Chapter 19
MY PARENTS HAVE NO OBJECTIONS to my decision to stay at home. The new reality, however short it is, is a tough pill to swallow. I don't think we'll ever truly adapt or accept it. I know it haven't.
I thought I had but the events of the last twenty-four hours had been a harsh slap to the face because it's only made me realize how little I've actually lived.
There are still many things I want to do, many places I want to see and visit.
There are still many things I want to experience.
Including exploring the curious development in my situation with Sky.
To be honest, I'm still not certain what I feel is really what I think it is.
I'm not sure he even sees me that way considering what we were like just three weeks ago. But I'm curious.
I enjoy his friendship, his companionship. I want to explore this new feeling and free fall into this strange insanity because I don't think I can survive wondering what it would be like and never knowing.
These feelings I have are strong. They're terrifying. It makes my heart thud painfully in my chest, stealing breath and raising goosebumps whenever I let myself entertain them because woven in those feelings is a painful fear of losing him.
For the last hour, I've been checking the time as often as possible wondering when he would get here and I'm aware of how dangerous that is. I want to be selfish and spend all the time I can with him, but a large part of me is unsettled by him finding out about my condition.
What would he think? How would he react?
While waiting for Sky to return because yes, since the moment I realized I have feelings for him, he's been on my mind constantly, I had breakfast with my parents.
We talked about anything that came up in conversation.
They had taken the day off of work and really, it was the wiser call because neither of them seem able to function in a professional setting requiring the complete focus.
Dad called into the hospital saying he needed to be at home. Aware of my condition, his supervisor made no fuss and told him to take all the time he needs. Mom cancelled all of her appointments for the day instructing her assistant to reschedule her clients.
"We should do something this evening," Mom suggests returning outside to the front lawn with a tray carrying drinks. The garage door is open, foldable chairs and the picnic table from inside dragged out and set up. She set the tray down beside another with snacks and sandwiches.
"Yeah?" Dad muses. "What're you thinking?" He glances at me and chucks the basketball. I challenged him to a one-on-one game over breakfast, thinking it a good idea since it's been a while since we had quality father-son time that was outside of hospital walls.
"We could head down to the bowling alley."
"Yeah, and Mom can destroy you like always," I tease, bouncing the ball in challenge.
Dad rolls his eyes. "Whatever. Basketball is more my forte."
"Really? Because you're dying against me." Spinning the ball on the tip of my finger, the challenge is clear in the smirk that crosses my lips.
Dad crosses his arms over his chest, standing taller and prouder, one hundred percent committed to acting like this is a real game. "You're only winning because I'm letting you."
"Pfft! Right. Sure, you are. Honestly, I think you're just getting old and rusty, but your ego won't let you admit that."
Dad snorts, turning to look at Mom. "You're on for later, Kathryn, only if I get to face off against this one." He jabs a thumb in my direction, then cracks his knuckles. "In the meantime, I'm going to show this little punk how we did it back in my day."
"Oh no! I'm trembling!" Bouncing the ball, I square off against Dad as he sizes me up. "Bring it, old man."
Dad makes a move to snatch the ball, but I bounce it between my legs, switching from right to left.
Dribbling the ball around him, he comes after me trying to get the ball a second time and he almost manages to steal it when I counter and bounce it away, swinging it behind my back and to my right hand again.
I feign right before spinning around him on his left, straightening up again to shoot.
The ball goes sailing toward the basket. Out of nowhere, Dad comes flying, stealing the ball midair, running up to the basket and dunking.
I'm left momentarily flabbergasted.
Smug as shit, Dad dusts his hands and shoots me a smirk. "Old man?" He makes a clicking sound, shaking his head as he does. "You really should mind your words. You might end up eating them."
I pout. "That was nothing special. What even was that?"
"Nah! I think I still got it. Don't fall off the wagon so early in the game, kiddo." And for extra measure as if to push me, he winks.
The competitive streak in me rises to the obvious bait but I don't care that this is a harmless game. I cluck in laughter. "Oh, it's on, old man."
