Page 84 of Styx & Stones

“Move,” I say through my teeth. “Before you’re forced to fight a kid with a terminal illness.”

Dad puts a hand on my shoulder, but I shrug it off. He moves. I yank open the door and walk into the hall.

“Just leave him,” Dad says.

“Like hell I will,” my mom snaps.

I pick up my pace, hoping to outrun her, but my mom has spent the majority of motherhood taking care of a sick kid. She’s fitter than a goddamn Olympic medalist right now. And me? I’m not. I’m out of breath just walking three feet.

She grabs hold of my arm and pulls me into a hug. I can’t remember the last time I allowed her to do this, and all I can think is what a shitty son I’ve been.

I ran away. I took my sick girlfriend, and I ran away. I caused our parents so much unnecessary worry. And now, she’s lying in a morgue. They want to wheel me into surgery and carve me up like a turkey at Thanksgiving, and I’ll likely still be dead before the year is out.

“I don’t want this, Mom. I don’t want to spend the rest of my days in the hospital while they pump me full of more drugs that don’t work.”

Her throat bobs, and her eyes fill with unshed tears. “Is this ... is this because of Alaska?”

“No. It’s because I’m tired. I’m just so fucking tired. I’m sick of hospitals, and the drugs, and ... I’m just fucking sick of being sick.”

“I know. I know, honey,” Mom soothes. She pats my back the way she used to when I was ten years old and terrified the hospital clowns would sneak into my room at night when the nurses weren’t looking and choke me with my breathing tube.

I rang that fucking bell. I rang that bell six years ago to signal the end of my treatment and the beginning of my life as a survivor, and now I’m here. Stage fucking four.

Balls. Fucking balls.

Or, in this case, I guess, breasts.

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

STYX

Ican’t be here. Ican’t breathe.

I sit in the church pew and stare at the glossy black veneer box. Inside that coffin is a body I’m familiar with. I know every line, every curve, every freckle, divot, and scar. I spent hours worshipping them all, but I no longer know the feel of her in my arms.

It’s only been a week since she died of a subarachnoid hemorrhage, and I’ve already forgotten what it feels like to hold her, to kiss her lips, and interlock my fingers with hers. Now she’s different. Now she’s dead.