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This is too much. It’s all too much. Eli. Olivia. My mom.
“Will you stop fighting?” Oz whispers. “For once, lean on one of us.”
Exhausted, tired, emotionally drained, I bury my face in his chest and large, warm drops slide down my cheeks. I’m not crying. Not at all. Because I wouldn’t do something like that over a man who has never shed a tear over me.
Oz
EMILY SITS ON my bed with her back against the wall and her knees drawn to her chest. It’s almost four in the morning and I led her here after she stopped crying. I’m paralyzed by crying girls. Not sure what to do with one in complete meltdown mode, I relied on what helps me. When I’m upset, a change of location can create a change in perspective.
Eli texted a few minutes ago to check on Emily and told me that Mom and Dad are staying the night there so Mom can watch Olivia and so Dad can discuss the Riot situation at a late night session of Church. He also informed me that Olivia is alert and fine.
Fine.
Dying of cancer is not fine.
I rest at the end of the bed and pluck an old guitar I bought when I was thirteen and dreamed of being a rock star. Emily rolls her head and glances at me with barely cracked eyes. “Can you play anything else besides the opening to ‘Smoke on the Water’?”
I cock an eyebrow as I switch up and strum the first few chords of the “Mexican Hand-Clapping Song.” Emily laughs and the sound dances along my skin.
“How’s Olivia?” she asks.
“Fine.” I spit Eli’s answer.
“I asked her what type of cancer she has and she didn’t answer.”
I say nothing. The pain of discovering that we’re out of options and running short on time is still too fresh. There’s a beat, then another, and Emily talks again. “Are you okay?”
Am I okay? The woman I’m closest to in the world is on the countdown clock. No, I’m not okay. “I don’t want to talk about Olivia.”
“Maybe you should.”
“Day in and day out for the past year I’ve watched Olivia deteriorate. I don’t need to talk about it when it constantly stares me in the face. I’d give everything if I could forget that Olivia is dying for at least thirty seconds, so excuse the fuck out of me if I don’t want to talk about it with you.”
Emily tugs her hair over her shoulder so I can’t see her face. Good job, Oz. Make Emily feel like shit. She’ll forever remember you as a grade-A asshole. It’s better that way. At least she’ll go home with the truth.
I grab the beer I had placed on the window ledge and Emily yanks it out of my hand. I open my mouth to tell her to give it back, but she shocks me speechless when she tilts the bottle up. Emily lowers it and her face puckers as if she tasted a lemon.
I chuckle and Emily glares at me like she wishes she had a knife.
“Never had alcohol before?”
“I’m not that naive.” She hands the beer to me. “We have parties in Florida.”
I’m sure they do, but my idea of party and her idea of party live in different zip codes. “The type where bras come off and end up on the wall?”
Emily spits out a strange sound that involves sticking out her tongue. “No one should be at that type of party.”
“Don’t knock it until you try it.” I drink, thinking of how her lips had touched the rim. “Do you go crazy with pouring vodka in your slushies?”
Emily giggles and my spirits lift. “No. I’ve had a wine cooler before.”
“One?”
“Yeah.” Emily slides her mouth to the side as she morphs into shy. “I totally got light-headed and laughed at my toes for an hour.” She raises her feet for effect.
I bet Emily is a cute drunk. Not the damn sloppy ones I have a habit of ending up with. The ones that cry when they get wasted and drop every damn problem they have or think they have on me. Emily would be the dancing-in-the-sand type and I regret that I’ll never know.
“Beer sucks,” she says.
