I should find another apartment, a different set of roommates. Moving out sounds great right now.
“You were in his room. With him. Beau Grady’s room is a good as—”
“Don’t finish that. You’ll only hate yourself for saying it later,” she says.
I shut my mouth.
“He was showing me his comics, Matt. Like he told you five thousand times last night.”
“But why together? Why did you have to be the one in his room?”
“I sent you a text to meet us outside, and you never responded. I couldn’t find you inside, so Beau suggested I wait for you here since I was worried. We were about to head back since it was so late. We were really worried.”
Aubrey says this so smoothly, so calmly that my anger rushes to the surface and bursts.
I toss my arms into the air, no words left.
She rips the hair elastic out of her drooping ponytail and quickly ties her hair into a topknot, her eyes trained on me while she paces in front of my closet. “Since you moved here, I’m nothing more than background noise.”
I don’t know what to say, but I can tell she’s hurt. The knot in my stomach triples. “I came out here to get an art degree, to get a good internship. To straighten things out and be focused. I don’t have time.”
“No,” she says, shaking her head. “You came out here to live this full life, but you’re hiding. You’ve been hiding since you moved into this house. You work and go to school and that’s it. The world is bigger than you, Matt.”
Her words sting. A lot.
“I can’t do everything. I try…”
“You came to Portland because you wanted to escape your parents, because whether you want to admit it or not, you’re miserable. You came here to focus, but I think you’re really here because you’re lost and you’re searching for something better.”
I pick at my comforter, ignoring the way she’s knowingly looking at me, her hands on her hips. The closest thing to a response I give is a shrug.
“He asked about you. Beau likes you, Matt. A lot.” She creeps closer to my bed, then sinks down beside me, laying her head against my shoulder. “Sometimes we’ll grow apart, sometimes we’ll fight, sometimes you’ll ditch me for a guy or I’ll ditch you for whoever I’m seeing, and that’s how it’ll be.”
I twist around so I can face her, my face masked with mocking shock. “That’s against girl code.”
The two of us fall back onto the bed, staring up at the butterflies hanging from the ceiling. The rush from our movements sends them flying about, some crashing, others twisting until they’re tangled. But the rest float about, a gentle swaying that calms me down.
Aubrey grabs my hand and links our pinkies together, then blows into her fist. It was the best two six-year-olds could come up with for a secret handshake. “You’re my best friend, and I’ve loved you through everything. We still have too much on our list to check off for you to abandon me now.”
“Ugh, I was a bitch, wasn’t I?”
I give her credit—she pauses at least for before she answers. “A bit, yeah.”
“What is wrong with me?” I ask. “Put me out of my misery, knock me out.”
“It’s not just him, is it?” Aubrey wraps me up in her arms and soothes me, running her hand over my hair. It’s so motherly, and yet something my own mother never did. My breathing evens, and the lump in my throat finally begins to dissolve.
It has a lot to do with Beau, but my life is bigger than my annoying roommate. “It’s everything. You’re right. Portland was a mistake.”
“When were you going to tell me?”
“I wasn’t,” I say quickly. It’s the truth. I have been so focused on what I came here to do that I forgot the rest. “It’s all gone too far now. I have a phone interview for the internship with Aiden McKenna next week. I don’t know how to stop it.”
“Well, first, you need to wash your face because you look like a washed-up lounge singer,” she says with a small laugh. I frown. “Second, a wardrobe change is in order.”
“No more social events for me. I have work to do.”
Aubrey rolls off the bed and struts over to my bureau, ignoring me. She tosses a pair of jeans and sweatshirt at my face. “It’s the movies for us, hot thing. Everyone knows when you’re lost you should go to the movies.”
I grab my towel, then rush up and hug her. “I’m sorry.”
“Get off of me, freak.” She steers me to the door. “I’m sorry, too.”
I pause. “And Beau?”
“That’s your path, your decision.”
I scrunch my face in a pout. “Not helpful.”
