Chapter 27
SAM
The chant starts before I even get the keg fully in my hands.
"Drink! Drink! Drink! Drink!"
The red cup is shoved aside. Someone tilts the keg for me. Foam hits my lips and I don't even hesitate. I tip my head back and let it pour, cold and bitter and way too much, but I keep swallowing because the louder they get, the less I can hear anything else.
The beer is sliding down my throat in a rush that makes my eyes water, but I don't stop. I can't stop. The crowd around me is a blur of faces, their voices merging into one thunderous chant: "Drink! Drink! Drink!"
Their energy feeds something hollow inside me, fills the spaces where hope used to live. So I drink. I drink until my lungs burn for air and my stomach threatens revolt, because for these few precious moments, I can forget my problems.
I hear Willow's high-pitched squeal cutting through the noise, her excitement a physical thing. Khol's deeper voice booms, "Go, Sam, go!" Their approval is a strange comfort, warm and undeserved.
My chest heaves when someone finally yanks the keg back and the whole room explodes. I bend over, coughing once, then straighten up dramatically, wiping the beer off my chin with the back of my hand like I'm some kind of frat-house gladiator. Beer trickles from the corners of my mouth, down my chin, soaking into the collar of my sweater. I don't care.
The crowd erupts into applause, and I throw my hands up, waving like I've just won an award. Like this meaningless moment is something to be proud of.
"Ladies and gentlemen," Willow announces, throwing her arm around my shoulders, "I present to you the one, the only, Samurai Sam!" She kisses my cheek, smearing her lip gloss across my skin. "Slaying kegs like they're her mortal enemies!"
I laugh, wiping beer from my face with the back of my hand. "That's a terrible nickname."
"It's perfect," Khol says, slinging his arm over my other shoulder so I'm sandwiched between them. His body is warm, solid. "Remember when you couldn't even finish a beer without making that scrunched-up face? Like someone was forcing you to drink liquid garbage?"
"I did not make a face," I protest, but we all know I did.
"You absolutely did," Willow says. "Like this." She contorts her face into an exaggerated grimace that looks nothing like me.
"That was, what, just two months ago?" Khol says, giving me a little shake. "What happened to that innocent little Sam? She's been replaced by this... this... keg-slaying monster."
"She's evolving. I'm so proud." Willow declares, grabbing my hand. Her fingers are cool and slick with sweat or spilled drinks or both. "And now, Samurai Sam needs to show these losers how it's done on the dance floor."
"Wait—" But it's too late. Willow is already dragging me away from Khol, toward the mass of bodies moving in the center of the room. The football house is massive but it still feels too small for the number of people crammed inside. Bodies press against mine from all sides as Willow pulls me deeper into the crowd.
I'm a regular here now. At this house, at several frat and sorority houses. Anywhere actually, as long as there's free booze and music loud enough to drown out my thoughts. Four parties this week. Football house tonight. Some frat with Greek letters I don't even remember on Monday. Club downtown on Wednesday.
I'm everywhere.
I swear I'm more popular than Zach these days. I've probably met half the campus in under seven days. People shout my name when I walk in now. Someone fist-bumps me like I'm one of the guys.
The music pounds through the floorboards, up my legs, into my chest. It's too loud to think, and that's exactly how I want it. My body moves fluidly, my hands raised above my head, my face tilted toward the ceiling and let myself go. I throw my hands up and let my body surrender to the music, riding the wave of beer and chemical bliss that pulses through me.
But then I hear it. Even through the wall of sound, even through the alcohol haze beginning to blur the edges of my vision, I hear Dr. Wilcott's voice as clearly as if she were standing right next to me.
Your cancer is back, Sam.
I close my eyes, move my hips more frantically, as if I could physically shake the memory away.
Your cancer is back, Sam.
I grit my teeth, spinning in a circle, feeling the room tilt dangerously. No. Not now. Not here.
Your cancer is back, Sam.
I dance harder. Faster. Sweat trickles down my spine, plasters my hair to my forehead. I'm vaguely aware of Willow watching me with a mixture of surprise and approval.
