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ELEVEN

TOON

"Like a bear emerging from hibernation, awaken to new possibilities." — Unknown

Most people don’t know what it’s like to feel your body working against you.

Not in a bruised-ribs, busted-knuckles kind of way.

That is a kind of pain I can deal with.

The kind of pain’s honest.

But this?

This creeping, invisible weight inside me?

It’s the kind of pain that turns your blood to static.

That makes you wonder if today’s the day you stop looking like yourself in the mirror.

Every Tuesday morning, I sit in a beige room with a plastic recliner, an IV line in my arm, and a nurse named Marcy who talks too much about her cats.

It’s not her fault.

I haven’t engaged her in enough conversation that she knows what to talk about.

I don’t mind her.

She doesn’t ask questions about my scars or my patches.

She occasionally comments on my tattoos and trying not to mess of the comic book style by poking me in a spot where she wouldn’t even leave a bruise to my ink.

It’s kind of funny, the way each week she decides to pick out a different tattoo to talk about.

Her favorite is my Garfield one, go figure.

Outside of the casual comments on my tattoos, though, she just hooks me up, checks the machines, and lets me be.

The chemo burns going in.

Not always, but enough times that I brace for it now.

I distract myself with the same lies every time.

It’s temporary.

I’m strong enough.

This doesn’t change who I am.

But it does.

Cancer changes people, even me.

The side effects of the chemo are harsh.

They don’t hit all at once either.

It’s like being on a rollercoaster blind.

I can’t tell what is coming until boom, the drop hits.

I feel it in my bones, in the way food tastes off and my skin itches for no reason.

The weight I’ve lost is subtle but there.

And every time I pull on my cut, I wonder how long I can keep this up before the club starts noticing.

I know my skin has paled, and yellowed even a little.

I gave up drinking to try to protect my liver as my body fights to both get rid of the cancer cells, but also combat the damage the chemo does inside me.

Dia knows.

But very few others.

Outside of a handful of people in Catawba though it’s my secret.

Not even BW knows, and he sees through me better than most.

And definitely not Tripp.

I don’t want him looking at me like I’m a broken spoke in the machine.

Loyalty goes deep, but this life?

You bleed for your patch, or you step back.

And I don’t want to be sidelined.

Not unless I have to be.

It’s Friday, a few days after my latest round.

I’m moving slower, pretending like I’m just working on the truck, when my phone buzzes in the garage.

Unknown number.

That usually means trouble or someone I forgot to block.

But when I answer, the voice on the other end hits me like a damn freight train.

“Toon? That you?”

“Little Foot?”

The grin spreads across my face before I can stop it.

It’s been too long.

“You good, brother,” I say, shifting the phone to my other hand.

“What’s with the unknown number.”

“I like to fuck with your head,” he jokes.

His laugh is familiar.

Grounding.

“Catawba’s quiet lately. Just checking in. Acadia said that you’d been off the radar since being at the coast and baby sister didn’t like that.”

I wince.

“Yeah... I been laying low. You know how it is.”

“You sick from it now?”

Straight to it.

No bullshit.

That’s Little Foot for you.

I pause just long enough for him to notice.

“That a yes?”

I sigh, “It’s not a no.”

“Shit.”

I inhale sharply.

“I’m handling it.”

“You got someone with you there or you still staying stubborn and quiet?”

“Dia.”

The pause on his end says a lot.

“She’s solid,” he says finally.

“Good woman there. Glad y’all are getting things sorted even if it means you won’t come back to Catawba.”

“She’s more than that.”

“Yeah,” he says quietly.

“She always was.”

We don’t talk about Clutch.

We never really do.

That wound’s still fresh in ways that won’t scab over.

But hearing from Little Foot now, when the chemo’s dragging me down and the silence in my head’s louder than ever, it hits different.

“I’m not dying,” I say.

“Don’t want anyone getting that idea.”

“You don’t have to prove shit to me, brother,” he replies.

“But if you need something—anything at all—you say it. You understand?”

“I know.”

“And if you need someone to show up for you the way you’ve done for everyone else, I’m just a few hours down the road.” Again, he’s always keeping it blunt with me.

That hits harder than it should.

“Appreciate it,” I say.

My voice catches a little.

“Really.”

“I’ll check in again. Stay on this side of the ground, Toon.”

“Always.”

After I hang up, I sit in the garage for a while, staring at nothing.

My fingers twitch to text Dia, just to say someone reached out, that the club isn’t as far removed as it may seem.

But I don’t.

She’s been quiet lately.

Overwhelmed, no doubt.

Her body’s changing, and she’s carrying thousand pounds of decisions on her shoulders.

I can’t add mine to the pile.

