“Oh, honey! I’m home,” cries Brooke from the front door.
I suck in a deep breath, sitting up quickly before I race to the bathroom. Cracking the door, so that I don’t make a sound, I give myself a once over in the mirror. My brown eyes look bloodshot, the skin around them puffy and irritated from my tears. My cheeks are splotchy, and my long, dark hair hangs about my face like the Kenzie of old—in other words, I look like a hot mess.
Frantically, I run my fingers through my wavy mane. It takes a lot of work to get my frizzy curls to look, well, not frizzy. On my best day, I manage the beachy-wave look. Just now, I don’t manage to tame it as well as I’d like. I give up, pulling it back into a low ponytail that hangs all the way to my waist. I then splash my face with cool water before patting it dry. When I look at my reflection once more, I stifle a groan. I don’t look much better.
I’m naturally thin, always have been, and my face is round but narrow—like an oval. My features are made up of a bunch of fine lines. My mom calls me delicate, my dad thinks that I look graceful, but all I see is oval; and after an hour of crying, I look a fright. My dark eyeliner is smeared, and mascara is running down my cheeks. I splash my face again, patting it dry before brushing my fingers under my eyes to clear away the smudges.
“Kenzie! Where are you? I’m home!”
She’s excited. This morning, when I arrived back at our apartment, I had been excited for this moment, too. I haven’t seen my best friend since we went our separate ways for winter break. Her family lives in Arizona, and she was home for the holidays. Even though we’ve been texting incessantly over the past month, I’ve missed her.
I met Brooke freshman year. She lived across the hall from me in the dorms. We hit it off right away, and we’ve pretty much been inseparable ever since. When we decided we wanted to live off campus for our second year, there was no question whether or not we’d get a place together. We’re basically nothing alike, so I’m not sure how we click so well, but we do. She’s the yin to my yang, and I love her to death.
“Kenzie Mariah Willis! I—”
I hear her voice growing closer and closer until she stops. Knowing she’s found me, I plaster on a smile just as she pushes open the bathroom door.
Brooke is a five-six to my five-four; but the girl doesn’t own a flat pair of shoes, making her about five-nine or taller just about all the time. I look up at her now, her boots forcing me to tilt my head back in order to see her face. She’s still bundled up from being out in the freezing cold. With her cute beanie—complete with a fat pom-pom on top—pulled over her shoulder-length, golden blonde locks, and her cheeks, as well as the tip of her nose, rosy from being outside, she looks like one of those fictional winter fairies—only taller. Though, the light that shines in her big, bright blue eyes fades the instant she sees me.
“Oh, god—who died?”
It kills me that that is her first question. It breaks my heart that she’s been around me long enough, and I’ve gone through this so many times, that that is always her first question when she’s caught me crying. Even worse, nine times out of ten, she’s exactly right to ask.
I draw in another deep breath in an attempt to ward off more tears before I reply, “Timothy.” His name comes out barely above a whisper. In spite of my efforts, my eyes well up just thinking about the empty room I found this afternoon.
“Yikes. Uh, shit,” she mutters, looking at me anxiously.
Brooke doesn’t handle tears well. Like, at all. I know this, and yet I can’t make myself stop crying.
“Oh, honey, I’m so sorry,” she says, reaching out to rub my arm. “Um, yeah, I don’t remember which one he was, but that sucks. Like, royally sucks. Cancer is a bitch. But, um, yeah—you’re going to be a kick ass doctor one day soon, and you’ll be one of the doctors who helps find the cure. I mean, shit, what year are we in? We’ve got to be getting close, right? With, like, technology advancing everyday and, you know—super smart people trying new, innovative things. I mean—”
“Brooke, stop talking,” I chuckle through my tears, reaching up to pat her hand. “It’s okay. I’ll be okay,” I lie.
The truth is, this time feels different. This time feels harder. This time, hearing her talk about a cure makes me feel inadequate and small. I don’t tell her these things, of course. She doesn’t need to carry the weight of my doubts.
