Before I knew what I was doing, I blurted out, “I’m dying from this crazy heart cancer tumour thing that ended my hockey career and thus forced me to move back under the roof of my overwhelming parents.”
Mila looked up at me, confusion brewing across her features.
“I became a surgeon to impress my friends and family, yet I still can’t find a wife to settle down with. God forbid my brother here possesses all the skills to get the ladies, while I’m an average-at-best surgeon with absolutely no game.”
We stood there in a loose triangle, all of us confused about what had just happened between the three of us.
“I think I’m going to need a stiffer drink to start the day if this is where it’s headed,” I said.
Mila shook her head. “I’m not old enough to drink.”
“One shot won’t kill us. Fuck it—let’s call it a bonding shot,” I said as I walked toward the cupboard where the scotch was hidden in the corner.
After pouring three reasonable shots, I grabbed mine, watching the weary expression on my brother’s face. He knew drinking had been taken off the table for me, but also knew arguing would only reinforce how differently everyone had been treating me. I could see that he wanted to make the effort here. He reached for his glass.
Watching the back-and-forth play out on Mila’s face, I decided to grab the remaining shot and hand it to her.
“Am I going to get into trouble?” she asked quietly.
We shook our heads, Wyatt saying, “We’ll take the fall for this one if you do.”
For the first time in a very long time, the world seemed to be on the right side of its axis. I held my shot up and the three of us reviewed one another’s faces for a brief moment before clinking the small glasses, tipping our heads back, and consuming the burning liquid in one swift movement.
Mila coughed, a sour look washing across her features. The burn coated the entirety of my stomach, warm and oddly comforting. Wyatt began to laugh.
“What’s so funny?” I asked, still recovering.
“You know how I said an ‘average at best’ surgeon?” he muttered. “Well, that’s kind of an understatement. I’m on review for making a critical error in my last operation. So I’m actually less than average. I might get fucking fired.”
Wyatt wasn’t even making eye contact at this point. I could sense the tears welling behind his eyes. He was trying not to make this a big deal, knowing full well I was dying and nothing could trump that. But this wasn’t a competition. He just wanted to be my brother again. Part of me worried he wouldn’t come clean about anything in life anymore, for fear of whining to someone already knocking on death’s door.
Mila cleared her throat after composing herself from the burn of the shot.
“Since we’re still sharing, I don’t think I’ll ever like your dad. Our dad. Whatever. Fuck that guy.”
I burst into a fit of laughter, Wyatt following shortly after.
So there the three of us were—broken individuals trying to piece together what was left of this so-called perfect family. And for the first time in a very long time, it began to feel like something real. Something I’d been searching for since my life had begun to fall apart all those years ago.
Lennon
The gloomy morning came abruptly before my body began to rouse. I knew what day it was. It was the day my life changed forever—the pivotal moment in time that altered the trajectory of who I was today. I opened my eyes to face the ceiling above me. My body felt heavy, immovable. I couldn’t get out of bed. I had no reason to.
I shifted my body weight and curled into the fetal position, squeezing my eyes shut. It was the anniversary of my dad’s death. A tear welled behind my lids as my chest began to tighten. I inhaled a slow, aching breath and exhaled unsteadily. This happened every year. The pain ebbed and flowed every day, every moment, all year long—but on this day, this day in particular, it stabbed me with every breath I took. It crippled me, paralyzed me beyond repair.
Rachel always scheduled a session on these days, knowing she couldn’t leave me alone. She worried that my fears would subside just enough for me to go through with it—that I would give up and take my own life. She held the delicate balance of recognizing that I wanted to die every day, while knowing I couldn’t do it. But what if one day I could? What if one day I did?
What a horrible internal conflict for her to carry. She was so determined to keep me living that she focused on every possible reason for me to live. It was almost as if she’d forgotten whydeath sounded so peaceful in the first place. Maybe if she sat with me more in the pain, she could allow herself to loosen her grip on that fight.
But ultimately, it didn’t matter anymore. The pain was beyond what I could handle. At that moment, I simply needed it to go away.
Fuck.
Rummaging through the disheveled drawers of my mind, I tried to remember what time my appointment with Rachel was. 10:00 a.m. I inhaled deeply, remembering that directly afterward I had group therapy. If I didn’t kill myself by then, I’d have to go to see Rachel so she wouldn’t send an ambulance—like she did last year.
And if I went to see Rachel, I’d have to go to group. I’d have to face Asher again.
I squeezed my eyes shut, the pressure building so tightly I felt like I might internally combust. My heartbeat thudded against my eardrum. He was too good for me. I saw it every time I was with him; I just couldn’t say it out loud.
