“It’s Friday afternoon.” Friday? I’d lost two days by drinking all I could. “You realize there is broken glass by the door.”
If I want to pretend that two nights ago didn’t happen, I can’t answer. So I listen to her getting the broom out of the closet and sweeping it up. I push at my hair and turn to bury my face in the cushions forgetting the horrified look on Sam’s face as she left me.
After Mom’s gone, I sit up and gather the bottles I’d hastily shoved under the couch. There is no way Mom didn’t see them. I manage to get them all and pull myself to my feet. I drop them unceremoniously into the recycle bin, creating a melody of breaking glass.
My heads pounds as I make my way to my bedroom. The bed sits unmade as it had been when Sam left. I crawl on it only to rustle Sam’s fragrance. And damn if that doesn’t jerk my cock to life with the image of her sprawled naked burned into my brain.
Still horny as fuck, it takes mere seconds with me doing nothing other than lying on my dick to send it shooting ribbons of cum on my bare chest as I roll over. Cock in hand, I finish the job, longing to be inside her.
You should call her, asshole. I find my phone near the bed. When I turn it on, I get a flash of a text message from Sam before my phone goes dark. I don’t get a chance to read it, but I’m certain she’s calling me every name under the sun, none of them good.
I head to the shower, something I haven’t seen the inside of in days. I’m surprised Mom didn’t mention how rank I must smell. My headache continues to pound away and I don’t deserve relief. I want to be there for her, but something stops me. What am I going to say? Will I have to lie to her like I lied to Drew? The memory is faster than I can stop it.
I’d driven hours to reach his place. His call had scared the shit out of me. Drew was always the optimist. And his words had freaked me the fuck out.
“Drew,” I called out.
“Here.”
I glanced over to see him sprawled over the couch like a wayward blanket.
“What’s going on?”
I planted myself before him on the coffee table.
“What do you think? I’m going to fucking die.”
“No, you’re not. You’re going to beat this.” Whatever this was. Had he gotten the results back? “Where’s Cate?”
“Cate’s in school where she should be. Where I should let her stay.”
“What the fuck, man? What’s up with all the doomsday talk?”
“I have Ewing Sarcoma.”
“Yeah, and?” Because I had no idea what that was. It didn’t sound good.
“My chances of surviving this are somewhere between nil and none.”
“That’s not true,” I said, even though I had no idea.
“Okay, you’re right. If I were say ten to fifteen years younger, I would have a fighting chance. But at my age, the prognosis is far worse.”
For a second I watched him stare at the ceiling with fate kicking his ass. But I wouldn’t let him give up. “You said worse, not no chance. You can beat this thing. Have you told Cate yet?”
That’s when the first water drops leeched from his eyes. And fuck if I had to grit my teeth to not break down myself. There were only a handful of times I’d seen Drew cry. And most of them were before we were out of elementary school.
“I have to let her go, Ben. I have no right to hang on to her. She deserves better than to watch me die.”
“You’re not going to fucking die Drew. We’ll figure this out. You can’t give up yet. And you can’t break Cate’s heart. She’s one of the good ones. You fight this for her.”
“For her,” he echoed.
Slowly, I come back to myself realizing the water had turned tepid on its way to cold. I shut off the shower and get out, wrapping a towel around my waist. I can’t go through this again. The lies about his chances of survival and how I was coping with it had spilled off my tongue as I watched my best friend slowly lose his battle with cancer. The disease didn’t seem to care he’d been the best guy there was out in the world. It still choked the ever-loving life out of him.
I stare into the mirror where Woolly the Fucking Mammoth has taken up residence on my face. I have no desire to shave. So I brush my teeth and towel off, only to find myself standing in my room with no place to go.
You could go apologize to Sam.
That thought sends me into my kitchen with only a pair of boxer briefs on. I yank open the refrigerator door, mad at myself, mad at the world. I pour some of the soup in a cup and put it in the microwave, nuking it until it’s scalding hot. I don’t wait for it to cool off. Instead, I take my punishment like a man and drink it down before fanning myself like a little bitch.
Fuck.
I head to the stocked cabinet and find a bottle of vodka. It burns worse than the soup. But at least I’ve kept my promise to Mom. I’ve eaten something.
The sofa calls to me as the vodka dulls my headache. I pick up the remote and press play. At some point the Drew on the screen seems to be talking to me.