"Damn, girl!" she shouts over the music. "When did you get so good at this?"
I don't answer. Can't answer. I'm too busy fighting the voice in my head, the one that refuses to be silenced.
Your cancer is back. Your cancer is back. YOUR.CANCER.IS.BACK.
The phrase loops endlessly, a broken record scratching away at the inside of my skull. I wince, feel my face crumple for a split second before I force it back into a mask of carefree abandon. Dance harder. Move faster. Don't stop. Don't think.
Yes, I lied to Zach. Lied right to my brother's face.
Told him I was cancer-free when the opposite was true. The memory of his face when I fed him that lie is almost as painful as Dr. Wilcott's words. The hope that bloomed in his eyes, the way his shoulders relaxed. The smile—God, his smile. Like I'd handed him his life back.
How could I take that away from him? How could I tell him that after everything—after watching me fight this thing twice already—that we were back at square one? That it might be worse this time? That his little sister might not—
No. I can't go there. Won't go there.
The music changes, something with a heavier beat. I welcome it, let it move through me, use it to push away the thoughts I can't bear to face. Around me, bodies jump and sway, caught in their own worlds of momentary pleasure. Do any of them have secrets like mine? Are any of them dancing to forget that they're dying?
Because that's what I'm doing, isn't it? Dying. Again. For the third fucking time.
I just started living. That's the part that keeps catching in my throat, making it hard to breathe. I just started feeling normal. Classes, friends, parties. The mundane miracle of being twenty years old and healthy. Or so I thought.
Now it feels like the world has shifted back to black after I'd just discovered color. Like I'm being dragged back into that suffocating darkness, that endless black abyss where there's nothing but hospital corridors and the antiseptic smell of slow death and the beeping of machines counting down whatever time I have left.
I dance until my legs ache, until my lungs burn, until sweat soaks through my shirt. I dance because it's the only thing keeping me from screaming.
By the time I stumble back to my dorm, the world is spinning in lazy, nauseating circles. I'm not sure what time it is—late, definitely. One, two in the morning? It doesn't matter. Time is a luxury I can't afford to track anymore.
My fingers fumble with my keycard, swiping it clumsily against the electronic pad. The light flashes red once, twice, three times before finally turning green with a soft beep that seems to echo in the empty hallway. The door swings open, and I step into the darkness of my room, swaying like I'm still on the dance floor.
I try to be quiet—Caroline has rehearsal early tomorrow, and she needs her sleep—but my coordination is shot to hell. My keychain slip from my fingers, clattering against the hardwood floor.
"Shit," I mutter, bending down to retrieve them.
The movement sends my head spinning, and I have to catch myself against the wall. When I straighten, I try to hang my purse on the hook mounted by the wall, but I miss completely. The purse knocks off Caroline's jacket and bag, sending everything tumbling to the floor in a heap.
"Oh shoot... fuck... fuck..." The words slur together in my mouth, foreign and thick.
The light flicks on, momentarily blinding me. I blink against the sudden brightness, and Caroline's sleep-rumpled form comes into focus. Her hair is mussed on one side, her eyes puffy with interrupted sleep.
"Sammy?" she calls, her voice rough with sleep.
I feel a pang of guilt, quickly buried under a wave of artificial cheer. "Heyyyy... s-sorry I didn't mean to wake you up..." I give her my best attempt at a disarming grin, but my face feels numb and uncooperative. "Go back to sleep," I whisper, moving toward my bed with unsteady steps.
Caroline is at my side in an instant, her hand on my elbow to steady me. I'm grateful for the support, even as I hate needing it. The room is too hot suddenly, the alcohol making my skin flush. I shrug out of my jacket, letting it fall to the floor, uncaring.
She studies me, her brow furrowed. The concern in her eyes is too much to bear, so I look away, focusing on the task of removing my boots without falling over.
"Sam," she says after a moment, her voice hesitant. "Is everything okay? You've been going out every night, coming home like this... I'm worried about you."
