12. Sydney
Early-onset Alzheimer’s.
The words out of the doctor’s mouth this afternoon have been at the forefront of my mind for several excruciating hours now. While I’m definitely inebriated enough to make the edges of my world blurry, I’m apparently not drunk enough to block the words out like I hoped it would.
We knew this diagnosis was likely, but nothing could prepare me for the blow it would bring to actually hear the words out loud. It was a gut punch straight to my core that felt both heavy enough to cement me to the floor but also left me with an indescribable urge to run. It didn’t matter where to; I just needed to get away from it all as fast as possible.
Which I did as soon as we got out to the parking lot and Mom urged me to go. She’s always known that I need space to process big news in my own way. The fact that she acknowledged it and selflessly supported me in this way, especially in a moment like this, somehow made the grief—and guilt—even worse.
I came straight out to Rayna’s field, an entire hour earlier than anyone else, which explains why I’m currently a few too many beers deep, sitting on the trunk of my car, watching people just now starting to arrive.
As the cars drive across the field one by one, I mindlessly repeat the diagnosis in my head and zero in on the way the buzz of the alcohol is almost comforting—how it takes away some of the sharpness of the sting.
An entire hour passes, and eventually, the fire is roaring to life and rambunctious voices fill the air. All the while, I’ve barely moved a muscle. Firmly planted in place, I’ve been watching it all happen through a hazy blur.
“All by yourself again, I see.”
I recognize the voice immediately without needing to turn my head, and the quiet intensity in it seems to have the same effect as the alcohol. Another wave of warmth courses through me as I turn my head to watch Cole slowly inching his way toward my car.
His hands are tucked into the pockets of his jeans, and he has the hood of his sweatshirt pulled over his head. It takes me a few seconds to find his gaze now that the sky is pitch black around him and my vision is this unclear.
“Yeah, my friends ditched me,” I say against the mouth of the can before taking another sip.
Truthfully, I’m happy Laura and Jimmy both have dates tonight. I want them to enjoy their evenings without worrying about me, which is exactly why I didn’t tell either of them about Mom’s official diagnosis yet. I can already picture their looks of pity clear as day. There’ll be plenty of time for that later.
“Where’d you come from?” I ask, feeling proud of myself for not slurring my words—at least I hope I didn’t.
“Bait shop.”
I rest my drink on my thigh and give him the smallest hint of a smirk.
“For what it’s worth, you don’t smell like worms…at least not from here.”
For a split second, the way he presses his lips together to stifle a full-blown smile sends something brand new down my core. Something other than heartbreak and grief. Something I think I want more of.
“Are you going to hover over there all night, or do you want to sit with me?” I tap the metal trunk beside me in invitation.
He rolls his lips. “I’m still trying to figure out if you want me to. To be honest, you’re giving off a pretty intense ‘don’t mess with me’ vibe.”
I huff.
“It’s been a day. Come on,” I say simply, smiling to myself as he stalks closer, enjoying the dip of my car when he climbs on.
He shifts, and the solid warmth of his body as it settles next to mine gives me something tangible to focus on—a beacon in the midst of this storm I’m in.
“You want to talk about it?” he asks quietly.
As I inhale, I consider how that makes me feel, what it would feel like to open up to him. Aside from a few rumors and chatter around town, nobody knows my mom’s official diagnosis yet. I give that all of an entire day to last. A diagnosis like this is big news that’s sure to spread like wildfire once it’s out. I already dread the looks of pity and stares we’ll inevitably get at every corner, and if I could somehow keep anyone else from finding out, I would.
But at the same time—as inexplicable as it sounds—in this moment, it feels okay to exist in a world where Cole knows. I clear my throat, mustering enough courage.
“You know the phrase ‘fight, flight, or freeze’?” I ask quietly, staring over at the flames of the fire.
“Yeah.” I can see the dip of his hoodie-clad head in my peripheral vision.
I sigh. “I’m pretty sure I’m a flight kind of person.”
He waits quietly, doing nothing but pushing his hands into the front pocket of his sweatshirt.
“My mom was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s today.” Saying the words out loud feels like a sharp knife in my side, and I struggle to inhale a steady breath.
“I’m sorry,” he says so quietly I’m not even positive he said it out loud.
When tears start to prickle at my eyes, I clear my throat, immediately gaining composure.
No .
I don’t want to go down this road right now. I can’t.
“I don’t want to talk about it.” I shake my head. “Quick, distract me.”
“Go on a date with me,” he blurts out.
“What?’ I snap my head to him, wondering if I heard him correctly or if the alcohol has officially become a terrible idea.
The outline of his face is a tad fuzzy as my head swims, but I pick up on something behind his stare that keeps my eyes glued to his. A vulnerability that I latch onto with all my might. It’s a shared moment between us that ignites a flurry of new emotions somewhere deep inside of me.
A bearing of souls. An understanding. A validation of sorts that I’m instantly consumed by.
“Go on a date with me,” he repeats, firmly this time.