Dad laughs, bouncing the ball as he readies to face off again. "That's the spirit, kiddo! Take your best shot."
We play for another forty minutes until his old age starts creeping up on him. He's sweating more than I am and when he almost lands badly making another basket, he calls for a water break, collapsing into the chair beside Mom who kept score and declares me the winner.
She always keeps score when Dad and I play and nothing gets past this woman.
"I don't believe you," Dad objects, pointing an accusatory finger at his wife. "You're only doing this because you're biased."
Mom gasps dramatically, but to his credit, his accusation isn't unfounded. My mother has always been biased where I am concerned for all of my life. In this friendly basketball game, though, she isn't. I'd kept track of the score too.
Dad lost. Fair and square.
"I am not! Jace is a better player," Mom defends, clapping her hands as if making her statement final.
"Only because he's younger than me –"
"Ah-ha! So, you admit you are getting old?" I retort, pointing a finger at him. Dad raises an eyebrow, putting up a front that he's amused by my persistence that age is catching up to him, but his eyes bear all of the humor. He enjoys the bickering as much as I do.
"You," he points, "go eat a sandwich."
I stick my tongue out but go to the table feeling the grips of hunger as midday approaches. Little fact about Dad is that perhaps more than my mom, he's stricter where my diet and health is concerned. He's always checking in to make sure I don't skip meals and that I take my medications.
I grab a chicken paste sandwich with lettuce and tomatoes, and a thin slice of cheese slapped between two slices of bread and take one of the Coca-Cola cans, popping it open as my parents continue to chat and tease one another.
I glance the street, listening for approaching vehicles.
A black jeep cruises by, slowing down just a little as it goes by our house.
I follow it with my eyes, sipping from the can of coke around a mouthful of sandwich.
That's not a vehicle I've seen around here before but it's not the car I'm expecting to see.
I'm beginning to think Sky's forgotten about me.
When most of the snacks and sandwiches are cleared away, and the soda cans emptied, Mom takes the trays back inside while I help Dad put the foldable table and the chairs into the garage.
Drenched in sweat and smelling like a toilet, I excuse myself and leave him puttering around the garage in favor of a shower and clean clothes.
Inside my room and in clean clothes, I hang the towel on the hanger nailed to my bedroom door and flop into the bed.
I hit the side button on my phone, finding several missed calls and messages from Sasha and Ashton.
Among them are a few from Brent asking why I'm not at school and where I am because apparently, my father phoned him yesterday evening wanting to know if I was with him.
Reading Brent's messages give me a flicker of hope. His messages sound concerned, and a lot like the best friend I knew before high school happened and destroyed him. I'm tempted to respond and after contemplating my own stupidity, I give in.
It couldn't hurt, right? He's not the greatest best friend, no doubt there, but I'm convinced shades of the old Brent is hiding somewhere inside him.
'I'm fine.'
It's the lunch hour right now, so it's no surprise when his response comes seconds later.
'Are you okay?'
I swear to God, I almost throw my phone out the window.
He's spent the better half of three years being an asshole and now he decides to be decent.
'Yes. I'm okay.'
I wait for his reply wondering if it's possible to reconcile. I won't deny that I miss my best friend and these last few months when the cancer returned, it's been difficult between treatments. There were times I wanted to tell him, but something always stopped me.
'What about finals?'
'I don't care about finals.'
Brent doesn't reply after that. I don't expect him to.
We're not as close as we once were, and things have changed.
Between us, and within our own lives. Chances are that we no longer know one another as well as we think.
It's been a long time too, since we've had a conversation that didn't revolve around basketball, our rival schools' basketball teams, and other superficial topics that don't matter much in the grander scheme of things.
With each passing year, it gets more difficult to talk to him about anything outside of basketball, parties, and girls.
My attempts to be a good friend and find out what's bothering him so much were ultimately futile.
He refuses to open up. When he grows fed up with 'interfering', we always end up arguing.
After a while, I reluctantly admitted defeat, so it stings like a bitch knowing he still possesses a shred of decency.
Decent Brent Harper is my Brent Harper – my best friend.
