I reply to Mya and Camila to let them know I’m awake and not to worry. I’m as good as new. Or, at least back to 35 percent.
I still have to dish to them about what just happened with my parents, but they’re getting on a boat and I have somewhere I need to be too.
Getting changed, I move slowly and carefully, pulling on a pair of leggings and a tie-dye T-shirt that Abby got me when she went to the Grand Canyon. I catch a look at myself in the mirror, the dark circles under my eyes looking deeper than they’ve been in months. I brush my hair quickly and put it into a neat ponytail, frowning when it doesn’t look as good as I hoped it would.
I put it back down, nodding in contentment at my reflection as my hair falls gently around my shoulders. Grabbing my makeup bag from the bottom of my drawer, I put on some mascara and lip gloss, smiling at the idea of Will seeing me not just alive, but with makeup on, his blue eyes gazing at my gloss-covered lips. Would he want to kiss me?
I mean, we could never, but would he want to?
I blush, shaking my head as I send a quick text to him, telling him to meet me in the atrium in ten minutes.
Pulling the strap of my portable oxygen farther up on my shoulder, I take the quick way, going up the elevator and across the bridge into Building 2, then back down the stairs into the atrium, which takes up the entire back half of the building. I sit down on a bench, gazing around at all the trees and plants, a stone fountain trickling softly behind me.
My heart pumps eagerly at the thought of seeing him in just a few short minutes.
Excited and anxious, I pull out my phone, checking the time. It’s been ten minutes since my text to Will and he still isn’t here.
I send him another text: I’m here. Did you get my message? Where are you?
Another ten minutes goes by. And then another.
Maybe he’s taking a nap? Or maybe his friends came for a visit and he hasn’t gotten a chance to check his phone?
I spin around when I hear the door open behind me, smiling, excited to finally see—Poe. What is Poe doing here?
He looks at me, his face serious. “Will’s not coming.”
“What?” I manage to get out. “Why isn’t he coming?”
“He doesn’t want to see you. He’s not coming.”
He doesn’t want to see me? What? Poe holds out a pack of tissues, and I stretch to grab them, frowning in confusion.
“He told me to tell you that this little thing between the two of you is over.”
The shock and hurt change into anger, deep and real, clawing at my stomach. Why would he sing Abby’s song to me before surgery? Why would he sneak into pre-op and risk getting caught? Why would he make me a handmade bouquet of flowers if this “little thing” between us was over?
A frustrated tear rolls down my face and I rip the pack of tissues open. “I hate him,” I say, wiping my eyes angrily.
“No, you don’t,” Poe says, leaning against the wall and looking at me. His voice is soft but matter-of-fact.
I laugh, shaking my head. “He probably had a good laugh about the crazy control freak in 302, huh? He didn’t want to tell me all this himself so he could laugh in my face? How unlike him.”
I sniff, and pause because even though I’m angry, that feels wrong. This doesn’t make sense. “Is he okay? Did something happen?”
Poe shakes his head. “No, nothing happened.” He pauses, his eyes traveling to look behind me, at the trickling fountain. “Well, let me revise that.”
He meets my eyes. “Barb happened.”
He tells me about what he overheard in the hallway, how Barb confronted Will about us, how being together would kill the both of us.
I don’t even let him finish. How long will I live my life afraid of what-ifs? My life revolves around an obsessive regimen and percentages, and given that I was just in surgery, the risk never seems to go down. Every minute of my life is what-if, and it would be no different with Will.
But I can already tell one thing. It’ll be different without him.
I storm past Poe, pushing through the heavy doors and up the stairs and across the bridge to the elevators.
“Stella, wait!” he calls after me, but I need to see Will. I need him to tell me that this is what he wants.
I pound the elevator button, over and over again, but it’s taking too long. I look both ways to see Poe coming after me, his face confused. I keep moving to the stairwell, coughing and clutching at my side, the pain from the surgery making my head spin. I push open the door and speed down the stairs.
