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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 advice 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.
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