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I hand the paper back to him, not trusting myself to speak. I swallow past the lump in my throat. He reads it, then scrunches it up into a tight ball.
“You’re not alone, Erin.”
“I feel it.” I give him a sad smile. “I could have all the people I love around me and I’d still feel just as alone, because none of them truly understand. They try, and I love them for that, but…”
“They’re not dying,” he finishes.
“Right.”
“Do you trust me?”
“Pardon?” I ask, bewildered. What does that have to do with my family coping with my illness?
“You heard me. Yes or no?”
“Uh, I guess.”
“Good, then listen to what I’m about to say. I don’t think your family is the one with the problem. I think you are. They’re allowed to cope how they want to cope with you dying. Who are you to take that away from them? Would you like it if I told you how you should be dealing with the idea of dying?”
“Isn’t that pretty much what you were doing earlier?” I shoot back.
He winces. “Point taken, but I admitted I was wrong. And you’re no different, are you? Why can’t you let them deal with this in their own way and you deal with it in yours? When it comes down to it, they’re the ones who are going to be living with it for longer.”
“So you think I should’ve stayed home?” I ask quietly. I’m not sure how I feel about what he’s saying. It hurts, but maybe it hurts because it’s true.
“I’m not saying that at all. I’m just saying don’t punish them for being sad. Call them. Skype your mother. Keep them in the loop. Those are the things they will cherish most a few months from now.”
When I’m dead. I don’t say it, because I don’t have to. Instead I retort. “Because you do?”
“I’m not dying.”
“That doesn’t matter. You have no idea what will happen tomorrow. Could you live with yourself if you let your stubbornness get in the way of saying goodbye to someone you loved and they died?”
“You don’t know my family.”
“So explain it,” I say, holding up my hands.
“My father is not my father, but I’m not supposed to know that.”
My eyes widen. I go to say something, but stop myself so he can continue.
“My mother had an affair and ended up pregnant with me. Dad insisted she end things with the other man. She did, for the sake of Noah.”
“Oh wow,” I mumble. “I feel like a total bitch. I had no idea.”
“Of course you didn’t.” He shrugs. “But it’s fine. Talking about it is actually helping. It’s been locked up inside me, festering, for too long. My whole childhood I spent trying to work out what I’d done to make my father hate me. That is why I have a problem with him. I can handle how he treats me now—especially since I know why—but for a child to feel that unwanted and unloved?” He shakes his head, angry.
“How did you find out?” I ask softly.
“I found a stack of love letters. At first I thought they were between Mum and Dad, but as I started reading through them, I realised what they were.”
“Oh Cade, how horrible. Did you confront her?”
He shakes his head. “My mother was my only ally. I couldn’t risk losing that. Besides, I knew my father was a hard man to live with. I’m sure she had her reasons for doing what she did. Not that anything excuses what she did—just sometimes things aren’t so black and white.”
“So neither of them know that you know the truth? Even after all this time?” I ask, shocked that he’s held onto this for so long. “No wonder your…” I drop my head, a blush creeping across my cheeks. Was I really about to say that?
He chuckles, his eyes sparkling. “No wonder I’m the way I am?” he finishes. “It’s okay. I think the same thing.”
