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She grabs my hand. “Not that kind of sick,” she answers, her voice breaking.
“What?” What is she telling me?
“I’ve been sick for a long time now,” she whispers.
“What the fuck are you telling me?” I demand, frowning at her. I get out of the bed, and big fat teardrops run down her pretty face. She closes her eyes, “Please, Hunter, don’t go, let me explain,” she whispers, and winces like it takes her a lot of strength to reach out to me. Dread fills me, and I can’t lose her flashes through my mind. I try to push the thought away.
“How long have you been sick?” I hate that my voice trembles.
She flinches. “Sit, Hunter. Please let me explain. I…”
“Tell me what the hell is going on,” I yell, anger takes hold of me. I’ve seen the signs, haven’t I? Why didn’t I ask her about them, why didn’t I? Because I don’t want to fucking lose her echoes through my head, over and over like some goddamn broken record.
She closes her eyes, and when she opens them, she tells me. “Hunter, I’m dying.”
