Page 95 of Becoming Us

“And won an Oscar for it,” he deadpanned.

Fine, he might have got me there.

“Federico!”

We both turned to the door.

“Oh, fuck.” I pushed off the floor. “I’ll cover for you. Mouthwash’s in the first drawer.”

He dusted off his pants as he stood, chuckling. “Your mother knows why I smoke, hijo. Don’t sweat it.”

Still, I stepped into the living room ahead of him. I’d been living in this apartment for a little over a month, and the only furniture out here was the couch and a coffee table.

My mother entered like she was walking into a gallery she hadn’t curated. Her eyes flicked from wall to wall, lips tightening. “You should let me decorate.”

“It’s fine. I’ll get to it eventually. I’m hardly ever here anyway.”

She gave my appearance a once-over. “And new clothes.”

I rolled my eyes. “I’m fine, Mom.”

“You look good, though. Lost weight?” She wandered toward the windows. Her heels echoed in the emptiness.

“Yeah, I guess.”

“Is he feeling sick?” Her voice came out smaller than usual, subdued in a way that felt foreign. It caught me off guard.

“The weed helps.”

She nodded, arms folding tight across her chest as she looked out the window. It was strange to see her like that—quiet, like someone had turned the volume down on her. She’d been showing up more lately, at least for my dad. I could see how much it meant to him, how he brightened whenever she entered the room, even if it left me with a tight, sour feeling I didn’t know how to swallow.

They’d flown to LA for a consultation at City of Hope, one of the top cancer centers in the country. For the past three days, he’d been through a battery of tests. The big appointment—the one that would tell us what came next—was tomorrow. They could’ve stayed with me, but my apartment wasn’t exactly her scene. So, a hotel it was.

It worked fine for me. I was supposed to have people over tonight anyway.

“Ready?” my dad asked as he appeared.

He looked…worn.

Thinner than before. His skin had gone pale, the color leached out. The dark circles under his eyes looked like bruises that never healed, and the lines around his mouth had deepened. He looked elegant in his tailored suit, but it didn’t fully hide how it sagged on him now, like he was shrinking inside it.

Another round of chemo was probably coming. The last one nearly wrecked him, and he’d been in and out of the hospital. Every time I saw him, it hit me again—how fast this was all happening. How little control any of us had.

“Ready,” my mother said, looping her arm through his.

“The appointment’s at eight, right?” I walked with them to the door.

“Ye—” she began.

“Nine, actually,” my dad cut in. “They called to reschedule.”

“Oh. Okay. See you there.”

The door closed, and that same tight, paralyzing fear gripped my chest. It hit every time I saw him. Every time I thought about him. But this would be fine. City of Hope had experimental treatments. Something had to work. Somethingwould.

My phone buzzed in my pocket. Another text from River. I had run into him the last time I was in the city, for my dad’s birthday, and now he’d been texting me nonstop. I ignored it and walked back into the bathroom.

The light was too bright in here, the mirror too honest. I looked pale. Hollow-eyed. Rolling down my sleeve, I pulled out a small baggie, took a couple of bumps, and tucked it back into the folds of my shirt automatically.