Page 70 of Styx & Stones

“Styx, you’re sitting in a hospital waiting room miles away from home in a T-shirt and no shoes. Your nose is dripping, and you’re burning up.”

I shake my head. “I didn’t notice.”

“I know you care about Alaska, she’s a very sweet girl and we adore her too, but Styx, you have to take better care of yourself. You were in no position to drive halfway across the state on an impromptu road trip.”

“I love her, Mom.” I swallow hard. Alaska’s parents are permitted into the ER, and it takes everything I have not to demand they let me in. Mom and Dad both exchange a worried look. “This was my idea. Stones had nothing to do with it. It was all me.”

“It’s okay. We can talk about it later. Right now, we need to get you seen to and on a flight back home.”

“Home? I’m not going anywhere without Stones.”

“Honey, her parents talked to the hospital on the car ride here. They’re flying her back via Air Ambulance.”

“Air Ambulance?”

“The OR is already prepped for her surgery.”

I shake my head, looking between my parents. “She doesn’t want the surgery.”

“She doesn’t have a choice, Styx. Her tumors aren’t shrinking, they’re getting worse. If she doesn’t have the surgery, she won’t make it.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

STYX

In the ER, the nursechanges the dressings on my port and takes blood. I’m also given an infusion of antibiotics because despite our best efforts to keep Alaska’s PICC line and my port from getting wet, they did. My skin is hot to the touch, and I’m sporting a nasty rash because of it. I guess that’s what I get for trying to be a regular teen, going down on my girl in the shower.

We fucked up. I fucked up, and we could both die because of it. That’s what’s so fucking tragic about this whole trip. We wanted to be normal teenagers. We wanted to forget about the cancer trying to kill us, and we just gave it ammunition, fuel to use against us.

The nurse begrudgingly sees to my care, and sometime around nine a.m, I’m discharged with strict orders to see my doctor as soon as I get home. Mom and I head for the airport. Dad will go back to the hotel and get mine and Alaska’s things, and then he’ll drive his truck back to SF.

Every second I’m away from her is torture; every hour that passes is hell. My body—so used to the feel of hers it mourns the loss.

I drive myself mad with worry. All I can see is her in that OR, alone, a team of doctors in charge of removing the tumors in her brain, but not one of them know what they hold in their hands. None of them know how precious and special she is.

I don’t talk on the plane ride home. I can’t. Instead, I close my eyes and pretend I’m asleep. I’m pretty sure my bouncing leg and the agitation rolling off me in waves give me away though.