So I wait.

Evening comes and tonight, I head to the clubhouse just long enough to keep up appearances.

BW throws an arm around me when I walk in.

“About damn time. You vanish any longer, we’d send a search party.”

I smirk.

“You’d miss me too much.”

“Mostly just your bike,” he jokes.

“She’s prettier than you.”

I play along, laughing, but I keep close to the wall, out of the spotlight.

I don’t drink.

Just nurse a Coke and nod at conversations like I’m paying attention.

Every once in a while, someone claps me on the back too hard and I flinch.

Too weak.

Too raw.

But no one notices.

Hellions don’t talk about health.

We talk about loyalty.

Wrecks.

Arrests.

Club business.

But sickness?

That’s a whole different kind of vulnerability.

Tripp walks past me once, eyes narrowing.

I give him a look that says not tonight, not here.

He respects it.

For now.

I don’t stay long.

At home later, I take my shirt off and stare at my reflection in the bathroom mirror.

I look older.

Thinner.

Hollow around the eyes.

I’ve always been the guy people leaned on.

Never the one who needed help.

But lately?

I don’t feel like I’m holding the weight anymore.

I feel like I’m under it.

I splash water on my face and sit on the edge of the tub, trying to breathe through the nausea that hasn’t let up since Wednesday.

Dia doesn’t text tonight.

I don’t blame her.

She’s still figuring out how to stand on her own again.

And I’m still trying to figure out how much time I have left to stand with her.

The prognosis early in my diagnosis was good.

Since starting treatment, though, my numbers aren’t always on track with where the doctor wants them to be.

I didn’t go to medical school.

Hell, I don’t even have a basic college degree so who am I to question anything.

The next week, I get to the clinic early.

Marcy hooks me up with her usual gentle chatter, but I can see the concern in her eyes when she looks at my numbers.

“You’re gonna need to hydrate more,” she says.

“Your blood pressure’s dipping.”

“I’ve been hydrating,” I lie.

She gives me a look.

“Whiskey doesn’t count.”

“Damn. There goes my recovery plan.”

She smiles, but she’s not laughing.

I’m in the chair for hours.

I fall asleep for part of it.

I dream about riding, something I haven’t done as much lately.

Dia on the back of my bike, arms tight around me, wind rushing past like a song.

I dream we’re somewhere warm.

Nowhere in particular.

Just gone.

Just free.

When I wake up, I’m freezing.

Shaking uncontrollably.

Marcy wraps another blanket around me and dials back the drip.

“You’re pushing too hard,” she says.

I don’t respond.

Because she’s right.

But stopping now?

Not an option.

By the time I’m back in the truck, my hands are trembling on the steering wheel.

I drive slow.

I make it back to my place without puking, but it’s close.

I get out.

Sit on the front steps.

Stare up at the sky like maybe it’ll give me an answer.

My phone buzzes in my pocket.

Dia :

Can you come by?

I don’t hesitate.

She’s waiting at the door when I pull up, wrapped in a hoodie and looking like she hasn’t slept.

Her eyes lock on mine the second I step out.

“You okay?” she asks before I’m even close.

I don’t lie.

I shake my head.

She steps aside, lets me in.

“You wanna sit?” she asks.

“I should have been there,” she mutters more to herself than me.

I lower onto her couch, arms braced on my knees.

She sits beside me.

Not too close, but close enough.

“You okay?” I ask her since she asked me to come over.

She sighs, “I missed you, Justin. I owe you an apology. I’m sorry I checked out while you’ve had treatments. I just got all in my head in a way I shouldn’t have.” She smiles.

“I miss the way things feel casual and calm when you’re with me. I miss the way I feel when I see you. Selfishly, I don’t like being apart. You are my best friend and my support in this. I want us to move in together. I need things to be casual for me to bring this baby into the world without all the crazy of having a dead dad right off the bat.”

Casual, she wants that, I’ll give her that.

“I talked to Little Foot,” I say after a while.

Her eyes widen.

“Yeah?”

“He called to check in.”

Dia nods slowly.

“Word travels fast in the club. You might need to tell them.”

“He knows enough. I didn’t tell him everything.”

“You think you should?”

I shrug.

“Not yet.”

She pauses.

Then softly, “What about the club?”

“I’ll tell them when I can’t hide it anymore.”

“That’s not fair to you.”

“Maybe not. But it’s what I’ve got.”

“Just like I want to be there for you, your brothers want to as well. And just like I miss you, I know all the Haywood’s Landing brothers missed you and want you around.”

We sit in silence.

Eventually, her hand finds mine.

“I’m scared for you,” she whispers.

I nod.

“Me too.”

And that’s the truest thing I’ve said in weeks.