“Sorry. Um—oh!” she gasps, clasping her hands together. “I have an idea. How about some hot chocolate? Do we have milk? I can run down the street to the corner store and grab some. Yeah—I’ll do that. I’ll grab some popcorn, too. We can stay in the rest of the day and drink hot chocolate until we’re sick, and chat about our breaks, and go over class schedules and stuff. Yeah, that’s what we’ll do. I’ll be back in a few!”
Before I can get a word in, she’s racing down the hall. Then, when I hear the front door close, I smile in spite of myself. I turn back to the mirror, suck in air through my nose, and then breathe out my sadness. I have approximately fifteen minutes to pull it together. While my heart aches, Brooke will be back soon, and the rest of the day will go exactly as she described.
It is the Brooke way. Everything can be fixed with chocolate and chatter.
While Brooke is out, I wash my face and put on a fresh coat of eyeliner and mascara. I always feel more human with my eyes darkened. Mom has been telling me I don’t need it since I discovered how much I love it, but she’s my mom. That’s what moms are supposed to say. What they don’t tell you is that eyeliner is a gift from God, and when carefully applied, it makes me look like I’m actually awake and not a zombie with scary hair.
Recognizing that said hair is a lost cause for the day, I comb it to one shoulder before plaiting it in a braid I let dangle down my chest. Then, knowing we’ll be staying in for the rest of the evening, I head back to my room to change my clothes. I’m just pulling on a pale pink, long-sleeved t-shirt over my cheetah print, cotton joggers when there’s a knock at the door. I grab a pair of warm, wool socks from my dresser drawer, scrunching my brow in confusion as I make my way to answer.
“Brooke, if I open this door and your hands are full of—”
I stop mid-sentence when I pull the door open and see someone decidedly taller, darker, and bulkier than my bestie.
“Oh, no,” he murmurs, his shoulders sinking at the sight of me. “Who died?”
I close my eyes, determined to keep the tears at bay as I draw in yet another deep breath. My sob gets clogged in my throat when Owen wraps his arms around me, crushing me against his broad, hard chest.
Unlike Brooke, Owen is great with tears. It’s like he has a sixth sense. He can smell them from a mile away. I might not even know that I have any tears left in me, but he does. Even if I’ve covered up the evidence of my crying spree, he knows about it—kind of like now—and he’s always ready and willing to comfort me—just like this—and I love him and hate him for it at the same time.
I don’t answer his question right away. Instead, I relax in his hold, battling my tears until I feel like I can open my mouth to speak without unleashing them. Then, with a sigh, I gently push my way out of his arms as I tell him about Timothy.
“That sucks, Kenz,” he mutters, shaking his head in disgust.
“Yeah,” I reply with a nod, my thoughts temporarily wading into the dark places of my mind, were hopelessness reigns.
My freezing cold toes remind me that we’re standing in an open doorway. I reach for his jacket and pull him inside before closing us in. “So,” I start to say, shaking my head clear, “not that it’s not good to see you, but what are you doing here?” I look up at him in question, tugging my socks onto my feet.
Owen is a year older than Brooke and me. Like Brooke, I met him in campus housing. He was the resident assistant for the floor above ours. Now, he lives off campus just a couple blocks away. Though, he’s here so often, you wouldn’t know it.
“I just thought I’d drop by to see if you were back. Is Brooke around?”
I smile knowingly, folding my arms across my chest.
“Yeah. She ran out for some milk and popcorn. She’ll be back any minute. You want to chill?”
“Sure,” he says, shrugging his way out of his coat. He drapes it over the arm of the couch before plopping his big frame down on a cushion. I shake my head and roll my eyes, snatching up the garment before heading to the coat closet to hang it up.
“So, when did you get back in town?”
Owen is Cuban, but—like me—was born and raised a Coloradan. However, he’s got family in Miami, which is where he travels every Christmas. I know without even asking that he had a great time out on the beach—he’s got the tan to prove it, his skin the perfect shade of golden brown. Not that he needed anymore of an advantage in the looks department.
He keeps his black hair buzzed close to his scalp, and he’s always sporting a five o’clock shadow, a look that makes the ladies gawk wherever we go. Basically, in one word, Owen is hot. Not to me, obviously—he’s like my brother—but I can understand the appeal.
