Page 25 of Styx & Stones

“Yeah, well. I have a very low pain threshold. You want something to drink?” He turns to the fridge, fishes out two sodas, and places them on the counter before us. He pulls a bag of Cheese Puffs from the pantry and dumps them in a nearby bowl from the dishrack.

“I want to know why you lied to me, loner boy.”

He chuckles and heaves a sigh. “I didn’t think you’d talk to me if you knew who I was, and I figured you’d need someone.” His Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows. “Because I needed someone.”

The breath gets caught in my lungs, burning, stalling. I gasp and blink back tears as a lump forms in my throat. “I did need someone.” I shake my head. “I do—I need someone. I don’t know how to do this without my friends and ... I just ... I don’t know why you didn’t tell me.”

“Come on, Stones. We both know you never would have spoken to me at all if we didn’t end up in the same chemo group.”

“That’s not true.” I shake my head, trying to tell him that he’s wrong, that I would have spoken to him eventually, given time. He was the one person I wanted to talk to after my diagnosis, only my stupid pride stopped me. But deep down, I know he’s right. If I didn’t get cancer, I would’ve never uttered a word to him.

My chest squeezes. The tears that I’ve been fighting since I arrived spring free and slide down my face. I don’t even know why. Because he’s right, and I’m a self-absorbed bitch? Or is it because this kid—who I barely knew just a few short weeks ago—cared enough to reach out, even though he knew I’d likely shut him down?

“Hey, I didn’t mean to make you cry.”

I laugh and sniff back my tears. “You think I’m crying over you? Pfft. As if. I’m only tearing up because my hand hurts, and your jaw is an asshole.”

He laughs. “Oh, so this is my jaw’s fault, huh?”

“Duh!”

His lips twist with a crooked grin. “So, you wanna hug it out?”

“Why, so you can cop a feel?” I throw a Cheese Puff at him. “Thanks, perv, but I’ll pass.”

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

ALASKA

“Does chemo ever notfeel like you’re dying?” I ask Styx, as I stare at the mural on my ceiling. I should probably be staring at my phone, since we’re Facetiming, but we’ve done this at least a hundred times since his neighbor outed him last week, and my arms are so tired from yesterday’s chemo that I can’t be bothered to make sure I’m in the frame.

“Nope. It’s kind of ironic, huh? The drugs that are supposed to save you make you feel dead.”

“Yeah, I’ve thought about that too.” I scratch at the edges of the waterproof bandage surrounding my PICC, as if that will help alleviate the itch. The plastic clamps and access caps clack together, and I cringe. “And what is up with this damn PICC line itching so much? It’s like I can feel it tickling the inside of my arm all the way to my pit.”

“Oh man, I remember that itch. PICC lines suck. You need to get yourself an upgrade.”