November 19
Dear Diary,
Now would be a great time to have a girl friend to hash stuff out with. I don’t know what to think. I mean, I know I’m new at this whole…whatever this is. Are we even in “friend” territory? Is it possible to go beyond friends without ever being friends? If this—whatever-thing—is nothing, then why does my stomach still feel so empty?
I guess I thought there was something behind what we shared the other day. You don’t kiss someone the way he did and not feel something, do you?
Maybe I imagined it. Maybe it’s been there for a few weeks. It doesn’t look like he cleans his room much at all. Or…no, I’m an idiot. It’s lingerie! Of course it means what I know it means. Should I just ask him?
But the way he looked at me. And kissed me. And touched me.
I can’t get his blue eyes out of my mind. Every time I close mine, I see his. They pour into me with such intensity. Argh. This is crazy.
I wonder how many girls he’s invited up to his room. I was probably the next contestant on his list of “Player’s Price is Right.” I can’t believe I fell for a guy like that. So stupid.
Now I have to get him out of my head. Should be easy, right?
Who am I kidding!
How do you stop liking someone? Can I just will myself to let him go? How do I forget his lips? Or his touch? Or how his eyes looked like they were memorizing my every feature? Is it possible to see him again and not burst into tears?
I don’t think I want to.
Tears dripped onto the pages as I wrote. The more I wiped them away, the heavier they seemed to fall. Eventually, I gave up. Questions with no answers flooded my mind, making me more confused. My stomach weaved itself into a tight ball. Setting my diary aside, I grabbed the wastepaper basket. I heaved until my chest hurt.
Fire and ice burned in my veins. I picked up my diary and chucked it across my bedroom. After it smacked against the door, I regretted throwing it. I waited a few seconds, hoping my mother wouldn’t come up, wondering if I was all right. When she didn’t come, I collapsed face down on my bed.
My pillow sopped wet with tears, so I turned it over and sobbed until the other side matched. No amount of crying would wash away the rejection.
In my mind, I replayed the afternoon. What if I hadn’t gone inside? Or upstairs? Why had I wanted to organize his room? I would still be holding onto the false assumption that he cared about me.
My mother knocking on my bedroom door woke me up the next morning. I pulled the blankets up to my chest so she wouldn’t see that I’d fallen asleep with my clothes on. No uncomfortable questions that way.
“Yeah?” I flipped onto my stomach to hide the signs of distress.
“Are you hungry?”
“Uh, no. I’m fine. Just worn out from the chemo.”
“Okay, sweetie. Come down when you feel rested.”
I nodded into the pillow.
As soon as the door clicked, emptiness engulfed me again, and the pain that was forgotten in sleep returned with all its fury. I wrapped my arms around my stomach, curling into the fetal position. Unlike Damian’s way for numbing the pain, I would have to suffer through mine. Not fair.
It was past eleven in the morning when my cell rang. I fumbled for it, almost knocking it off my bed. The text was simple.
Thank you.
The number belonged to Damian. I cried myself back to sleep.
If I could have skipped my treatment on Monday, I would have. I didn’t want to see him. What would I say? He didn’t know what I had seen laying on his floor. He didn’t know I knew, and I didn’t want to be that girl.
I walked as slowly as I could to the third floor of the hospital, wondering why I hadn’t just gone home. There were so many times I considered turning back, running to my car and speeding off. But Damian would be there the next time. And the time after that. And the time after that.
“I was starting to get worried,” Leslie said as I passed the nurses’ station. “You’re thirty minutes late. Very unlike you.”
“I know. Sorry.” I didn’t make eye contact.
“Well, let’s get started.”
I followed her to the chemo room, looking behind me a few times. Where was he? Part of me wanted him to be worried about my lateness, like Leslie. I pictured him pacing the hallway, or sitting in my chair in the tiny room, restless with his phone in hand. In my mind, it would be the proof I needed that he cared, that the kiss was real.
But I searched in vain. I spent my two hours alone, pretending to read my book, flipping through my diary and tapping my pencil on the arm of the chair. Minutes ticked by slower than ever. With flared nostrils, I fought the tears back. I pursed my lips together and made clock-watching my new hobby.
He isn’t coming.
I bowed my head and sobbed. His not showing up vindicated the ache in my heart. No matter what I had convinced myself of all weekend, until now I’d held on to the hope that I’d been wrong. I wanted so badly to be wrong.
My stomach turned, and I threw up. Whether from the poison flowing through my veins or the hurt smoldering in my gut, I didn’t know. Time stood still, allowing the pain to take over. I curled up in the chair and cried over someone I never had. Ridiculous.