“I flew in last night,” he tells me as I join him on the couch. “Three weeks in Miami, and I forgot how fucking cold it is here.”
“Well, it might help if you wore some long sleeves,” I tease, extending my leg to poke his big, solid bicep with my toe.
That’s another thing he’s got going for him—all the muscle. Owen is ripped, a result of too much time in the weight room, and an obsession with soccer. He’s in, like, three different leagues. Indoor, outdoor, intramural, club—whatever, he’s in it, and he’s good; good enough that he should play for the school, but he doesn’t. He always says to play at that level would take the fun out of it.
“Oh, my god—what I wouldn’t give to be someplace exotic and warm right now!” cries Brooke as she bursts into the apartment. “It’s so fucking cold!”
She slams the door shut with her foot before leaning her back against it, letting out a relieved sigh, as if she had to walk all the way to the store instead of drive there. Owen stares at her, an amused smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. I watch Owen stare, fighting my own amusement.
“Oh! Owen, hey. ‘Sup, babe? Are you here to help me cheer our girl up? I am all for reinforcements,” she starts to say, making her way to the kitchen. “Though, I probably didn’t get enough popcorn for all three of us. Damn. Oh!” she snaps her fingers as she disappears from view. “We’ll just order pizza when we get hungry.”
“Uh, yeah. Pizza sounds great,” he calls out, loud enough for her to hear. Under his breath, he mumbles, “It’s good to see you, too.”
I pretend not to hear him, just like I pretend I don’t notice each and every lingering stare he throws at Brooke; or how he’ll go out of his way to open doors for her; or how he’ll offer to help her with anything should she need it. I pretend I don’t know that he is totally in love with her—and he pretends that he doesn’t know that I know he is.
It’s all very silly, but I get it. For the sake of his pride, I play along.
“So, what’d I miss?” asks Brooke as she returns, slipping out of her coat. “By the way, I’m feeling sort of torn as to whether or not I want to know. If you were talking about Christmas at the beach, I’m bitch enough to admit that I don’t want to hear that. Envy isn’t good for my skin,” she says with a giggle as she goes to hang up her coat.
A crooked smile crosses my face as Owen smacks his hand over his.
“God—you’re something else, you know that?” he chuckles.
“As a matter of fact…” She lets her sentence trail off, grinning over at us before she tosses me a wink. “I’m going to go change. Be right back. Hey, Owen, could you start heating up the milk for cocoa?”
“Sure, yeah,” he agrees, standing to his feet without hesitation.
I watch him go, almost feeling sort of bad for him. Almost. Honestly, if he wants an in, he’s going to have to try a lot harder. Brooke is completely oblivious when it comes to Owen. He’s been friend-zoned. It’s not even that she did it on purpose. Not really. The truth is, she’s one of those girls. She gets so much attention she doesn’t even realize that she gets attention. It’s her reality. Her normal. Guys flock. When she sees something she likes, she goes after it. Nine times out of ten, she gets what she wants—as she expects she should. Again, that’s her normal. It’s the Brooke way. Needless to say, it’s definitely not the Kenzie way.
But why would it be? I’m nothing like her.
When she comes from her room, I notice that her long legs are now covered in a pair of peach, flannel leggings. She’s got on an old, white hoodie, with the sleeves pushed up to her elbows, the faded emblem on the front announcing—or perhaps, more accurately—whispering that my girl Brooke was once a national champion for her high school cheerleading squad. If that’s not proof enough that she’s always been part of the it crowd—and let’s not pretend that there isn’t, and always will be, an it crowd—then her body is proof enough that she doesn’t need any crowd to make herself stand out. She’s gorgeous and athletic and curvy; not to mention, she’s sassy and bubbly and borderline bitchy, but in that way that somehow reminds you that she’s loyal, through and through.
Me, on the other hand? If I wore that sweatshirt, you’d wonder if I even had boobs. My curves laugh at being called as such. I’m not funny or spirited or boisterous; I’m quiet and shy and studious. I spend my weekends with sick kids, and my week nights doing homework or working as a part-time cashier at the drug store.