It's as though the universe is subtly punishing me because not only is it giving me what could be false hope of salvaging my friendship with Brent, I've also developed feelings for someone.
Never mind that Sky Daniels could be a real ass at times and painfully condescending, there's something about that intrigues me. Pulls me in like moth to flame despite the sense of danger I get from him.
Next to him – near him – it feels right. Like I belong there, as ridiculous as it sounds. I've never felt this way or this strongly about anyone, which is why I have to end things with Sasha as soon as possible. It's not fair to her.
Rolling onto my side, I shoot Sky a message.
A feeling rises inside my chest, kind of like the one you get when you really want something and you know you'll never be satisfied, happy, or truly at peace if you don't have it.
It would constantly play at your mind, and you'd think about it relentlessly until nothing mattered more.
It's exactly like that only stronger. It's strange how natural and right it seems that I suddenly have the strongest urge to see Sky despite spending most of last night with him.
Maybe that's just it.
It's because of my feelings for him, and like every other person when they find someone they like, I want to spend every waking moment with him. Combined with the fact that I've got a few months at best left in this life, I'm bordering on desperation and the need to live as I please.
I've always played by the rules of high school, sticking to my hyper-stereotypical portrayal of the popular douchebag who degrades others who aren't like the rest of the crew.
Having feelings for Sky Daniels is the ultimate taboo. A straight-up fuck you to the hierarchy at Jasper Falls High and to my 'friend group' because to this day, I'm still not sure why they all hate Sky and his friends.
And I don't think it has anything to do with his sexuality.
But I'm enjoying this feeling of rebellion of going against the very system that built me up to carve out a path for myself – my way.
I'm a dying man. I'm entitled to living a little in my last few months even if it means never confessing my feelings to Sky.
It would be worth it to simply be near him and watch him be happy.
With that person he likes so much even if it kills me.
My phone pings with Sky's response, his name flashing across my screen bringing a smile to my face. Excitement sends my heart fluttering wildly like an untamed beast and my cheeks burn hot.
'Running a little late. Be there in a few minutes.' To finish his message, almost as if he knows exactly what effect he has on me, he sends a winking emoji.
Rolling to a sit, I place my forehead against my palm, cringing so incredibly hard when realization dawns on me.
"Oh gosh! I'm acting like a lovestruck twelve-year-old."
Running a hand down my face, I crawl back into bed and grab the novel I borrowed from his stash. I could read a little while I wait for him. But several minutes later, there's no knock on the front door, no sound of a vehicle rolling into our driveway.
Setting the book down, I leave the room and go in search of my parents. I don't know what's the equivalent of a few minutes in Sky's book, but he should be here by now.
Checking my phone again for the time, it's been forty minutes since he texted back, and I'm beginning to grow antsy.
Is he okay, or did something bad happen causing him to be delayed?
The drive from my home to his isn't that long. Even during the lunch hour on a school day, he shouldn't have too much trouble getting here. Unless he decided to go to school after all and sit his finals carded for today. I wouldn't be upset over that, but it would've been nice to know.
My finger stops midway a swipe over the screen of my phone hovering over his contact, an unusual sound stopping me in my tracks. It's unmistakable, and now that I'm listening closely, the house is too quiet.
There's no clanking of dishes or running of water from the kitchen. There's no music playing softly as there usually is when Mom's in there. She's not humming like she often does.
There's no sound of Dad's voice as he usually keeps her company.
It's so quiet that I hear the sound of a struggle, like two people fighting as quietly as they could. Something falls and clatters to the ground in the kitchen, the hair on my arms raising in warning that something isn't right.
"Mom? Dad?"
I speed up, advancing toward the kitchen when there's a clatter and something shatters.
It's followed by a grunt and a thud and then everything goes silent. Still. I stop moving, my heart pounding in my chest when a chill brushes over my neck.
Breaking into a sprint, I race into the kitchen, finding broken drinking glasses in splinters on the tiled floor next to two bowls.
"Mom?"
Careful to step around the broken glass, I find her unconscious on her side. Panic assails me and I rush to her, rolling her onto her back, and checking for bodily injuries, spotting a trickle of blood on her forehead.