A giggle bubbles up from my chest, surprising even me. I don't know why I'm laughing. Nothing is funny. Nothing has been funny for days. But I can't stop the strange, hollow sound from escaping.
I turn to her, flashing a thumbs up. "All good! Partying is just... it's so much fun, you know? You should come sometime. There was this guy tonight who did a backflip off the kitchen table and landed in a split. Didn't even spill his beer! And Willow, she was teaching everyone this dance move where you—"
"Sam," Caroline interrupts, her voice gentle but firm. "You know you can always talk to me, right? About anything." She sits on the edge of my bed, patting the space beside her. I sit because standing has become too complicated.
"Your brother and I are starting to get worried about you. Does it have to do with Elijah?"
My eyes drop to the floor before I can stop them. Just hearing his name out loud feels like someone pressed on a bruise I've been pretending isn't there.
I miss him.
God, I miss him so much.
But I've been so swallowed by so much sadness and denial that I haven't had the strength to go looking for him. I don't trust myself to.
Because what if I see him and he just walks past me like I'm nothing. I don't think I could take that right now.
Facing the possibility of chemo again is already ripping me open from the inside. It's more than I know how to carry. And if I go to Eli and he does what he always does—walks away and leaves me staring at his back—I don't think I'll have the strength to pretend I'm okay.
I feel my wobbly grin falter, feel the tears spring to my eyes before I can stop them. One moment I'm sitting there, the next I'm sobbing—ugly, hiccupping cries that tear out of me like they've been waiting for permission.
Caroline doesn't hesitate. Her arms wrap around me, pulling me against her chest. I bury my face in her shoulder, my body shaking with the force of my grief. She holds me tightly, one hand rubbing gentle circles on my back, murmuring soft words I can't quite make out.
I want to tell her.
The words crowd in my throat, desperate to be released. I need to tell someone, anyone, because carrying this alone is crushing me. My chest feels like it might explode with the pressure of this secret, this terrible truth that's reshaping my entire existence.
But I can't. Saying it makes it real.
Saying it means acknowledging that it's happening again, that the nightmare I thought I'd escaped has returned. And I'm not ready. I'm still stuck in denial, still bargaining with a universe that doesn't seem to be listening.
So I cry instead. I cry for the life I almost had, for the girl I almost got to be. I cry for Zach, for Mom, for the future that's slipping through my fingers like sand. And Caroline holds me through it all, her embrace the only thing keeping me from falling completely apart.
*****
The alarm blares like a five-alarm fire in my ear, jolting me from a dream about dancing pineapples—don't ask, tequila does weird things to my subconscious. I fumble for my phone. The time glares back at me: 9:47. Class is starting in freaking ten minutes.
And not just any class—Professor Percy's Ethics class. The one professor on campus who treats tardiness like a capital offense worthy of public execution.
Shit. Shit. Shit.
My stomach lurches, and I'm not sure if it's the hangover or the dread. Probably both.
"Oh, you've really done it this time, Sam!" I groan, untangling myself from sheets. My head pounds with the rhythm of last night's bass line, a not-so-gentle reminder that downing shots at the football house party was perhaps the worst decision my brain cells have ever collectively made. The guys had chanted "one more" way past the point of reason, and like an idiot, I'd obliged.
I stumble to the bathroom, nearly tripping over my discarded jeans. The mirror reveals a tragedy: bloodshot eyes, hair defying gravity in ways that would make Einstein rethink his theories, and a suspicious stain on my cheek that might be pizza sauce or—God forbid—someone else's lipstick. I squint at my reflection.
"You, Sam Westbrook, are a disaster," I tell myself. "A hungover, late-to-class, soon-to-be-publicly-humiliated disaster."
The shower is a blur of cold water and frantic shampooing. I've never performed personal hygiene at such velocity—it's like I'm setting a world record for the hundred-meter shower dash.
Somewhere in the back of my throbbing head, I'm composing potential excuses for Percy. Family emergency? Car trouble? Temporary amnesia? None of them will work. The man has a built-in lie detector that puts the FBI to shame.
