better than to offer. He wouldn’t appreciate it.

Less than a month ago, Dad was diagnosed with stage three lymphoma after collapsing during a seminar at the University of Athens. When the doctors ran tests, they discovered bruises—both fresh and old—and a lump in his neck.

We came back to Maine months early so he could start treatment. His doctors scheduled him to begin chemo right away, but Dad requested to wait. He wanted to finish the first draft of his latest book first.

His decision infuriated me, and my anger flares when Dad opens his laptop and the offending document fills the screen.

He needs to rest, but he doesn’t want all the work he’s poured into this book to go to waste. He says he doesn’t know if he’ll feel up to working while doing chemo. I understand where he’s coming from, but I can't stand to see him push himself to the brink of collapse.

The rhythmic sound of his fingers tapping on the keyboard fills the room, making the silence between us even more deafening. I continue to stare at him.

When he still doesn’t look up, I clear my throat. “Ahem.”

Distracted eyes peer at me over the laptop. “Yes?”

I press my lips together, half amused, half irritated. “Didn’t you want to talk to me about something?”

“Oh, right.” He closes the laptop with a rueful smile. I smile back, even though it doesn’t quite reach my eyes. “I heard you come in late last night. Where were you?”

I blink. I can’t remember the last time Dad acted like a parent, asking me where I’d been. He’s treated me like an adult ever since I turned sixteen. “I went to Portland with Kayla.”

“Oh…” He rubs the back of his neck. “I guess I forgot. ”

More like I didn’t tell him. A twinge of guilt pulls at me.

“What did you two do in Portland?” he asks.

I hesitate. “Well, actually… we went to a club.”

His eyebrows shoot up in surprise. “A club?”

“Yeah.” I shift in my seat.

He stares at me for a beat. “I see. Well… did you have fun?”

“I did,” I answer honestly.

Aside from dodging a few unwanted dance partners, I had a good time. Kayla and Josh were great; neither made me feel out of place as a third wheel.

Dad smiles, but it’s fleeting. His eyes drift down to his hands, resting on the laptop. A shadow falls over his face.

Intuition presses me to ask, “Is there something else?”

His throat bobs as he swallows. Then he speaks, his voice quieter. “Actually, yes. I’ve been thinking about visiting New York this week to meet with my publisher.”

My heart sinks.

“Dad…” My voice is tight. “You can’t be serious.”

“What do you mean?” He lifts his gaze, eyes narrowing. “My treatment doesn’t start until after the holidays. Now would be the perfect time to go.”

My frustration boils over. “You’re sick. You should be resting, not running off to the city.”

“You could come with me.”

“No, Dad. You shouldn’t go.” My voice cracks as I lose the fight with the desperation flooding my chest. “You promised you’d rest. You promised .”

He winces. “Darcie…”

“Stop pretending like everything is normal.” The words tear from me, raw and guttural. “You’re sick, and you’re acting like nothing’s changed. ”

Angry tears roll down my cheeks.

Dad shifts. The strain in his gaze hits me harder than anything else. His shoulders sag under the weight of everything he’s refusing to acknowledge. “Don’t cry, Darcie.”

I can’t help it. Emotion thickens my throat. “Do you even care that you’re sick?”

“Of course, I care.” His voice is softer now, defeated. “But I don’t want to stop living because of my diagnosis. I’m still me. I still want to do the things I love.”

I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to block out the flood of sadness threatening to drown me. I understand what he’s saying, but it still hurts. Watching him insist on acting like the world hasn’t shifted beneath us breaks something inside me.

My phone buzzes on the counter.

I open my eyes. Kayla’s calling.

“You going to answer that?” Dad asks.

“No.” I silence the ringer. “She’s probably just checking to make sure I’m still on for brunch with her and Kevin.”

My stomach sinks even more. I’d been looking forward to seeing Kevin again, but now, meeting up with my childhood crush feels insignificant next to the battle my father is fighting—or should be fighting.

Dad tries to change the subject. “Where are you planning to go?”

My phone buzzes again. This time, it’s a text from Kayla. Like I thought, she wants to confirm our plans.

I text back a quick thumbs up, then look back at Dad. “Brick Cottage.”

“Ah.” He nods. “That’s a nice place.”

I nod.

The silence in the kitchen is heavy, loaded with unspoken words. The coffee maker eventually beeps, and Dad walks over and picks up the mug. He takes a sip, drawing back with a wince when the hot liquid hits his tongue.

I stare at him, drowning in my emotions—anger, sadness, frustration—each one bubbling to the surface with no outlet.

You don’t have to deal with this right now.

“I’m going for a run.” I push away from the counter, sliding my stool back, done with the oatmeal in front of me. I’ve lost my appetite.

“Oh. Okay.” Dad turns the mug between his hands. “Can we… talk later? Maybe at dinner?”

I nod stiffly. “Sure. I’ll grab stuff for chicken parmesan at the store later.”

“Fantastic.” His smile is hesitant, and he watches me with quiet sadness. “I’ll see you later, sweetheart. I love you.”

I know he does. I just wish he loved himself enough to fight this disease head-on.

“I love you, too, Dad.”

The rhythmic slap of my tennis shoes against the cushioned rubber track at my former high school echoes in my ears. Each step is met with a satisfying thud that grounds me, reminding me that I’m still here, still moving forward. Despite the turmoil in my life.

My breath fogs in front of me, a reminder of the chilly morning air as I complete my first lap.

My muscles loosen. I pick up speed, increasing my pace in small increments, careful not to push too hard before my body has a chance to warm up. The last thing I need is an injury. Not when Dad’s going to need me these next few months .