“He’s your roommate, Matt. Bad things happen when you start sleeping with a roommate. But everyone can see you’re both crazy about each other.”
“He’s a jerk most of the time.” He’s trouble to me, but not like everyone thinks.
“Mostly. I think he’s misunderstood some, too.”
“Don’t excuse his behavior and make it okay.”
She shakes her head. “I’m not. He deserves to be called out on it, but I think he’s making an effort with you. And that’s something at least.” Aubrey shoves me out the door toward the bathroom. “Get your ass in the shower so we can make the next movie. I have a date tonight, and I’m not going to be late because of you.”
I flip her off as I shuffle into the bathroom. I glance over my shoulder at her, then to Beau’s closed bedroom door once more. Why didn’t I want to believe him last night?
The knot in my chest tightens.
I know why, and it’s trouble.
Beau
Mati blew up at me, and then my body did, too. I had to use my crutches to reach the frat house, and since I stepped into Noah’s room two days ago, I haven’t been able to walk out. I can’t feel my feet. My hands and arms are numb. I can’t see for shit. And I’m in so much fucking pain, I’d drive my bike off a cliff if I could drive.
“You smell like a fucking dumpster, dude,” Noah announces when he opens his door, back from class.
“I feel like shit,” I grumble. “So not surprised.” I keep my eyes closed, stay still. That’s all I can do when this happens. That and fucking pray it’s not going to last as long the first time.
Noah shuts his bedroom door, takes a few steps toward the bed, and collapses into his desk chair. “You can’t hide out here anymore. You’ve got your own place now, your own bed.”
I open one eye and try to focus on him. He’s blurry. His white T-shirt and the giant black dot at his throat marking his tattoo are the only things I can make out.
“And if you’re as fucked as I think you are,” he continues, “you have to get to hospital.”
With everything I have left, I raise my hand and flip him off.
“You’re a shithead,” he mumbles. I hear him strike his keyboard hard enough to snap it in two. “Then call Reagan.”
His anger breaks through my fog, and I’m able to reach the surface for a minutes. “Fuck, no.”
I’m not calling my ex to deal with this shit again. Once was enough. And the last thing I want to do is call my parents. I’ll be back home and checked into the hospital in Vancouver in no time. And I can kiss everything goodbye after that. My mother will lock me up and coddle me. I’ll be stuck in Port Hardy.
“I can’t go back there.” My voice croaks, feels heavy like everything else. I attempt to roll over, but I stay stuck.
“I’ll dump you off at the hospital or the apartment, your choice, but you can’t stay here anymore.”
I fumble for my phone on the mattress and curse, trying to get my finger to follow the zigzag line to unlock it.
“Let me—”
“I have it,” I snap. “It’s my fucking phone, and I can do it myself.”
I miss her colors. I miss that soft laugh, those red lips. I had to open my mouth and ask Aubrey if Mati was serious about that other guy. The musician.
I’ve been stuck stewing over my mista
kes, obsessing over what I should have done instead of running from Mati. But then I remember I’m stuck in Noah’s bed and haven’t showered in four days. I can’t get up, can’t even piss without help. When Noah brought up the subject of having to go to the hospital for a catheter this morning, I wanted to jump out the frat house window. Best friend or not, I don’t need him as my nurse. I don’t need Reagan involved. I don’t need my parents.
Except I might. And I hate that.
“I can’t…” My voice dies in my throat. “I don’t know if she’s called. I can’t tell.” The phone trembles in my hand, and it’s hard to focus, harder to get my damn fingers to cooperate.
“She hasn’t.” Noah spins in his chair, his arms folded.
I try to throw the phone, then awkwardly tumble out of the bed, landing on the floor like a ton of smashed concrete barriers. Heavy and broken. “Fuck.”
“Are you done?” Noah asks. “Doing whatever it is you’re doing.”
I can’t get up if I wanted to. And I do. He looks like a badass, but Noah’s the biggest pussy there is. It’s an act. All of it. On a better day, I could kick his ass.
