Things had changed. I never had many rules, but my parents had drawn the line at boys in my bedroom. Maybe now they felt I was too sick to do anything, like having leukemia made me less of a teenager.
They were wrong. When Ryan stepped in the room, I forgot all about cancer. I studied his hair first—the natural highlights turning it gold—and then his summer-at-the-shore tan, dark-yellow hooded sweatshirt, and blue soccer shorts. Finally, I let myself focus on his face—bright blue eyes and brighter smile. He looked down at me with such concern and … attraction. This was why I never had any luck not kissing him. But maybe kissing was what I needed right now; a reminder that Gyver wasn’t the only guy in the world.
“Hey, you. Are you skipping or really sick?” He crossed the room with athletic strides and sat next to me on the bed. His mouth was paused a breath from mine as he waited for my reply.
“Not contagious.” I stretched to meet his lips and his arms curled around me. The summer sun seeped from his skin—warming mine where we touched. We lay down—annoying Jinx, who jumped off the bed, pawed the door open, and left.
“It’d be worth it to catch whatever,” Ryan murmured against my neck, sliding his hand up the hem of my pajama camisole. He paused and glanced at the now-open door. “Your dad’s downstairs. He’s not going to come check on us, is he?” He moved his hand back to my waist.
“I don’t think so.” But his “catch whatever” felt like clouds on a sunny day. The words stole the warmth from my skin and all playfulness from the moment.
“I should go. Coach Burne’ll kill me if I miss the bus.” He sat up, then crashed back for another kiss. “’Kay, I’m really going now. Wish me luck.”
“Good luck.” The words tasted uncertain.
He hesitated. “Mia, I know you’ve been avoiding me, but have you thought at all? About us?”
“Ryan … I can’t.” I played with the cuff of my pajama pants.
“Why not? At least tell me why. Is it Hil? Since when does she run your life?”
“I thought you had to go.” On cue, his phone beeped. “See? That’s probably Chris or Bill wondering where you are.”
“I’ve got a minute.” He put his hand on mine.
“Why can’t we keep things like this?”
“Because it’s not enough anymore. I want to get to know you, as much as I want to do this—” He kissed me until I was dizzy and breathless, then leaned back against my pillow with a look that was exactly as seductive as he intended. “If you really don’t want to date me, let me know. I’m not going to ask again.”
I stared at my hands and chewed my lip. His words were the second echo of my horoscope. “I can’t.”
“Why not?”
I looked at him, lying across my bed like he belonged there. “I’m sick.” The words weren’t as hard as I’d expected, but I waited for his reaction.
He grinned and stood up. “We don’t have to go on a date this minute. I’m already going to be speeding to make the bus.” He pulled out his phone.
“No. I’m … really sick.” These words were harder. I choked them past my necklace, which I’d twisted strangulation-tight. “I’ve got leukemia.”
Ryan continued to look at his phone, but he wasn’t texting. He hit the Power button, shoved it in his pocket, and sat down. Sank down. His face was gray beneath the tan and his mouth half-open. “What?”
I didn’t repeat myself. He couldn’t want to hear it again; I couldn’t say it again. I reached for his hand. Tentative, because I wasn’t sure how he felt about me anymore. Would he ever look at me like he had when entering my bedroom?
“When?” His eyes looked huge against his ashen face. He cradled my hand like it was breakable.
“I found out this summer.”
“This summer? That’s why … Connecticut? And cheerleading?”
“Those aren’t complete sentences, but probably.”
“Leukemia?” He said it slow, like a tricky vocabulary word. “Are you going to be okay?”
“The doctors say everything’s going well …” He was staring at my hand, but his eyes were unfocused. “Don’t you have a game you need to get to?”
I wanted him to stay, to process this and want me anyway. But it had to be his choice.
“The game.” He placed my hand back on my lap like he was putting away a delicate teacup. “Yeah, the game. We’ll talk.” He stood and turned away.
“Ryan, it’s okay. I didn’t expect …” My voice and heart were breaking a little.
“I can’t … Shit! I don’t—I’ve gotta go.” He failed at smiling, then shut the door. His footsteps ran and his tires sped. He couldn’t get away from my illness—from me—fast enough.
I buried my face in my pillow and sobbed. Mad at myself.
He wasn’t worth it. I’d let myself hope. I’d known he’d react this way. Mom warned me. Telling him was a mistake. I couldn’t take it back, though. Soon everyone would know. I ruined everything.
“Kiddo, you need anything?” Dad called from downstairs.
“No, thanks,” I answered in a voice that almost sounded tear free. Not that he’d notice. “Doing homework.”