I’m about to start my third lap when a sudden movement catches my eye. Two men are sprinting on the opposite side of the track. They’re fast. It won’t be long before they catch up. I shift to the outside lane, making space for them to pass.

The men zoom by, their legs pumping furiously. I shake my head. Going from zero to sixty is never a good idea, especially in this weather. They’re asking for a pulled muscle.

I keep a steady pace for the next couple of laps. The burn in my legs grows. Sweat gathers on my brow. I swipe it away with the back of my gloved hand, but soon, the warmth builds up, and I slip off the gloves, tucking them into the sweat-resistant jacket I’ve worn for years.

Running was supposed to clear my mind, to numb the sharp edge of the anger and frustration swirling inside me at how Dad is handling his illness. But as I round the final bend of my last lap, nothing has changed. The storm inside me is just as violent as it was in the kitchen.

Looks like I can’t run away from my problems today.

I slow to a jog, then a walk, to cool down. After one lap, the winter chill bites my damp skin, signaling I’ve cooled down enough. I half-jog, half-walk to my Jeep and dive inside. I turn the key in the ignition, and the car hums to life.

As I wait for the engine to warm up, I pick up my phone from the cupholder where I left it. There’s a text from Dad asking me to pick up a list of items at the store.

The moment I see two prescription pain medications, a fresh wave of sadness crashes over me.

Why does this have to happen to him?

Dad hasn’t had an easy life. Mom left when I was four, and he’s raised me on his own ever since.

Being a graduate student at the time, Dad didn’t have much money, and he had no family to lean on.

His parents died before I was born, and my mother’s side never bothered to be involved.

They never cared about me, and they certainly never helped Dad when he was left to raise me on his own.

Now that I’m older, I understand the weight he carried—raising me alone while finishing his doctorate. But despite it all, he made sure I had everything I needed and gave me love in abundance. He was my rock.

But now, cancer has entered the picture, and that rock is starting to crumble.

It forces me to confront the undeniable truth that my dad isn’t immortal. One day, he won’t be here anymore. And when that day comes, I’ll be alone.

A tear leaks from the corner of my eye. I brush it away with a sniff, add the items to my shopping list, and slip my phone back into the cupholder. Still, a cloud of helplessness hangs heavy over me, refusing to lift.

After Greece, I always planned to enroll in college full time, my sights set on somewhere out of state. The idea of a fresh start somewhere new appealed to me. And avoiding frigid Northeastern winters would be a bonus.

Now, I’m not so sure that’s a good idea. Maybe I should stay closer to home. If everything goes well, Dad’s chemo will only take four to six months. Then, with any luck, he’ll be in remission. After some time, once I know he’s okay, I can apply out of state.

But every time I think about leaving him, it feels like a betrayal.

I may not be able to cure Dad’s cancer, but I can be here for him in a way he’s always been there for me. That’s the least I can do for the man who gave me everything.

Resting my arms on the steering wheel, I let my forehead drop to my hands, and the tears come. I cry for my dad. For his diagnosis. For the life I’d been looking forward to, those dreams now hanging by a thread.

I cry for the uncertainty of the future, for the plans I have to put on hold. I cry for the helplessness I feel in the face of it all.

I hate it.

A tap sounds on my window. My head jerks up. Bleary-eyed, it takes me a second to recognize one of the men from the track standing there, bundled up in winter gear.

I swipe at my eyes and crack the window. “Yes?”

“Sorry to bother you,” he says, his voice tentative. “I was wondering if—wait… Darcie?”

I start at the use of my name. Blinking away more tears, it hits me. I know this guy. “Thane?”

A grin spreads across his face. “That’s me. Small world, huh?”

I nod slowly. “Yeah. Really small.”

His expression falters as his eyes trail over my tear-streaked face. “Is everything okay?”

“Everything’s fine.” I wipe my cheeks with the back of my hand. “It’s just been a tough morning.”

“I get that.” He clears his throat and shifts his feet.

Eager to get this conversation over with, I ask, “Was there something you needed?”

“Yes.” He gestures toward the man standing by a sedan a few spaces away. “Our phones died. We were hoping to ask for directions back into town, but now I’m more concerned about what’s got you so upset.”

His concern seems sincere, and I can’t help but soften a little. “I’m fine, really.”

“You don’t look fine.” His eyes search mine. “Is there anything I can do to help? ”

“Not unless you can cure cancer.” I force out a weak laugh that cracks under the weight of my emotion. “Sorry. That was… dumb.”

His gaze softens, and he hesitates before speaking again. “I’ve got an idea. Why don’t you come get coffee with us?”

I blink, eyes wide. “Oh… um… I-I don’t know.”

“Come on.” He leans forward, his demeanor warm and inviting. “We’re heading to the Bean Bazaar. Do you know it?”

“Yeah.” The Bean Bazaar is the most popular coffee shop in town. Their imported coffee beans are to die for. “I know it.”

“Perfect.” Thane flashes a grin. “Would you mind if we followed you there? That way, we don’t need directions.”

He says it like the plan is already made, and I find myself unable to resist. I don’t want to sit here alone, wallowing in my sadness while I wait to meet Kayla and Kevin for brunch.

Kevin.

I need to shake the depressive thoughts weighing me down. I’ve been looking forward to seeing him for ages. Maybe coffee and conversation will help.

“Sure. That works.”

“Great!” Thane spins around and walks back to his friend, calling over his shoulder, “See you there!”

And just like that, I find myself driving to have coffee with a man I barely know and another I’ve never met.

Yet I can’t shake the nagging feeling that something about that thought isn’t true…