I make it back to our floor, throwing open the double doors and banging on the door to room 315. I glance at the nurses’ station, relieved to find it empty.
“Will,” I gasp, my chest heaving. “I’m not leaving until you talk to me.”
There’s silence. But I know he’s in there.
Poe’s footsteps pound on the floor of the hallway, stopping six feet from me.
“Stella,” he gasps out, shaking his head, his own chest heaving from trailing after me.
I ignore him and knock again, louder this time. “Will!”
“Go away, Stella,” his voice says through the door. There’s a pause, then, “Please.”
Please. There’s something about the way he says it. A longing, deep and strong.
I’m tired of living without really living. I’m tired of wanting things. We can’t have a lot of things. But we could have this.
I know it.
“Will, just open the door so we can talk.”
A full minute goes by, but then the door cracks open, just enough so that I can see his shadow on the tile floor. When he doesn’t come out, I start to step back against the far wall, like I always do.
“I’ll back up, okay? All the way to the wall. I’ll be far enough away.” Tears start to fill my eyes again, and I swallow, forcing them back.
“I can’t, Stella,” he says softly, and I see his hand grip the doorframe through the crack.
“Why not? Will, come on—”
He cuts me off, his voice firm. “You know I want to. But I can’t.” His voice catches in his throat, and I know.
I know in that moment that this “little thing” between us isn’t over. It’s just starting.
I take a step toward the door, wanting to see him now more than I want to even breathe. “Will . . .”
The door closes in my face, the latch clicking into place. I stare at it, stunned, feeling all the wind get knocked clean out of me.
“Maybe it’s better this way,” a voice says from behind me.
I turn around to see Poe, still standing there, his eyes sad but his voice resolute.
“No.” I shake my head. “No. I can figure this out. I . . . have to figure this out, Poe. I just . . .”
My voice trails off and I look down. There has to be a way.
“We’re not normal, Stell,” Poe says softly. “We don’t get to take these kinds of chances.”
I whip my head up, glaring at him. Of all the people to be against us. “Oh, come on! Not you, too.”
“Just admit what’s really going on here,” he fires back, matching my frustration with his own. We stare at each other and he shakes his head. “Will’s a rebel. He’s someone who takes risks, just like Abby.”
My insides turn to ice. “You want to tell me what to do with my life?” I shout back. “What about yours? You and Tim. You and Rick. Marcus. Michael.”
His jaw tightens. “Don’t go there, Stella!”
“Oh, I can keep going there!” I clap back. “They all knew you were sick and they loved you anyway. But you ran, Poe. Not them. You. Every time.” I lower my voice, shaking my head, challenging him. “What are you afraid of, Poe?”
“You don’t know what you’re talking about!” he shouts back at me, his voice laced with fury, and I know I struck a chord.
I take a few steps closer, looking him right in the eye. “You’ve ruined every chance at love that ever came your way. So, please, keep your ad
vice to yourself.”
I whirl around, marching off to my room, the air still buzzing with anger. I hear his door slam shut behind me, loud and reverberating all around the hallway. I head into my room and throw my door shut with the same amount of force.
I stare at the closed door, my lungs heaving up and down as I struggle to catch my breath, everything silent except for the hiss of my oxygen and the pounding of my heart. My legs give way, and I slide down onto the floor, every fiber of my body suddenly giving out from the surgery and from Will and from Poe.
There has to be a way. There is a way. I just need to figure it out.
• • •
The next few days blur together. My parents come to visit, separately, and then together again on a Wednesday afternoon, and they’re being, if not friendly, at least cordial to each other. I FaceTime Mya and Camila, but only for short bursts of time in between their Cabo-ing. I roam the hospital, checking off treatments on my app halfheartedly and going through the motions of my regimen, just like I’m supposed to, but it doesn’t feel as satisfying.
I’ve never felt more alone.
I ignore Poe. Will ignores me. And I keep trying to think of a way to fix this, but nothing comes.