I've witnessed the Percy Protocol for tardiness at least a dozen times this month alone. Just last week, he made Emma Daniels stand in front of everyone and explain that she was late because she "got distracted watching cat videos." The class laughed. Percy didn't. Emma looked like she wanted to dissolve into the floorboards.
And now, that's about to be me.
After yanking on relatively clean jeans and a sweatshirt that doesn't smell like a brewery, I grab my backpack and sunglasses. The sunglasses are non-negotiable—not as a fashion statement, but as a survival tool. My eyes feel like they're being stabbed by the morning light, which seems unusually vindictive today.
The walk across campus is a gauntlet of too-bright sunshine and too-loud birds. Every chirp feels like a tiny dagger to my temples. Students pass by, looking annoyingly rested and functional. I hate them all with the burning passion of a thousand suns—which, incidentally, is about how bright the actual sun feels against my retinas right now.
"Out of all the classes to be late for—Ethics! The irony isn't lost on me, universe, so you can stop laughing now." I mutter to myself as I speed-walk, which makes my stomach slosh in concerning ways.
I reach my class building in record time, despite feeling like my body is actively trying to revolt against forward motion. When I round the corner to Room 303, I spot two familiar figures slouched against the wall outside the lecture hall. Like me, they're sporting the international uniform of the deeply hungover: sunglasses indoors, expressions of profound regret, and the slightly green tint of people whose bodies are questioning their life choices.
"Well, well, well," I drawl as I approach Khol and Willow. "Looks like I'm not the only one who's about to face the Percy Inquisition."
Khol, his usually perfect hair now a disheveled mop, offers me a fist bump that takes three attempts to connect. "Ugh tell me about it. How's the head?"
"Like someone's using it as a bongo drum at a death metal concert," I reply. "Yours?"
"I think my brain is trying to escape through my ears," he says with a grimace.
Willow, whose dark curls are piled in a messy bun that's one head movement away from collapse, groans dramatically. "I can actually hear my own heartbeat. Is that normal? I don't think that's normal."
I can't help but grin despite the impending doom. "Look at us—the Three Musketeers of morning misery. At least I won't be alone on Percy's chopping block."
"Safety in numbers?" Willow suggests hopefully.
"More like shared trauma," Khol counters.
I adjust my sunglasses, which are sliding down my sweaty nose. "We look like three vampires melting in the sun. Or a failed boy band reunion tour."
"The Hangover Boys," Willow snorts, then immediately winces at the movement.
"Featuring their hit single, 'I'm Never Drinking Again (This Time I Mean It)'," I add.
We share a pained laugh, which is probably the most exercise my abdominal muscles can handle today.
"So," I nod toward the closed door, "who wants to be the sacrificial lamb?"
Khol and Willow both take a step back, leaving me at the front. Traitors.
"Some friends you are," I mutter, then square my shoulders like I'm about to enter a boxing ring. "Fine. But if I go down, I'm taking you both with me."
I knock—three soft raps that sound like thunderclaps in my sensitive state—and push the door open.
The lecture hall falls silent as the door creaks ominously. Sixty pairs of eyes swivel toward us. At the podium, Professor Percy pauses mid-sentence, his silver-framed glasses catching the light in a way that makes them flash ominously. He's wearing his trademark bow tie, this one a particularly aggressive shade of red that hurts to look at directly.
"Ah," he says, his voice dripping with false warmth. "How generous of you three to finally join us. Please, do come in. Don't mind the other students who managed to arrive on time despite presumably having the same twenty-four hours in their day as you."
We shuffle in like condemned prisoners. I lead our sad little parade down to the front of the room where Percy gestures for us to stand. The walk feels endless, each step echoing in the silent room.
"Sunglasses off, please," Percy says with a smile that doesn't reach his eyes. "I do so enjoy making eye contact when discussing ethical responsibilities."
The three of us exchange glances of pure terror before slowly removing our protective eyewear. The fluorescent lights hit my retinas like laser beams, and I swear I can feel my pupils shrinking to pinpoints. Willow lets out an involuntary whimper beside me.
