She broke my heart, and I’m not sure it will ever beat again.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
STYX
“I’m afraid it doesn’t look good.” Dr. Watson glances down at the findings of my latest PET scan and biopsy. “Styx’s cancer has metastasized to the lymph nodes—as we previously knew—but now we’re seeing a very rare case of male breast carcinoma with a distant metastasis in the right maxillary sinus and extending to the nasopharynx.”
“In English, doc.” I sneer, but he won’t look at me. He looks instead only at my parents, as if they’re somehow more deserving of this information than I am.
“Mr. and Mrs. Hendricks, your son’s cancer has spread to the breast and naso—”
My shrill laughter pierces the room. “I’m sorry, did you just say I have breast cancer?”
“Male breast cancer is not uncommon, however the fact that it’s metastasized to the nasopharynx region is something we’ve only seen before in one other patient.”
“Is he dead?”
“Styx,” Mom admonishes.
Doc clears his throat. “Yes, though he developed extensive skeletal and lung metastases. He passed twelve months on from refusing chemotherapy.”
“Awesome. So what you’re saying is that instead of three years to live, I have one. Kinda shortchanging me there, aren’t you, doc?”
“So what are we looking at treatment wise?” My dad, ever the optimist. Fucking hippie.
“My recommendation is to begin a more aggressive form of chemo, radiation, and an immediate double mastectomy.”
I stand, knocking my chair to the ground. All three adults in the room watch me like I’m a caged tiger who just found a large opening in the fence. “This is bullshit.”
“Styx.” Mom takes my hand, but I yank free of her grasp. “Sit down.”
“No.” I stalk toward the door. My dad is on his feet, blocking my path. “Move.”
“Kid,” he says. “Take a seat and we can talk about this.”
“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
I can’t be here. I can’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.
Her organs have been removed, her casing sewn up, as if she were a teddy bear someone pulled the stuffing out of. I should be glad pieces of her have gone on to save other lives, but I’m not. How can someone else live with a heart that used to beat only for me?
Inside that coffin is a girl I used to know. Now she’s just flesh, bone, and embalming fluid. She was killed by a fucking aneurysm, her organs picked apart for the living. Her brain is dead and left to rot in what was the prettiest head I’d ever seen.
I stagger to my feet. Mom grabs my hand, but I shrug her off. I walk away without a backward glance because that girl in the casket, that empty shell? That isn’t my Stones. She isn’t anything. The girl I love is dead, and I won’t find her in this church. I won’t find her anywhere on this Earth.
My Stones is long gone. And I won’t be far behind her.
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
STYX
Three days later
Mom knocks on my door. I don’t answer. She’s probably just trying to get me to shove more food in my face. I don’t wanna eat. I don’t want to get up and shower, or leave my room.
I watch all of the videos of Alaska I’d saved to my phone. I play her highlights on Instagram, over and over, and scroll her feed, read our messages, and listen to the voicemails she left me. None of it brings her back. All of it makes me feel like shit, and yet I do it anyway. I replay our trip to Disneyland in my head, and every conversation we ever had; every look or smile she shot my way is etched in my memory. And that’s all I have—memories.
Mom opens my door and peers in. I’d tell her to fuck off, but I don’t even have the energy for that. “Honey, there’s a phone call for you.”
I scowl. Who the hell would be calling me? “Take a message.” I roll over in bed and stare at the wall.
Mom comes into the room and offers me the phone. “You’ll want to take this.”
I’m sure I don’t, but if it will get her to leave me the hell alone, I’ll do it. I hold my hand out and she places her cell in it.
“Hello?”
“Styx, it’s Dean. I run Clarion—”
“I know who you are. What the hell do you want with me?”
“Alaska Stone came to see me.”
I grit my teeth. “Alaska Stone is dead.”
“Before, dude. She came to see me the night you cancelled. She painted a mural.”
“What?”
“That’s not all,” Dean shouts, as if he’s in the middle of a Coachella crowd. The noise in the background is deafening. “I don’t know if you know this, but she had a lot of fans.”
“Yeah, she did,” I say, choking back the lump in my throat.
And I was her biggest.
Tears fall from my lashes, and my mom sits on the edge of my bed, stroking my back. I don’t have the heart to tell her that it hurts. Everything hurts now—a side effect of chemo, sepsis, and maybe even a broken heart.
“They’re all here, man. We’re just waiting for you.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Just get down here,” he says and hangs up before I can ask any more questions.
***
Mom parks the car half a block from the alley, and Dad helps me into a chair they rented from the hospital. I can still walk, but not without a lot of pain and not without expending a hell of a lot of energy—something I have very little of these days.