"Mom?" I call, gently shaking her shoulder, placing my hand near her face to catch her breath falling on my skin. She's alright, I think. She's breathing, just unconscious.
Before I can begin to make sense of anything that happened, of how things ended up broken and toppled over, and my mother unconscious with a wound on her head, movement in my peripheral vision sends goosebumps exploding over my skin.
My heart thunders loudly, rising above all other sounds and for a moment, it's the only thing I can hear above the blood rushing to my head. My throat goes dry as every muscle in my body freezes me in place.
It's not my body temporarily shutting down from my illness but from fright. Fear roots me still, my mind tossing out all kinds of scary scenarios, the near silent whisper of labored breathing and the quiet scuff of shoes snaking unfathomable panic through me.
I've lived in this house my entire life. Nothing like this has ever happened. The struggle I overheard, Mom's unconscious body, the cut on her forehead.
The shadowy figure dashing across the doorway leading from the living room into the kitchen – fast and unlike someone I know – leads to a terrifying conclusion.
Somebody is inside the house.
If this person got in so easily, they might've taken Dad out first. I can only hope he's okay.
Taking stock of the kitchen in search of a weapon, I spot the wooden block on the island counter that stores all of the knives. But it's too close to the doorway – both the one I came in through from the hallway and the one leading to the living room.
My eyes land on the stack of dishes in the drainer by the sink behind me. There's a frying pan, some forks and spoons. No knives. Mom always wipes those down after washing and puts them back into their rightful places.
Frying pan, it is. If I can't stab the intruder, at least I can bash his head in.
But I'll have to be smart about it – fast. And hope to God there isn't more than a single person.
Reaching for the frying pan, I grab the handle in a tight grip, careful to avoid the pan grating against the steel pot beneath it, clutching it in a death grip. My heart hammers dangerously, lips set in thin line, and my jaw clenched in determination.
I'm careful to avoid the glass shards and the bowls, mindful of Mom's unconscious body as I slink around the island counter, pressing my back against the wall between one of the kitchen counters and the open doorway leading into the hallway.
Pressing myself hard against the wall, I crane my neck and eyes to see as far into the living room as I can.
No one.
I see nothing out of the ordinary –
My hand clamps over my mouth as I struggle to get my breathing under control. To make it quieter.
Measured footfalls echo at the end of the hallway running adjacent to the kitchen.
My whole life I've lived here. Run up and down these halls, dashing from room to room as a child with my parents chasing after me when we played. Listened to the thump of Dad's feet at five in the morning, and Mom's lighter ones nearly half an hour after him.
I never imagined the sound of footsteps could be so frightening.
With each step, the weight of fear grows heavier. I feels as if hands are wrapped around my throat, squeezing the oxygen out of my lungs.
I need a different vantage point. I can't do anything from where I am because I'll be spotted before I can make a move.
Shutting my eyes, I take a deep, slow breath, adjusting my grip on the handle of the frying pan and swiftly duck across to the other side. The wall there is wider before it meets the counter where the microwave sits beneath cabinets full of glassware.
Fishing out my phone, I dial the police and set it down on the counter, hidden out of view before sliding down the wall to a crouch.
My nerves are rattled and my heart pounds to the beat of some imaginary drum. The pressure in my head increases as the intruder's footsteps – slow, measured, and menacing – grow louder.
My parents are down. It's up to me to protect my family until the police show up. There's no such thing as failing now.
A dark figure bends the corner, strolling into the kitchen and my stomach flips. Dread descends and adrenaline surges, instinct kicking in as I attack driven by the thought that my last months, and the lives of my parents, hinge on this moment.
This isn't how I want to go, literally fighting for my life and that of my parents', but I'll be damned if I don't go down swinging as hard as I can.
The intruder – half his face covered and obscured – cries out as I swing the frying pan into the side of his knee.
His leg buckles and he hops away, cursing a string of foul profanities.
This man is older, stronger, and probably meaner.
I can't let him get the upper hand as I barrel into him from the side.