"Now then," Percy clasps his hands together, "would any of you care to enlighten the class as to why you've arrived nearly twenty minutes late to a discussion on personal accountability and temporal ethics?"
The irony is so thick you could spread it on toast.
I clear my throat. "Well, Professor, you see—"
"Actually," Percy interrupts, "let's make this a teaching moment. Ms. Montgomery, you first." He points at Willow, who looks like she might faint.
"I, um, overslept," Willow admits, her voice small. "Because I was at Khol's team party last night."
Percy raises an eyebrow. "I see. And you, Mr. Carter?" He turns to Khol.
"Same reason, sir," Khol says, standing straighter despite his hangover. "It was my team's party, sir."
Percy's gaze finally lands on me, and I feel like a bug under a microscope. "And you, Ms. Westbrook? Let me guess. Also a casualty of Mr. Carter's athletic hospitality?"
I consider lying. I consider making up something noble or unavoidable. Instead, I go with honesty, which is probably appropriate for an Ethics class.
"I drank too much at the party, sir. Slept through my alarm, and now I'm standing here with what feels like the worst hangover in recorded history, regretting approximately every decision I've made in the last twelve hours," I say in one breath.
A ripple of laughter moves through the class. Percy doesn't smile, but something in his eyes softens marginally.
"Well, at least you're honest," he says. "Though I'm not sure if that makes your tardiness more or less ethically problematic." He taps his chin thoughtfully. "In the spirit of academic mercy and because this is the first offense for all three of you, I'll spare you the full lecture on punctuality. But all three of you will submit an additional essay on the ethics of personal time management by next class. Two pages, single-spaced."
It's lenient by Percy standards. We mumble our thanks and scurry to our seats like rats escaping a sinking ship.
"And Mr. Carter," Percy adds dryly, "perhaps next time you host a celebration, ensure your guests remain conscious enough to attend class."
"Yes, sir." Khol says sheepishly.
Once we're seated—me sandwiched between Khol and Willow in the third row—Percy resumes his lecture on ethical frameworks in modern society. Usually, I'm fully engaged in Percy's classes; the man's a brilliant speaker despite his strictness. Today, however, his words float around me like alphabet soup, occasionally forming coherent thoughts before dissolving back into meaningless sounds.
My head thrums with pain, each heartbeat sending a fresh wave of discomfort from my temples to the base of my skull. The room spins slightly when I move too quickly, so I focus on taking notes in slow motion, my handwriting deteriorating into what looks like seismograph readings.
Beside me, Willow has given up any pretense of paying attention. She's bent over her desk, head resting on her folded arms, emitting occasional groans that she tries to disguise as thoughtful hmms.
"I am never, ever drinking again," she whispers fervently after a particularly painful head throb. "This is it. I'm done. I'm becoming straight-edge. Maybe I'll join a monastery."
I snort, which makes my brain slosh painfully. "You said that after our first frat party. And after midterms week. And after that night at The Rusty Nail when you danced on the bar."
"This time I mean it," she insists, voice muffled by her sweater sleeve. "I'm dying, Sam. This is what dying feels like."
Trust me, it's not, I think but don't say.
Instead, I pat her shoulder sympathetically. "There, there. You'll be back on the horse by the weekend."
"No way," she moans. "I'm retiring from fun. Effective immediately."
On my other side, Khol leans in, his voice low. "So my brother's friend owns this new club downtown. It's called Eclipse. Grand opening this Sunday. He hooked me up with VIP passes."
As if summoned by the magic words VIP passes, Willow's head shoots up, her previous oath of sobriety apparently forgotten. "VIP? Like, open bar VIP?"
"Private section, priority entry, complimentary champagne, all the perks," Khol confirms with a smug smile. "You guys in?"
