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After I hang up with Grandma, and finish most of my homework, I boot up a project that's been kicking around my head forever.
My first real piece of original fiction.
Only it's currently three sentences.
He has beautiful lips. They're soft, plush, the perfect shade of rose-pink. I want to dive into those lips and swim forever.
It's supposed to be a coming of age story. About a girl who wants a boy she shouldn't have.
I know, I know, it sounds autobiographical. But it's not. That's the problem. Everyone who reads this will think it's about me.
Or worse, that it's about me and Brendon.
This is the scene where they meet. I have it all in my head. He's across the room at a coffee shop. Sitting there. Reading. Some stranger she never expects to see again.
Until her best friends comes in. Kisses him. Introduces him as her boyfriend, the one who just moved to town.
I have plenty to say about his eyes. His concentration. His hands.
But after that...
It's scary, jumping into a project that will be all mine.
What if I can't do it?
I want to. I want to prove I can. To myself and to Grandma. If she's sicker than she's letting on, if there really isn't much time, then I want her to know I'll be okay.
That I'll keep doing the thing I love, the thing that brings us together.
It's an ugly thought.
If Grandma's dying.
But I let it flow through me. I let it tighten my throat. I let it sit on my chest. I let it make the warm room cold.
I let it make the—
Oh.
There's a knock on my door. Then Brendon's voice. "Hey."
"Hey yourself." My voice is soft. It's hitting me there. "Come in."
He steps inside. Presses the door closed with his back. He looks the same as always—jeans, t-shirt, bare feet—but there's something different about him today. An expression. I don't know how else to explain it.
"Kay." He moves to me. Drops to his knees in front of me. His palm presses against my cheek. A tear catches on his thumb. "What's wrong, angel?"
I want to collapse in his arms and tell him everything. Not just Grandma but all the other ugly stuff in my head. Those words are clutching at my throat.
I need someone to know.
I need them to know and to stay.
"Grandma. I don't know. She keeps saying she's okay. That Mom is over-reacting. That she has plenty of time. But I don't know if I believe her."
He takes my hand between his. Rubs the space between my thumb and forefinger with his thumb. "I'm sorry, Kay."