Thursday evening, I sit on my bed, Googling B. cepacia for the millionth time, and then there’s a clink against my door. I sit up, frowning. What could that be? I walk over and slowly open the door to see a jar resting against the doorframe with a fancy handwritten label: BLACK WINTER TRUFFLES. I bend down, picking it up to see a pink Post-it note sitting on top. I peel it off, reading: “You’re right. For once. ”
Poe. Relief floods through me.
I break out into my first real smile in four days. Peering down the hallway, I see his door click shut. I grab my phone, dialing his number.
He answers in half a ring.
“Buy you a donut?” I ask.
We meet in the multipurpose lounge, and I grab him a package of his favorite chocolate minidonuts from the vending machine, tossing them to him on his love seat.
He catches them, giving me a look as I buy a pack for myself. “Thanks.”
“Welcome,” I say, sitting opposite from him, his eyes like daggers.
“Bitch,” he shoots back.
“Asshole.”
We grin at each other, our fight officially over.
He opens the package, pulling out a donut and taking a bite. “I am afraid,” he admits, meeting my eyes. “You know what someone gets for loving me? They get to help me pay for all my care, and then they watch me die. How is that fair to anyone?”
I listen to him, understanding where he’s coming from. I think most people with a terminal illness have struggled with this. With feeling like a burden. I know I’ve felt like that with my parents more times than I can count, especially these past few months.
“Deductible. Meds. Hospital stays. Surgeries. When I turn eighteen, no more full coverage.”
He takes a deep breath, his voice catching. “Should that be Michael’s problem? Or my family’s? It’s my sickness, Stella. It’s my problem.”
A tear rolls down his cheek, and he wipes it quickly away. I lean forward, wanting to comfort him, but as always I’m six feet away.
“Hey,” I say, giving him a big smile. “Maybe you can get Will to marry you. He’s loaded.”
Poe snorts, his voice teasing. “He’s not picky. He likes you.”
I throw a donut at him, hitting him square in the chest.
He laughs before his face gets serious again. “I am sorry. About you and Will.”
“Me too.”
I swallow, my eyes focusing on a bulletin board just past his head, filled with papers and notices and—a hygiene notice. It’s made up of intricate cartoon drawings, each one instructing people on the proper way to hand wash or the correct way to cough in public.
I jump up as an idea starts to take shape.
My to-do list just grew by one.
CHAPTER 16
WILL
I dangle my legs off the side of the roof and listen to her voice mail over and over and over again, just to hear her voice on the other end. Her room is dark except for her desk light, and I see her furiously typing away on her computer, her long brown hair pulled into a messy bun.
What could she be doing this late at night?
Is she still thinking about me?
I look up, watching as a gentle flurry of snow starts to fall, landing on my cheeks and my eyelids and my forehead.
I’ve been on the roof of dozens of hospitals through the years. I’ve looked down at the world below and experienced this same feeling at every single one. Longing to be walking through the streets or swimming in the ocean or living life in a way I’ve never really gotten the chance to.
Wanting something that I couldn’t have.
But now what I want isn’t outside. It’s right here, close enough to touch. But I can’t. I didn’t know it was possible to want something so bad you could feel it in your arms and your legs and in every breath you take.
My phone goes off and I look down to see a notification from her app, a tiny pill bottle emoji dancing away.
Bedtime meds!
I can’t even explain why I’m still doing it. But I take one more long look at her and stand, walking over to the stairwell door and grabbing my wallet before it slams shut. I climb slowly down the stairs and back to the third floor, making sure no one is in the hallway before sneaking back in and down to my room.
Going over to the med cart, I take my bedtime pills with chocolate pudding, just like she taught me. I stare at the drawing I did earlier of myself as the Grim Reaper, the blade of my scythe reading “LOVE.”
You still doing okay? Hope texts me.
Sighing, I pull off my hoodie and send a text back, fudging the truth a bit. Yeah, I’m fine.
