Chapter -
Asher
Cold hands shoved me back and forth until I stirred awake. Opening my eyes, I groaned when I saw my mother.
“What on Earth do you want?” I croaked.
“Wake up!” she said excitedly, still shaking me like I was a snow globe.
Groaning, I rolled away from her. “Whyyy?” I whined, slipping right back into my high school tone.
“The group I was telling you about has an opening! You got into it. You start next week!” Her excitement was not something I could reciprocate.
Over the past couple of years since my diagnosis, she’d been trying to sign me up for groups meant to help others shift their perspectives and frame of mind.
She believed that because I’d carried on living life as normally and healthily as possible, it had somehow prolonged my life. I was skeptical—but who knew?
I had attended a few groups before, but this one was the longest she had ever wanted me to commit to. This group, she’d said, was full of people with deep mental health challenges. And honestly, every time I joined something like this, I felt like an imposter.
My mother—head of the social work department at the hospital—never thought this was an issue.
She always welcomed different perspectives in her group projects, believing that more variety led to better outcomes.
I hadn’t really seen that yet—probably because I was always the polar opposite of the other members.
Generally, I was the happy, optimistic, always-looking-for-the-silver-lining type.
But I’d decided I couldn’t keep ignoring the grey skies anymore. I needed to breathe.
Sometimes, my optimism was annoying—maybe even insufferable—to those around me, but it was what kept me going.
So here I was: attending groups, trying to help however I could.
School was out of the question. It felt wrong to take a spot from someone who could actually go far with a career in veterinary medicine.
I wanted it, yes, but the application process was tough—and let’s face it: I probably wouldn’t be a great long-term candidate.
“Thanks, Mom, for signing me up. I know this one means a lot to you,” I said reluctantly, fully aware of the commitment it required. Twelve weeks. Twice a week.
“Damn right, it means a lot to me—this one’s my brainchild!” she said, clearly delighted I wasn’t arguing with her. “It took me almost three years to get it up and running. The funding alone took two. Luckily, it’s successful—or I’d be on the shit list at work.”
I rolled my eyes. “I highly doubt you’d ever be on anyone’s shit list, Mom. Aren’t you the boss?”
She shrugged, brushing the comment off. “Yeah, but I have a board to report to. They like numbers—so I give them numbers.”
She patted my shoulder and told me to come down for breakfast, adding that Wyatt was over before heading to work.
I nodded. “Yeah, I’ll be down shortly.”
I slunk out of bed and walked toward my ensuite bathroom, where a spotless marble countertop reflected light from the grandiose mirror above it. Grabbing my toothbrush, I caught my reflection in the glass.
I saw the scars—souvenirs from surgeries and falls after fainting. I saw how my body was thinning out. I wasn’t as broad as I had been back when I played hockey. Training at that level had sculpted a physique that people noticed. One that used to make me feel…well, visible.
I wasn’t gross, by any means, but I had lost significant muscle mass and body weight over the last couple of years. I didn’t look sickly—but I just didn’t look like I used to. Sometimes, that thought killed me. Other times, it reminded me I was still alive, still moving.
Today, it was the former.
After washing up and getting dressed, I walked downstairs to see my entire family gathered at the dining room table, enjoying breakfast or coffee. My brother looked like he’d just finished a run and needed fuel to kickstart his day.
The moment he saw me, his face lit up. We’d been really close growing up.
Not that we weren’t now—but it felt like we were no longer in the same place.
He had taken off, sprinting miles ahead, while I had veered hard left, stuck somewhere off course.
I tried not to let the jealousy of everything he’d accomplished sour the mood, but it was hard sometimes.
He was always happy. Always boasting. And that kind of light could feel blinding when you’re stuck in the shadows.
“Hey, Ash! How’s it going, my man?” he asked cheerfully.
Smiling, I replied, “Good, good. How’re you? Just get in from a run?”
Wyatt grinned, launching into a full recap of his morning run, followed by talk of the marathon he was training for and the surgical office he was now working at. It felt one-sided, but I didn’t mind listening. Today, I was determined to be in a good mood.
“The try-outs for your old team are open. Did you want to go watch? Cheer them on this weekend?” my mom asked, carefully interrupting Wyatt’s monologue like she was tiptoeing around landmines.
“I don’t know, Mom…” I hedged, unsure if that was a good idea.
My dad looked up from his newspaper, adjusting his thick-framed glasses with a scowl.
Mom noticed and added quickly, “We could make it a family affair, go out and cheer on Asher’s team.”
He rolled his eyes so hard I felt my stomach clench before he even spoke.
“And waste a perfectly decent weekend watching a bunch of men chase a puck? We’re going to the club to play a round at the golf simulator. Wyatt and I already made plans.”
And that was final. There was no changing his mind once it was made.
Since my diagnosis, he’d internalized my illness as some kind of personal failure—a defect traced back to his genes. I knew he didn’t mean to let that guilt seep out into every word, every dismissal, but he did. He always did.
“Andrew,” my mother tutted.
He peered up at her, not understanding the sideways glare she gave.
“Are you saying we should cancel at the club in order to watch a bunch of men—who are, in fact, not our son—play hockey?” he asked, his tone condescending.
My mother, petite but fierce, stiffened. Her jaw tightened, her soft features hardening. “I’m sorry, but have you forgotten that we, in fact, have two sons?”
My father lowered the paper just enough to meet her gaze over the top.
They locked eyes, the kind of silent standoff that promised casualties.
I couldn’t take it.
“It’s all good. I didn’t want to go anyway,” I muttered, poking at the eggs on my plate like a sulking teenager trying to convince everyone he wasn’t disappointed.
“See, Blythe?” my father said casually. “The boy doesn’t want to go. You’re always pushing him back into the life he can’t have. Why remind him of what he’s lost?”
It was meant to sound rational. Reasonable, even. But it hit like a fucking punch to the gut.
I stood up abruptly, reaching for my half-eaten eggs and Ezekiel bread. “I’m not really hungry,” I said flatly.
“Sit down, Asher,” my father said, not looking at me.
I looked up at him, a rare flicker of rage rising in my chest—something I usually worked hard to keep buried.
“Why?” I snapped. The bitterness slipped out before I could stop it. “So you can remind me that I’ll be dead soon enough?”
My mother and Wyatt looked at me at the same time, their faces twisted in shock, like I’d just committed a crime in front of their very eyes.
“Asher!” they both snapped, harshly.
I didn’t answer.
Turning away, I started the trek toward my room, already feeling small from the outburst I’d just let slip. I needed to get out of here. I needed air. A walk, a run—hell, something had to give.
Maybe it would finally be my heart.
From somewhere behind me, I heard my father hush them both. “Let him go,” he said dismissively. “He’s got some underlying emotions he’s working through, right, Blythe?”
I shook my head. What a condescending asshole.
Disappointment crawled through my veins, radiating into my limbs sinking in my skin like a second layer I couldn’t peel off.
I dropped onto my bed, limbs heavy, unsure of what I even wanted to do next. Sit here and sulk, playing the woe is me card for the hundredth time? Or get up and live a life that left a mark, one they’d all remember when I was gone?
Fuck everyone who doubted me.
Maybe I couldn’t control how long I lived—but I could control why.
And right now? I’d live out of spite.
That was it. That was my reason. I was now living purely out of spite.