Willow sits up straight, hangover momentarily forgotten. "Hell yes! Is that even a question? What time? Should we pre-game? I could wear that new dress I got last—"
"Ms. Montgomery," Percy's voice cuts through our whispered conversation. "Since you seem to have recovered enough to chat, perhaps you'd like to share your thoughts on Kant's categorical imperative?"
Willow freezes mid-sentence, eyes wide like a deer in headlights. "Um, it's... categorical? And... imperative?"
The class snickers. Percy sighs deeply, the sigh of a man questioning his career choices, and returns to his lecture.
We settle back into silence, but Willow shoots me a look that clearly says "we're continuing this conversation later." Khol scribbles something on the corner of his notebook and slides it toward me: "So you in Sunday night?"
Before I can respond, my phone vibrates in my pocket. Carefully, making sure Percy isn't looking my way, I slide it out just enough to see the screen. Dr. Wilcott's name flashes up at me, and just like that, the room seems to narrow, sounds becoming distant and muffled.
The familiar cold dread washes over me. I've been avoiding her calls all week, ever since she delivered the news that my leukemia is back. Round three of a fight I thought I'd already won.
I stare at her name until the call goes to voicemail, adding to the growing collection of missed calls I've been accumulating. My thumb hovers over the screen, a part of me knowing I should call her back right now, walk out of class, and deal with this like an adult.
Instead, I silence the phone and slip it back into my pocket.
I tell myself it's because I'm in class. That it would be rude to step out now, especially after the late entrance spectacle. That Professor Percy would probably make me write another essay on the ethics of phone etiquette.
But that's bullshit, and I know it.
The truth is, I can't face it yet. Can't face the hospital rooms with their too-clean smell and fluorescent lighting. Can't face the pitying looks from nurses who remember me from last time. Can't face the needles and the nausea and the bone-deep fatigue that makes this hangover feel like a sunny day at the beach.
I know how this goes. I know that every day I delay treatment is a day the cancer grows stronger. I know all the statistics and probabilities; I've lived them twice already. But knowing doesn't make it easier to accept.
What I want is more time. More normal college days, even the shitty hungover ones. More nights out with friends who see me as Sam, not as Cancer Patient Sam. More moments where my biggest problem is a grumpy professor and a late assignment.
My chest feels tight, and for a moment I worry that someone can see it—this invisible weight pressing down on me. But Khol and Willow are focused on Percy now, their own hangovers momentarily forgotten. No one notices that I'm struggling to breathe evenly, that my hands have started to shake slightly.
This is why I went overboard with all the partying this week even though I know it was a bad idea. Because for a few blissful, alcohol-soaked hours, I wasn't thinking about white blood cell counts and remission rates. I was just a college kid trying to feel normal in a world that keeps reminding me I'm not.
"Sam?" Willow nudges my elbow, snapping me back to reality. "You okay? You look like you're about to throw up. Bathroom's down the hall if you need to make a run for it."
I force my face into something resembling a normal expression. "Just hangover thoughts. You know how it goes."
She doesn't know, not really, but she nods anyway.
"So," she whispers, "Eclipse on Sunday night? You in?"
I should say no. I should call Dr. Wilcott back. I should start treatment soon, not waste more time.
Instead, I feel my lips curve into a grin that doesn't quite reach my eyes. "Hell yeah," I say, because pretending to be normal for one more night sounds better than facing what comes next. "Wouldn't miss it."
And if my smile looks a little strained, if my enthusiasm sounds a little forced, neither Willow nor Khol seems to notice. Willow is already planning outfits and meeting times, already looking forward to the next adventure.
I try to focus on Percy's words about ethical choices and moral responsibilities, but all I can think is how ironic it is that in an Ethics class, I'm making perhaps the most unethical choice of all: choosing denial over treatment, choosing temporary freedom over survival.
The cold weight of my phone in my pocket feels like a ticking bomb. Dr. Wilcott will call again. She'll keep calling until I answer. And eventually, I'll run out of excuses, out of parties, out of normal days.
But not yet. Not on Sunday.
Sunday night, I'll be Sam at the club, not Sam with cancer.
For now, that's the only ethical framework I can bear to live with.