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Walker’s dad approaches the door next, an apologetic look on his face, his hands clenched in the pockets of his beige jacket. He’s aged at least a decade over the past month. I wonder what’s happened this time? He raises his hand as if to place it on my shoulder, but his face breaks before he manages it, and instead, he brushes past.
Then I hear my best friend’s voice. “I understand. You don’t have to say anything else. Please go.”
I hear more murmuring. The doctor, maybe? A nurse also files out.
“I got it, all right. I’m fucked! I want to be alone!”
Walker’s primary physician, Dr. Syed, reluctantly leaves next. He closes the door behind him, distracted, before stopping short at the sight of me.
“He wishes to be alone.”
“So that’s it?” I ask. “He’s done for?”
I know I’m not technically family. Dr. Syed can’t really say anything to me. But he manages a nod, anyway, running a hand through his hair as he leaves.
Any other time, I’d have felt bad for the guy. But he’d just told my best friend he’s going to die, so I’m not feeling very generous.
I hesitate at the door, calculating the outcomes, running scenarios. I could go in there, acknowledge the news, and let him scream at me to get out like everyone else. Or I could… not do that.
I decide I’m not gonna fucking do that. Instead, I take a deep breath, steeling myself. I’m no longer worried about shaking off my fight with my dad. Fuck my dad. This is more. I turn around and weave through the maze of corridors until I find a vendingmachine. Pulling out my wallet, I feed it a few dollars until it releases two bottles of Dr Pepper (plastic—beggars can’t be choosers). Then I slip back into Walker’s unit. I get to his door and fluff up my hair, making it look windswept and breezy in a way I know annoys him, and take off my coat, tossing it on a chair outside the room. With a final breath, I paste a shit-eating smirk on my face and shove through the door.
“Hey, man, you’ll never believe what I just heard. Remember that douche Steadman? Blaze or Blake or Bobcat or whatever?”
I studiously ignore the tear tracks on Walker’s face, passing him a Dr Pepper and cracking open my own. Moving to the windows, I rip open the curtains, pausing to collect myself against the clench in my gut.Get a grip on it, Michaels.
“Benson?” he offers hoarsely after a minute.
I pretend to scoff. “That’s not it. Is it? Benson Steadman?” I tilt my head, taking a swig of my soda. “Christ, that’s worse than I’d thought.” I look over to see Walker sitting still, his expression shell-shocked from the shitty news. Or maybe it’s from my barging in and rambling like an idiot. “Sorry, the tubes. I forgot.” I take the bottle from hands full of uncomfortable IVs and flick open the cap before passing it back.
He considers it, taking a small sip. “What’s the occasion?”
I hold up my bottle and tap his. “To your health, man.”
His lips twitch, and his tone’s as dry as a salt block. “Apparently, I’m dying.”
I don’t flinch. At least not on the outside. “Not today, you ain’t.”
Walker’s jaundice-yellow eyes meet mine, full of fire. It’s the same look he’d give a bull before jumping in the chute. “Not today,” he agrees.
We each take a swig and sit in silence before he goes, “What was that about Steadman?”
“Fucking qualified for the NFR in Vegas. No way he would have if you were there.”
“If you were there, too.”
I take another sip.
“Do me a favor, man?”
I swallow, recognizing the change in his tone. Walker’s throat works, and his eyes fill. I clench my jaw to keep my composure from slipping into a puddle on the floor.
“Depends on what it is,” I say coolly. “Don’t think you can just pull the ‘I’m dying’ card.”
He gives a wet chuckle. “Fuck,” he mutters under his breath, rubbing at his face. “You’re a dick, you know that?”
I smirk, and he shakes his head, because we both know I would walk through fire for him.
“Get that fucking NFR buckle next year. For the both of us. I can’t stand the thought of Steadman or anyone else getting it. I can barely stand the thought of you getting it, but if it can’t be me, ithasto be you.”