I don’t have any idea what Dean was talking about, but as we get closer to Clarion, it becomes apparent that it’s busier than your usual Saturday morning. Like thre
e-hundred-people busier. Individuals move aside to let us pass and a cheer goes up from the crowd as I’m wheeled through it.
Dean stands on the scaffolding they usually put up when they repaint the alley. He holds a loudspeaker in his hand and smiles down at me. “Alright, people, listen up. Now that our guest of honor is here, I wanna take a moment to thank you all for coming.”
“What the hell are you doing?” I shout, but he just grins. “I had the absolute pleasure of watching Alaska Stone work in this alley. And this guy”—he points to me—“is the one who made it all possible.”
Another cheer goes up, and I glance at the faces around me, spotting familiar smiles in the crowd: Harley, Carissa, Jan, Wan, and several other people from our chemo sessions. Alaska’s friends from school, my neighbor, Joe, and Uncle Carlos. Even Mr. and Mrs. Stone are here. Everyone.
I shake my head. “I don’t understand what the hell is going on.”
“Alaska wasn’t just a gifted artist; she was an awesome kid. I felt smarter just standing next to her, and though she was taken way too soon, she’ll never be forgotten. So, does everyone have their spray cans ready?”
A collective “yeah” comes from the crowd.
“Then put your masks on and get fucking tagging. Write whatever you want, to Alaska, to Styx, to someone you might have lost from this shitty illness.” Dean jumps from the scaffolding and greets my mom and dad, then he holds his hand out to me for a fist bump. A woman gives him a spray can and paper mask, which he offers to me. “Hey, man. We’ve got a special spot over here for you.”
Mom leans down and whispers, “Told you that you’d want to take that call.”
Dean leads the way, quickly getting lost in the crowd as Dad eases my wheelchair through the tight spaces between bodies. “Did you do this?” Dad asks.
“No.” She smiles down at me. “This was all Dean. Alaska made an impression on everyone she met.”
“Yes, she did.”
“We were really lucky to know her.”
“Yeah,” I sniff back tears.
“But she was lucky too,” Mom says. “She was lucky she had you in her last few months.”
I’m not sure that’s true, but I smile up at my mom anyway because I can’t stand the thought of her seeing the anguish reflected in my gaze. She squeezes my shoulder and I put my hand over hers and squeeze back. I ignore the way her face blanches when she realizes how weak I am.
We finally catch up to Dean and he pulls a sheet off the wall. I glance up at the mural Alaska painted.
It’s of me, and of her. We’re locked in an embrace—I’m a punk-rock angel with bright blue wings tucked in against my back, and she’s a blue-haired queen with a broken crown.
I stand in front of the piece and stare up at the beauty of it. Of her. Of us. Through my tears, it blurs, the colors running together in a neon swirl.
“It’s all yours, man,” Dean says and steps aside. I glance at the wall and then at the people around us—friends, fans, strangers, and loved ones, all gathered for one girl.
My girl.
I put on the mask and shake my can, laughing as the paint forms a bright pink arc on the wall.
I’m exhausted by the time I sit back in my wheelchair, out of breath, and so fucking tired I can barely keep my eyes open, but I do. I watch the people around us create art, and write messages on the walls to a girl who’s gone, but not forgotten.
I glance at my handiwork, so juvenile in comparison to her smooth, even strokes.
Forever.
That’s what I wrote. That’s how long I’ll love her. Even after I’m worm food in the ground.
Forever.
EPILOGUE
STYX
Carissa wheels me back into my hospital room and another nurse helps lift me on the bed. It’s the same room Alaska died in.
I’ve had nightmares ever since they brought me in here, always of the same thing. That fucking castle again, lit up like it was during the fireworks. Only there’s no one there. No park-goers, no staff, no parade—just me and a big fucking castle that I can never reach, no matter how fast I run.
I close my eyes and drift. The shrill beeping of my heart-rate monitor pierces the quiet room. White noise fills my head. Fireworks go off behind my eyelids and I open them to see the sky above lit with dazzling colors: blue, violet, green, pink, and silver. The night glitters with them.
Hello, Disneyland ... again.
Fuck. It’s the same nightmare. I don’t wake up.
A soft feminine giggle wraps itself around me. “Open your eyes, loner boy.”
I squeeze them tightly shut, because this bad dream just became infinitely worse. I can’t see her. I can’t see her and walk away. I can’t go back to a world without her.
Wake up. Wake up, fucker!
When I open my eyes, it’s not to a hospital room. It’s to Alaska, and she’s standing right in front of me.
I inhale sharply. “Stones.”
A slow smile creeps across her full lips. “What took you so long?”