Not that our differences really matter. It’s not a competition between Brooke and me. I don’t want Owen, or anyone else that might fall at her feet. In fact, I don’t really date much at all. I’m too busy studying. Studying to be a doctor.
A doctor who—
I stifle a groan, easing myself onto my side as I curl up into a ball, trying to ignore the pressure that seems to be building inside of my chest, demanding that I deal with my feelings—feelings about Timothy, about cancer, about life and what the hell I’m supposed to do with mine. I don’t want to think about it. I don’t want to deal with my feelings right now. I just want to be.
“Uh oh,” Brooke mutters, her eyes meeting mine before she races into the kitchen. “Owen, our girl needs chocolate. Stat!”
It’s on my third cup of cocoa that I zone out completely, my mind leaving the room as I get sucked into my thoughts. I wonder how Timothy’s parents are doing; and then I berate myself for questioning such a thing. Of course they probably feel awful. Inconsolable. Broken. God—I can’t even imagine.
One would think, after almost five years of seeing kids come and go, that it would get easier; that, as callous and horrible as it might be, I would become desensitized to it—or maybe not even that, but perhaps simply that I would come to accept the fact that kids die from cancer all the time. Kids, parents, grandparents. It happens to loads of people. Good people, bad people, young people, old people, it doesn’t matter. I hate it for anyone. More than that, I’m not used to it.
Tonight, it feels like the exact opposite. Tonight, I feel as though I’ve been pushed to my breaking point—a breaking point I didn’t even know that I had.
Kids sometimes get better. The kids that I read to—the children that become my friends—sometimes they kick cancer and they leave the hospital. They leave me behind. There’s nothing, absolutely nothing, better than saying goodbye to a sweet little one who parts with a big hug and a smile. I don’t miss those ones. Or, at least, I try not to. That might sound cold, but I don’t want to miss them. I simply desire to wish them well and to pray for their continued health, with hopes that I’ll never, ever see them again. At least not as patients.
But saying a final goodbye—or more often, missing my chance to say goodbye…
I set aside my mug, grabbing a throw pillow and wrapping it in my arms as I curl myself around it. I think of Timothy. Of Abigale. Ethan. Malik. Christian. Pearl. Hanna. Richard. Gabbie. Maria. I think of the children I never got the chance to say goodbye to; the children who were there one day and gone the next—their absence a puncture to the heart.
Then I think of God.
Right now, I cannot decide whether or not I’m mad at Him. It’s ridiculous. I know. What’s the point in being mad at God? He’s God! The creator of the universe—the lover of my soul. He’s everywhere, all the time. He sees everything. He knows everything. And while I wholeheartedly believe that Timothy was—is—loved by Him, I can’t wrap my head around why He would let this happen.
Of course, I understand that there is a reason for everything; that all things work together for the good of those who love Him. I understand that bad things happen, and that’s the way of the world. I honestly believe that in the midst of it all, God is still good because He’s God! He doesn’t know how to be any other way. And yet, at the very same time, I don’t care about any of that. I don’t care what I’ve been taught about God my whole life.
I’m angry. Furthermore, I’m exhausted.
For years, I’ve been channeling my anger to one purpose, one cause. I needed it to funnel somewhere, and just as mom advised, I was determined to use it for good. I’m smart. Like, really smart. My decision to be a doctor isn’t a foolish one or a far fetched dream. I can do it. But tonight, my anger has shifted, and I’m beginning to question if I want to. I’m beginning to question why I’m allowed to be healthy and alive. I’m beginning to question God.
I’m tired of directing my anger at a goal—a goal that seems way, far out of reach.
“Kenz?”
I barely hear my name before I feel Owen scoop me up off of the couch and into his arms, cradling me against his chest as he stands to his feet. It’s only when my face is buried in his neck that I realize I’m crying again.
“I think she’s had enough chocolate,” I hear Brooke say just as I feel her delicate touch on my arm. “Let’s get her to bed.”
I don’t say a word as Owen carries me to my room, gently depositing me into my unmade bed. I don’t listen as he and Brooke murmur to each other. Instead, when I feel the pull of slumber, I let my sorrow and confusion lead me there. By the time Brooke crawls into bed beside me, pulling the covers over us both, I’m fast asleep.