“Okay,” I whisper immediately, as if the words are pulled impulsively from somewhere deep inside.
He stares, his brows creasing together, a question on his face. There’s a slight hesitation before he drops his gaze to my lips and inches slowly closer.
Air gets stuck in my throat and my heart beats rapidly. I respond by boldly closing the rest of the gap between us, pressing my mouth gently to his.
All at once, I’m completely consumed. It’s not entirely clear to me whether these butterflies are real or if my brain is tricking me into latching onto—and fueling—anything that might cause a distraction right now. Either way, I can’t seem to get enough.
I twist my torso, slipping my hand inside his hoodie, cradling the base of his neck. He runs a warm palm up my outer thigh, settling at the very top of it.
The kiss is overwhelming in the simplest of ways. It’s gentle. It’s pure. And it’s life-giving to me in this moment.
When he gently pulls away, I flutter my eyelids open and bite my lip as I process this newfound feeling. The corner of his lip curves up into a slow smile, and I mimic it with one of my own.
Words don’t come to mind—for either of us, it seems—as he presses the side of his body against mine. A silent show of support.
We quietly watch the fire as I sip my drink. Eventually, the world starts to spin a little too fast and a little too out of control.
“I need to go,” I announce, hopefully in a casual way, but in this state, I’m not entirely sure.
My foot snags on the bumper of my car as I attempt to climb off, and suddenly Cole is directly in front of me, holding me steady.
“Whoa, easy there,” he says.
“I’m okay,” I mumble, struggling to find my footing as the world spins around me.
“How much did you have to drink?” he asks, keeping his grip strong. He asks the question so quietly that I’m going to assume he’s asking himself and not actually me.
I can’t seem to form words anymore, so I stay quiet, allowing myself to slump against him as he wraps his arm around my waist to hold me up.
“Come on, let’s get you home.”
The sound of tires rolling against gravel faintly registers in my dream state. Then the brush of a cool wind against my cheek causes my eyelids to flutter open, waking me from a deep sleep.
It takes a few more seconds to push through the brain fog to become aware of where I actually am. The soft cushion of the front porch swing shifts as I sit upright, a wool blanket falling off my shoulders. My head throbs with a pounding headache, and my stomach feels uneasy.
With a groan, I close my eyes again as vague memories from last night shuffle through my head. The doctor’s office. The field party. The beers. The way the world was going blurry at the edges.
The interaction with Cole, though—and the kiss—is clear as day, and butterflies swarm my stomach at the memory of it. From the kiss on, the night gets fuzzier, but I vaguely remember bits and pieces of Cole driving me home in my car and tucking me in on the porch swing.
Ugh. How embarrassing.
“Did you sleep there?” Graham asks from the driveway, slamming his truck door shut.
“I guess so,” I croak, my throat feeling scratchy.
“You’re looking like a ray of sunshine this morning.” His voice is teasing in a gentle way.
I rub my eyes with my knuckle. “Look who’s talking. You’re just getting home.”
“I slept at the lodge with Mom and Dad last night, actually.”
“Oh.” A twinge of guilt hits me. I should have been there with them.
He gestures for me to move my legs out of the way before lowering next to me onto the swing. Then he slowly rocks us with his foot.
“Oh, don’t swing, please,” I whisper, bringing a hand to my head. I can feel his eyes on me as I blink through the blur, barely noting an eagle that flies over the river behind the house.
“How are you feeling about everything?” he asks gently.
“Obviously not great,” I admit.
To his credit, he doesn’t try to invalidate or rationalize my feelings. He only nods, running his hand through his hair as his own shoulders slump.
I shift my feet to the side so I can lay my head on his shoulder, taking comfort in knowing at least there’s one other person in this world who knows what this feels like. Who knows how much losing Mom hurts.
As we swing in silence, I contemplate how our lives are about to change. The doctor said every patient progresses with the disease at their own pace, and there’s no true timeline. It could be slow and steady over the course of years, or it could happen rapidly. The unknown of it all is one of the hardest parts. How am I supposed to prepare for something if I don’t know exactly when and how it will happen?
“You know I’m here if you want to talk about anything,” Graham says quietly.
“I know.” I offer a sad smile.
“We’ll get through it together.” He nudges me with his elbow in a supportive-big-brother kind of way that I appreciate. A crushing heaviness threatens to blanket me, and for a few moments, I like the way it feels when I let it.
When a text message notification dings from somewhere under the pillow, I slide a hand underneath to find my phone.
Laura : Meet for coffee?
Sydney : Sure, give me twenty.
The uneasiness deepens, knowing that I plan to tell Laura about the diagnosis. I guess this morning will mark the beginning of everything changing—more accurately, the outside world changing the way it treats us.
Our world changed yesterday.
“I’m going to get cleaned up,” I tell Graham as I climb off the swing. “We’ll chat later?”
“You bet.”
I hold his stare, a moment passing between us that doesn’t involve words but says enough about the support we’re willing to provide for each other.
Then I head inside to change.