Chapter 14
CHAPTER
FOURTEEN
BEFORE
“Ihave a list of reasons, actually.” I sat cross-legged on the floor in front of him.
My dad took a drag from the joint, chuckling. “You do?”
“Yes, I fucking do.”
“Let’s hear it, then.” He passed it back to me.
I inhaled deep and held up a hand, counting on my fingers. “First off, he played on Nevermind, which is one of the most influential rock albums of all time.”
“Mmhmm.”
“Second, he played every instrument—every fucking instrument—on the Foo Fighters’ debut. He’s been inducted twice into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame. He’s directed and produced documentaries. He’s played with Paul McCartney and Queens of the Stone Age. I could go on forever.”
“And that makes him a better drummer than Phil Collins?” My dad cocked a brow. “Because so far, all I’ve heard is a guy’s résumé, not a reason. Phil shaped the sound of a decade.”
I scoffed. “David created grunge. Smells Like Teen Spirit wouldn’t have hit that hard without him. Plus, he’s an amazing vocalist.”
“Yeah, but could he sing and drum at the same time?”
“Probably!” I said, a little too loudly.
My dad’s throaty laugh filled the room.
“He just doesn’t need to. He’s too busy doing everything—drums, guitar, vocals, producing, directing… Your guy made sad ballads for Disney.”
“And won an Oscar for it,” he deadpanned.
Fine, he might have got me there.
“Federico!”
We both turned to the door.
“Oh, fuck.” I pushed off the floor. “I’ll cover for you. Mouthwash’s in the first drawer.”
He dusted off his pants as he stood, chuckling. “Your mother knows why I smoke, hijo. Don’t sweat it.”
Still, I stepped into the living room ahead of him. I’d been living in this apartment for a little over a month, and the only furniture out here was the couch and a coffee table.
My mother entered like she was walking into a gallery she hadn’t curated. Her eyes flicked from wall to wall, lips tightening. “You should let me decorate.”
“It’s fine. I’ll get to it eventually. I’m hardly ever here anyway.”
She gave my appearance a once-over. “And new clothes.”
I rolled my eyes. “I’m fine, Mom.”
“You look good, though. Lost weight?” She wandered toward the windows. Her heels echoed in the emptiness.
“Yeah, I guess.”
“Is he feeling sick?” Her voice came out smaller than usual, subdued in a way that felt foreign. It caught me off guard.
“The weed helps.”
She nodded, arms folding tight across her chest as she looked out the window.
It was strange to see her like that—quiet, like someone had turned the volume down on her.
She’d been showing up more lately, at least for my dad.
I could see how much it meant to him, how he brightened whenever she entered the room, even if it left me with a tight, sour feeling I didn’t know how to swallow.
They’d flown to LA for a consultation at City of Hope, one of the top cancer centers in the country.
For the past three days, he’d been through a battery of tests.
The big appointment—the one that would tell us what came next—was tomorrow.
They could’ve stayed with me, but my apartment wasn’t exactly her scene. So, a hotel it was.
It worked fine for me. I was supposed to have people over tonight anyway.
“Ready?” my dad asked as he appeared.
He looked…worn.
Thinner than before. His skin had gone pale, the color leached out.
The dark circles under his eyes looked like bruises that never healed, and the lines around his mouth had deepened.
He looked elegant in his tailored suit, but it didn’t fully hide how it sagged on him now, like he was shrinking inside it.
Another round of chemo was probably coming. The last one nearly wrecked him, and he’d been in and out of the hospital. Every time I saw him, it hit me again—how fast this was all happening. How little control any of us had.
“Ready,” my mother said, looping her arm through his.
“The appointment’s at eight, right?” I walked with them to the door.
“Ye—” she began.
“Nine, actually,” my dad cut in. “They called to reschedule.”
“Oh. Okay. See you there.”
The door closed, and that same tight, paralyzing fear gripped my chest. It hit every time I saw him. Every time I thought about him. But this would be fine. City of Hope had experimental treatments. Something had to work. Something would.
My phone buzzed in my pocket. Another text from River. I had run into him the last time I was in the city, for my dad’s birthday, and now he’d been texting me nonstop. I ignored it and walked back into the bathroom.
The light was too bright in here, the mirror too honest. I looked pale. Hollow-eyed. Rolling down my sleeve, I pulled out a small baggie, took a couple of bumps, and tucked it back into the folds of my shirt automatically.
Had to be ready for my guests.