I shake my head, wiping away the tears that sting my eyes with the back of my hand. I reach out and touch her face. Real. She’s real. “What are you doing here?”
“Waiting for you.” She kisses my lips and I kiss her back. Fireworks burst overhead, showering us with starlight. “You should see your face.”
“Am I asleep? Is this a dream?” My breaths are short and sharp, labored. “Oh fuck. I’m dead, aren’t I?”
She studies me with a wistful smile. “Do you feel dead?”
I frown, and stare at my hands on her face. They’re no longer emaciated. I check in mentally with my body. I don’t feel pain, or the morphine clouding my mind. I don’t feel anything but warm and content. Happy. It’s fucking weird. “I don’t know. What am I supposed to feel?”
“I think the term you’re looking for is ... at peace.”
A glimmer of panic slips through me for my parents, for everyone who fought so hard to keep me alive these past few months, and then as quickly as it came, it’s gone again.
“I’m not gonna wake up again, right?”
Stones’ soft smile is mesmerizing. “Right.”
“And you’re really real. You’re really here?”
She grabs my hand and presses it against her chest, over her heartbeat, that’s as strong and steady as it ever was when she was alive. “You tell me.”
My eyes widen. “How is that possible?”
“How is any of this possible?” She throws her arms wide and flings her head back, staring up at the fireworks. They glitter over her skin, shimmering, showering us both with sparks that should hurt, but don’t.
“You’re so fucking beautiful,” I whisper, trailing my fingers over her collarbone, between her breasts just to feel her heartbeat again. An errant strand of her hair tickles my fingers and I gently tug on it. “Your hair grew back.”
She nods. “So did yours.”
I slide my hand over my scalp, expecting skin and finding hair, lots of it, so much that my fingers get tangled.
She laughs. “Come on.” Stones tugs my hand and begins walking, leading me toward the castle. I dig my heels into the pavement. She glances back, her brow furrowed in confusion.
I don’t want to leave. What if this is all a dream, and moving from this spot means I lose her again?
My hand grips hers like a lifeline. I yank her back to me, wrapping my arm around her waist. I press a kiss to her forehead. Please don’t let this be another nightmare.
“We’re gonna be late,” Stones whispers.
“Late for what?”
She grins and presses her lips to mine. “Forever.”
The End
WANT MORE?
Go back to where it all began with an excerpt from
Harley & Rose.
CHAPTER ONE
ROSE
Weddings are a time of joy, of celebration and love. What they’re not supposed to be is miserable. I’d dreamed of this day since
I was five years old, and if you’d asked mini me how I saw it going, spending my time drunk and half-naked while my best friend mourned the death of his relationship in the presidential suite of our hotel was not it.
Granted, I also wouldn’t have been dressed in canary yellow. I wouldn’t have chosen the frangipanis that currently violated the emo-sanctity of this room with their cloying scent and their happy little yellow faces, and I wouldn’t have been sitting beside my best friend as he sobbed into my cleavage after the bitch he intended to marry left him for her Krav Maga instructor five minutes before she was supposed to walk down the aisle.
Okay, so Harley wasn’t sobbing, and it wasn’t as if I just got my boobs out and said, “Here, let my funbags be your comfort in this hour of need.” Yeesh. It was all far more innocent than that. Harley was simply resting his glorious face on my boobs as I stroked his mane of tawny hair back from his face.
Completely innocent.
Still, my best friend’s wedding wasn’t supposed to go like this. I should have been the woman gliding toward him at the altar. I’d be a vision in a blush Vera Wang ball-gown with a draped bodice, a sweetheart neckline, and a tossed tulle skirt. My bouquet would be made up of blush peonies, fat white roses, and a spray of pink astilbe. But best of all, we’d say “I do” in front of our friends and family in a vintage-inspired April afternoon ceremony. There would be an ice cream van on standby for peckish guests, and a four-tiered Glass Slipper Gourmet cake with cascading roses, peonies and hydrangeas delicately draped all over it. We would dance to our favorite Jeff Buckley song—Lilac Wine—under a sea of stars and paper lanterns at the San Francisco Conservatory of Flowers.
Obviously, I’d given a lot of thought to our wedding.
Fortunately for the both of us, this canary yellow monstrosity wasn’t our wedding, and praise be to baby Jesus the Wicked Wench of the West Coast is gone. Unfortunately, Harley isn’t happy about this fact.
Somewhere in my champagne addled brain, I’m completely aware that no good can come of having Harley cry into my cleavage two hours after he was so unceremoniously dumped at the altar, but Drunk Rose doesn’t care that he’s using my boobs in place of a Kleenex.
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