The door didn’t move until Leslie returned to unhook the central line. She must have noticed my puffy, red eyes, but she didn’t mention it—probably because I didn’t give her time. Her lips formed a straight line, and she sighed as she sat down beside me. Understanding her not-so-subtle ways, I jumped to my feet. I fumbled with my bag, stuffing my things in as I started for the exit.
In a defeated voice, Leslie reminded me, “Treatment on Friday this week, Kate.”
Thanksgiving. Whatever.
“See you then,” I muttered and walked out the door.
Stopping at the elevator, I pushed the down arrow half a dozen times as if it actually helped move the cables faster and waited. Most days the wait didn’t bother me, but today, all I wanted was to crawl under my covers. Leslie’s words rang in my head: “You’re strong, and I know you can handle it.”
I wasn’t handling it. I was falling apart.
I lifted my head to the ceiling. Stupid elevator.
“Kate! Wait!”
I jerked around to look down the hall. Tammy, the new nurse, jogged toward me holding a long white box in her arms.
“I’m glad I caught you,” she said, a soft smile on her face.
I stared at her. I hadn’t really spoken to Tammy since she helped insert my central line. She spent most of her time with the kids who had to stay in the hospital. She handed me the box, which had a large red ribbon wrapped around it that tied in a perfect bow.
“What’s this?”
Tammy shrugged. “The florist dropped it off about ten minutes ago. It has your name on it. Happy Thanksgiving.”
Sure enough, Kate Browdy was scrawled across the top of the box in black ink. I scanned the top, moved the bow to the side, and turned it over. No sign of who it could be from. I began to pull at the satin when the elevator bell rang, and the metal doors opened. Six people already stood inside. Glancing between the bench behind me and the package in my hands, I tipped the box vertical and side-stepped into the elevator.
Not surprisingly, everyone got out on the first floor. Instead of taking my time, I hurried to the car. I tossed my bag in the backseat and laid the box gently on the passenger seat. The bow slipped off easily. Clamping my lower lip between my teeth, I lifted the lid and gasped. Inside laid a dozen red roses. A blank white envelope sat on top of the thorn-free stems. Swallowing, I picked it up and turned it over in my hand.
I studied the flowers; they were beautiful. Someone cared enough to send them.
Who? Why?
The answer waited in the small pocket trembling in my hands. My breaths exited in uneven spurts. What if they were? What if they weren’t?
With my eyes closed, I lifted the flap and pulled out the card inside. I held it in my hand for a few moments, hoping, before opening my eyes. The card was white with tiny red roses printed in the corners. I traced my fingers over the handwriting.
Out of town for the week, visiting grandparents.
Meet me Saturday? My house. 6pm.
Sorry about Friday. I didn't know you'd be there.
Damian
I smiled tentatively and slid the card back inside the envelope. Picking up one of the roses, I lifted it to my nose and inhaled. My eyelids fell as the delicate petals glided over my cheeks like velvety satin. The weight in the pit of my stomach lifted a little.
The flowers looked beautiful in the vase on my night stand. When my mother asked, I told her the truth—just not all of it. I said they were from Dr. Lowell’s son who was volunteering at the hospital.
“He keeps me company during my treatments.” I swallowed. “Sometimes.”
“And?” The eagerness in her irises was crystal clear.
“That’s it,” I answered, my voice pitched higher than usual. Crap.
“Hmm.”
I looked away. “Uh, I have some homework. I’d better…” An involuntary smile began to spread across my face. “See you at dinner?”
Before she could say anything else, I scurried upstairs and closed my door behind me.
On Thanksgiving, I got a text from Damian.
I’m thankful for you.
I didn’t know the proper protocol for something like this. Do I text back? I decided to leave it alone, though I still thought about it for the rest of day.
Mom and I went Black Friday shopping as we always did, but I drove to the hospital by myself.
“Flowers from Damian?” Leslie asked.
I nodded. “Yeah.”
“Kate,” she started.
“I know. It’s okay.”
“That’s not what I was going to say.” She hooked me up to the IV.
“What?”
“I wanted to tell you that I think you’re bringing out the best in him.”
Surprised, I turned to her, my eyebrows puckered. Did she seriously say that?
“I don’t know…I mean, he’s…he’s still…It’s…” I bit the side of my cheek. Complicated.
“Well, whatever it is, I think it might be working.” Leslie smiled and left me to my thoughts.
Already exhausted from a day of shopping, I got up from the armchair as soon as Leslie left. Sliding my IV pole along with me, I climbed up on the hospital bed on the far side of the room and lay down. I pulled the diary out of my purse, but my eyes fell shut before I’d written a single word.