Had to keep going.
The party had gotten a little out of hand.
Someone had brought molly, there was way too much vodka, and by the time I’d managed to kick everyone out, I barely had time to shower and head out for the appointment.
Nothing a little blow couldn’t smooth over.
I popped an antihistamine along with it, just to keep my nose from running the whole time.
The clinic smelled like antiseptic and stale air, thick with the kind of silence that pressed down on your chest. I got there early and took a seat in the waiting area. A loud click sounded from one of the doors, and I looked up just in time to see them walking out of the doctor’s office.
What the fuck?
Frowning, I stood and walked toward them. “Hey, I thought the appointment was at nine?”
My dad smiled and shook his head. “We got here a bit early, and they saw us in. It was a quick one.” He was doing that thing—where his smile didn’t match his eyes.
My mother lingered behind, still speaking to the doctor in hushed tones. Her posture was rigid, her hand tight around her purse strap.
“So what did they say? When are you starting?”
He paused—not long, but enough for my chest to tense. “The tests were better than they thought.”
A jolt of hope shot through me. “Seriously?”
He nodded once. “We’re continuing treatment at home.”
“That’s good news, right? What did the scans show?”
“Sounds like it,” he said. “We’re heading back home tonight. Are you coming with us?”
“I still have a couple of papers to turn in, but I’ll be there if you need me.”
“No,” he replied. “Finish those. Come back after.”
“I’ll be there really soon.”
He gave me another smile—less tight this time.
Finally, some fucking good news for once. Could things finally be getting better?
We went out for lunch. It was quiet, a little awkward, but still nice. My mother didn’t say anything cutting, and my dad and I kept arguing over Phil versus Grohl.
At the restaurant door, just before we said goodbye, my dad pulled me into a hug.
I stood frozen for a second. Sure, we were closer now, but never actually hug-close.
I wrapped my arms around his frail frame and hugged him back.
He was just slightly taller than me, his head leaning next to mine, and the scent of his cologne—that old-man cologne he’d worn his whole life—rose up and caught in my throat.
He tightened his grip and said, “Te amo, hijo. See you soon.”
It hit me hard. Right in the chest. I couldn’t remember if he’d ever said that to me before.
“Same, Dad,” I said, voice tight.
He let go, and my mother gave me a kiss on the cheek as their car pulled up.
I stood there and watched it drive off, dread spreading like poison through every cell in my body. My heart pounded in my temples. My fingertips had gone numb. It wasn’t even that cold out. I fought the urge to be sick and forced myself to breathe.
The tests came back okay. That means he’s getting better, right? Stop thinking the worst is going to happen, Noah. This is good. Take it in. Let yourself believe it.
After all, he wouldn’t lie to me.
Everything was fine.
Exactly four days later, I woke to the insistent buzzing of my phone vibrating across the nightstand. It rattled like it was trying to claw its way into my skull.
The air was thick with stale vodka and sweat as I sat up, head pounding, throat dry. There was someone else in my bed—naked, curled into the sheets like they belonged there. I didn’t look too closely.
The phone kept vibrating.
I stumbled to the bathroom, each step heavy. Inside, I flipped on the light, squinting at the sudden brightness, and grabbed a bump from the baggie on the counter. It burned just enough to make me feel like I could breathe again.
Then I answered without glancing at the screen.
“Noah.” It was my mom, which was weird. She almost never called me.
“Yeah?”
“You need to come home.”
My heart slammed against my ribs and shot straight into my throat. “What is it—Dad? Is he okay?”
“I’ve been calling you all night. We’re at the hospital.
He started feeling sick, and the doctors said his calcium spiked.
I don’t really understand, but he was—he was aggressive and confused, and they had to sedate him…
” Her words tumbled out in a breathless rush, the panic bleeding through every syllable.
Then came the sob. Small. Shaky. “He’s in a coma right now, Noah. You need to come home.”
He’s in a coma right now.
The words didn’t land all at once. They echoed—too big to fit in my head, too heavy to settle anywhere.
“I’m on my way,” I said, though it didn’t sound like me.
I set the phone down on the counter, barely aware of the movement. Slowly, I looked up. My reflection stared back—blank eyes, parted lips. The green was unmistakable. His eyes.
He wasn’t supposed to get worse. The last appointment had been fine. He said it was fine.
He’s in a coma right now.
The world tilted slightly. I grabbed the sink edge to stay upright, heart thudding somewhere in my ears.
What the fuck just happened?