I set up my G-tube feeding and get into bed. I grab my laptop off my bedside table and open YouTube, clicking solemnly on a suggested video of Stella’s that I’ve already seen, because I am just that pathetic right now.
Hope and Jason would not even recognize me.
Hitting mute, I watch the way she tucks her hair behind her ear when she’s concentrating, and the way she throws her head back when she laughs, and the way she crosses her arms in front of her chest when she’s nervous or upset. I watch the way she looks at Abby, and her parents, even the way she jokes around with her friends—but, most of all, I watch the way that people love her. I see it in more than just her family. I see it in Barb’s eyes, and Poe’s eyes, and Julie’s eyes. I see it in every doctor and every nurse and every person who comes into her path.
Hell, even the comments aren’t the garbage fire most YouTube videos get.
Soon I can’t watch anymore. I close my laptop and shut off my light, and lie there in the darkness, feeling every heartbeat in my chest, loud and resolute.
* * *
The next day I stare out the window, watching the afternoon winter sun slowly near the horizon as the steady vibrating of my AffloVest thrums away at my chest. I check my phone, surprised to see a text from my mom, checking in with me, instead of my doctors, for the first time since her visit almost two weeks ago: Heard you’ve been doing your treatments. Glad to see you’ve come around.
Rolling my eyes, I toss my phone onto my bed, coughing a wad of mucus into the bedpan I’m holding. I glance over at my door as an envelope slides underneath it, my name written on the front of it.
I know I shouldn’t be excited, but I unhook the AffloVest anyway, jumping up to grab it off the floor. Ripping the envelope open, I pull out a carefully folded piece of paper, opening it all the way up to reveal a cartoon drawing done entirely in crayon.
A tall boy with wavy hair is facing a short girl, black crayon labeling them as Will and Stella. I smile as I notice the tiny pink hearts floating above their heads, chuckling at the giant arrow in between reading “FIVE FEET AT ALL TIMES” in big, bright-red letters.
She clearly didn’t in
herit the same art skills as Abby, but it’s cute. What exactly is she trying to say? And five feet? It’s six and she knows it.
My laptop dings behind me, and I race over to it, swiping my fingers across my trackpad to see a new text. From Stella.
There’s nothing there except a link to a YouTube video. When I click on it, it takes me to Stella’s newest video, posted exactly three minutes ago.
“B. cepacia—A Hypothetical.”
I smile warily at the title, watching as Stella waves to the camera, her hair in the messy bun I saw last night from the roof, a pile of items carefully laid out on her bed in front of her.
“Hi, everyone! So, there’s something a little different I want to talk to you about today. Burkholderia cepacia. The risks, the restrictions, the rules of engagement, and how to successfully say it ten times fast! I mean, come on, that is quite a name.”
I watch, confused. “All right, so, B. cepacia is a hardy bacterium. It’s so adaptive that it actually feeds on penicillin instead of being attacked by it. So our first line of defense is . . .” She pauses, reaching down to pick up a pocket-size bottle of liquid and holding it up to the camera. “Cal Stat! This is not your average Purell. This is a hospital-grade hand sanitizer. Apply liberally and often!”
She snaps on a pair of blue latex gloves, wiggling her fingers to get them comfortably onto her hands. “Next up is good old-fashioned latex gloves. Tried and true, and used for protection in”—she looks down, clearing her throat and examining the pile of items on her bed—“all kinds of activities.”
All kinds of activities? I shake my head, a smile creeping onto my face. What is she doing?
Next, I watch as she pulls out a handful of surgical face masks, hanging one around her neck. “B. cepacia thrives best in saliva or phlegm. A cough can travel six feet. A sneeze can travel up to two hundred miles per hour, so don’t let one fly in mixed company.”
Two hundred miles per hour. Wow. Good thing I don’t have allergies, or we’d all be done for.
“No saliva also means no kissing.” She takes a deep breath, looking right at me through the camera. “Ever.”
I exhale, nodding solemnly. That’s a major bummer. The thought of kissing Stella is . . . I shake my head.
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