He crashes against the refrigerator on the opposite side of the kitchen, the appliance shuddering and wobbling under his weight, tipping back before stabilizing again.
Rushing forward and using the man's semi-crouched position to my advantage, I bring the frying pan down over the back of his head.
He falls to his knees. Much to my dismay, he remains conscious.
My strength wanes and I stumble, crashing against the island counter for support, the frying pan still clutched as tightly as I can muster.
In the dead silence that befalls us – me, recovering from the shock of failure in trying to knock this man out, and him, recovering like it was absolutely nothing – a low rumble, like that of a wild animal, like a mad dog, reaches my ears.
It locks every muscle into place. The man glares at me, and I could swear his eyes start to glow.
"You're going to regret that."
The man lunges forward but I sidestep and he goes crashing into the wall.
Without thinking twice, I snatch one of the knives from the wooden block, stepping back as the man rounds on me.
Swinging the pan, it catches him on the chin, disorienting him enough for me to drive the knife forward.
He turns at the very last moment, and I end up catching him in the arm.
The blade goes right through, slicing through fabric and skin, sinking into flesh.
The man lets out a howl of pain. I drop the pan, bolting out of the kitchen into the living room, not bothering to stick around.
If only I could make it to a neighbor's house – to someone home at this time on a school day, I could get help.
Maybe the man will be spooked enough to flee and leave my parents unharmed.
I'm barely halfway to the front door when thundering footfalls stomp the ground behind me. Panic swells, urgency to get away rises. My heart is in my throat, and I crash into the couch when the man's sinister laughter booms behind me – too close.
A second later, I'm thrown to the floor, a heavy weight crashing into me from behind, Pain explodes in my back from where he drove his shoulder into me.
"Is it finally my turn, little boy?"
Gloved hands snatch my ankle, and I'm dragged away from the door.
"Get off!" I scream, thrashing wildly. I manage to turn onto my side, raising my leg and kicking. I kick and kick, hitting him anywhere I can while I try to grab onto anything. My fingers slip and graze against the single couch, the rug, and legs of the small coffee table.
Desperation claws deep down, a scream of frustration bubbling past my lips.
He keeps dodging my hits, dragging me farther away from the door, back across into the living room.
"Help! Somebody help!"
The man laughs. "Go on, boy. Nobody can hear you. The only ones around at this time of day are old people and moms or babysitters with two-year-olds."
True terror floods me, the only thing running through my mind is that this is how I'll die. Panic and regret, pain at how helpless I feel brings forth a fresh wave of tears.
Not only because of where I've found myself but at the only face that suddenly bombards my mind. If I die today – now – I'll never see Sky again.
How would he react? Would he be devastated? Would he cry?
Kicking my legs, I manage to land a few to the man's torso and shoulders.
I almost catch him in the crotch. He growls in frustration and readjusts his hold on my ankle; the split second it takes him giving me the opportunity I need to swing my foot.
I catch him in the face and he stumbles, crashing into the long couch.
Adrenaline surging higher, my heart pounding in my ears, drowning out all other sound, I scramble to my feet and race back across the living room to the door.
My fingers graze the doorknob just as the man barrels into me. I'm slammed into the door, my nose and face colliding with a sickening thud. My head gets yanked back by a handful of hair and my head bangs against the frame.
Two more times.
Three more times.
A sting burns above my brow, warm liquid trickling down the side of my face, the metallic tang of blood permeating the air. My head spins, and I'm delirious with agony and helplessness, the feeling so overwhelming that I crumble into a useless pile, seeing double and triple.
Black dots swim in my vision as the man's shadowy, burly frame dances in front of me.
I hear rustling and shuffling, and I peer up at him – a flash of something white like a cloth in one hand and a brown bottle in the other.
"Are you going to kill me?" I ask, hardly above a whisper, a single tear sliding down the side of my face.
The man laughs.
"Not yet. It's your boyfriend we want. And his dad."
More tears surge as the image of Sky's face flashes to the front of my mind.
"Don't worry. You'll be in good hands for the while."
And then he pushes the cloth over my nose and mouth.