“Fuck you, Noah. Fuck you and all this shit. I’m done.”
I shut my eyes and think of better days—of pro scouts at my games, my scholarship to Sutton, a girlfriend. I think about how I used to be able to get up and take a shower and get dressed, run to class if I needed to. I think about how walking across the stage for my diploma hadn’t seemed so impossible.
“What I should do is let you stay on the floor, but Emma might stop by later, so that’s not happening. You know what else isn’t happening?”
I pop one eye open, not sitting up, not moving.
“This fucking pity party of yours. You’re sick, Beau. You can hide here and try to ignore it, or you can get your ass to the fucking hospital and maybe you can walk in a few weeks. But if you can’t, the world won’t end either.”
Maybe it won’t, but it’ll sure as hell still be different than the life I had ahead of me two years ago. Those words are easy for to say, not so easy for me accept.
Noah bends down and grabs my phone, unlocking it for me.
“She hasn’t called?” I ask.
“No.” He shows me the home screen void of a text or email from her. Noah reaches down for me next, hauling my body up so I’m back on his bed. “You like her, right?”
I stare at the ceiling, the answer swelling inside my chest. Mati always swirls me up into tangles and knots. I could get caught up in that beautiful, powerful storm if I don’t watch myself. Hurricane Mati. She could take the foundation out from beneath me, bowl me over, and bury me dead.
Yes, I fucking want her.
“She’s never going to want me,” I say, my words slurred. I try to picture the rest of the words in my mind because I feel everything sort of float away. “Not like this.”
“You’re counting her out before you’re even giving her a chance,” Noah says.
It takes a lot of effort, but I turn my head to stare him down again. I’m tired, and I just want to sleep. If I could communicate telepathically, that’d be great. I nod, my breathing growing shallow.
“I have enough shit to deal with. Be my friend, Beau. Stop pissing in my bed and fucking take care of yourself.”
The world grows fuzzy, thoughts heavy and spinning. My body is buzzing, like I’m trapped in an electric chair and the room’s burning. I don’t know how long it takes me to finally say it, but I do. “I miss her.”
Noah calls my neurologist, and I’m checked into the hospital an hour later.
***
I swear the quickest way to feel old is to be physically stuck in bed, watching shitty daytime TV. In between naps and extreme boredom, I’ve learned more than I’ve wanted to know about insurance scams and losing that pesky baby weight.
I’m stuck in hell.
“Oh, you’re awake. Great.” My day nurse, Linda, is very perky.
“Yep.” I press my lips in a tight line, so pissed off with the world I’m afraid I’m going to take it out on the middle-aged woman sneaking me extra orange juice.
“The doctor’s going to be in shortly.” She leans over me, checking my vitals. “We’ll try to get you up in a bit. Maybe your mom can take you for a walk down the hall if you think you’re up for it.”
I bite down on my lip so hard blood seeps into my mouth. It mixes with the metallic taste of the medicine they’re pumping into my veins. “Sure,” I choke out finally.
She’s gone before I have to lie anymore.
My cell is resting in my lap, no phone calls from anyone except Noah. Reagan called once, but I told her I couldn’t talk. It’s killing me not to ask about Mati, but so far, I’ve kept her out of this. I don’t want her to know. I’m pretty sure she hates my guts anyway.
I do have someone else to call. Someone else who is going to be just as hard to lie to, but it’ll help to hear her voice. Maybe that’s selfish, I don’t know.
Quinn answers after the first ring. “Beau?”
I rest back against the itchy bedsheets. I really fucking hate the hospital. “Hey there, pissant. How are you?”
“What’s wrong?”
I can hear the busy streets of Vancouver in the background—the traffic, the crowds rushing by. “Nothing’s wrong. Wanted to say hi.”
My sister’s answering sigh might be more than overdramatic, but it doesn’t take away the sting of what follows. “I know Mom is with you at the hospital, Beau. I can handle it.”
“Sounds like you’re downtown,” I say, ignoring the punch she dealt me. “You didn’t get suspended again, I hope.”
“Ha-ha.” A bell jingles in the background. “Way to ignore the obvious,” she says, her voice much quieter.
Curiosity wins. “Where are you?”
“I’m saving up to come see you. I work at a coffee shop downtown after school now.”
“Quinn.” My voice breaks. “I can buy you a ticket. I’m coming up soon anyway—”
“And I can work,” she cuts in. “I have to go. My shift is starting. Can’t be late.”
“Yeah, sure.”
My mom walks in, her face lighting up when she sees me sitting up in bed. The Grady women are going to kill me.
“I’m glad you’re at the hospital. I know you don’t want to be there, but it… I want you to be better,” Quinn says.
I don’t want to admit how sick I am. I was a fucking champ at pretending I was fine this summer. But maybe if I hadn’t ignored the signs of my relapse for as long as I have, I wouldn’t have ended up in this bed. I wouldn’t have had to endure the lecture from my parents and doctor about being responsible.
“I know.” I grip the blanket, trying to force my hand to pull it tighter into my fist, but it slips out of my weak grasp. I can’t say I’m fine because that’s a lie. For now, at least. “I’ll see you soon, pissant. Love you.”
As if I didn’t already hate myself, the disappointment that swamps me when I hang up and meet my mother’s teary stare is enough to ask for the perky nurse to give me something to knock me out until my body decides to work again.
The doctor comes in, luckily saving me from having to comfort my mother. I’m no good at that. I never know what to say without sounding like a selfish bastard.
“You’ve got a stubborn body,” the doctor says. “I’ve talked with your other neurologist in Vancouver. We’re going to try a new medication today. You’re going to bounce back from this relapse, Beau. This isn’t going to be the one that marks the end of walking for you. The relapses you’re experiencing are more aggressive than I’d like to see with a relapse-remitting diagnosis, but your symptoms aren’t progressing after each recovery. This disease is different with each patient, so we’ll just need to keep monitoring you and manage those roadblocks when they happen.”
I should care what he says. I should be patient and listen, but this unfamiliar rage consumes me. I’m stuck here in a hospital bed, catheterized, hooked
up to IVs, medicine pumping through me while my mother sits by my bedside. My mother, as though I’m a little boy again. Helpless.
Two years ago, I had the whole world in front of me, my whole life to live. And now here I am. I can’t fucking walk. I can’t even take a piss. I have to have someone hold my juice to drink because my hand can’t curl around a cup.
How do I recover from this and pretend that I’m fine and the world’s okay and life’s fair? Because life isn’t fucking fair. And why the fuck do I have to like Mati so much?
“Are you listening, Beau?” my mother asks.
I nod but pull my gaze away to stare at the faded curtain circling my bed. I don’t even have a window. The other guy has it. The one who’s eighty-something and might be dying. I’m stuck with him. I can’t shake the icy chill that rakes my body, the same one that swells and sweeps over me whenever I think back to waiting in the oncologist office when all of this started.
It’s not fun to be in a waiting room full of old, fragile people who are closer to dying than they are to living.
“…you’re going to feel worse the next two days, but I think this cocktail of drugs will be enough to get you out of here after that. As long as you don’t have any adverse reactions.” The doctor shuffles through the papers on his clipboard, then taps it over the thick plastic of the hospital bed, drawing my attention. “If you’re willing to put in the work and be proactive, I think we can hold off that walker, that wheelchair, that future you are trying not to freak out about right now.”
I’m supposed to have time before that happens. My primary neurologist said I could be seventy before things ever start to truly south for me and my body.
I don’t know who to believe anymore, not even myself.
What I want to say back to the doctor isn’t appropriate, not with my mom in the room. I nod, not looking away.
“What I’m saying is, Beau, you have a choice here. You can let this disease win and stop living, or you can accept that it’s not going away and live the life you do have.”
It’s not the life I want. It’s nothing close to the one I imagined for myself. I guess that’s something we all have to deal with when we finally grow up.
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