Send Me a Sign

“Hi,” I answered, feeling shy and nervous.

 

It was chilly now that I wasn’t flitting around under the stadium lights, but Ryan responded before I had time to shiver. He stepped behind me, rubbing my arms. “Longest. Game. Ever.” He took my hand and towed me to his car.

 

I felt twelve again, flush with the excitement of liking and being liked. Except when I was twelve, I hadn’t felt quite this way about the still-hadn’t-mastered-deodorant boys in my class.

 

He started the ignition before he shut his door. “You’re freezing.”

 

“I’m better already.” I slipped cool hands beneath his shirt: warming them, kissing him.

 

He turned the heat on high and I leaned in again. Now that the car had heat, I was in no rush to leave our out-of-the-way space in the school parking lot.

 

“Oh, hang on a sec.” Ryan reached into the backseat and grabbed a bottle of Listerine.

 

“Your breath is fine.” I laughed.

 

“No, look, it kills germs—see?” He spun the label facing me. “I thought it might help. I know you can’t be around germs.”

 

It was a struggle not to laugh. Or cry. I’d forgotten I was sick—he hadn’t.

 

He opened his door and spit the mouthwash on the cement. “Are you hungry? We missed our reservation.”

 

Ryan’s eyes were on my lips and I’d barely managed “not really,” before his were on mine.

 

“Me either,” he added as he kissed down my jawline.

 

I shivered and he froze. Pulled back and looked worried. “You’re cold. I’m an idiot.”

 

“What? No. That’s not why—” I hadn’t been cold, but now, with him looking at me like I might fall to pieces, reaching out to pull my shirt down so it covered instead of uncovered, I felt icy.

 

“You’re headed to the hospital tomorrow, I should take you home.” The look on his face was everything but desire.

 

I sighed. “I guess.”

 

“Can I come visit? Are there rules?”

 

“Visiting hours are eight to eight. You don’t have to come.” I wrinkled my nose, trying to imagine healthy, handsome Ryan on a ward with sick kids.

 

“I’ll be there.”

 

“I told Lauren today.” I figured I’d practice confessing to him before I told my mother.

 

“Lauren? Really?”

 

“Why are you laughing?” I asked.

 

“I don’t know, I guess I always saw her as your fourth Musketeer—a spare in case one of you moved away or got fat or something.”

 

“Cute.”

 

“Don’t get pissed. I know she’s your friend and all, I just thought you’d start with Hil.” He shrugged. “Now I’ll have someone to drive with to Lakeside. How long will you be there?”

 

He asked me questions for the rest of the drive, and when he pulled into my driveway, I wasn’t ready for The End.

 

“Want to come in?” My parents’ light was on, so I told him to help himself to whatever in the fridge and went upstairs to say good night.

 

“How was the game?” Mom put down her magazine and pulled off her reading glasses.

 

“Good.” I preempted her questions. “And I feel fine, I don’t have a temp, I didn’t get too cold, and I took my meds.”

 

“Good girl.” Mom’s smile was sugary.

 

My father cleared his throat. “Is Ryan here? I didn’t hear a car leave.”

 

“We’re going to watch some TV.” I prayed they wouldn’t decide to go downstairs and greet him in their pajamas. Dad’s had “For Sale” signs all over them.

 

“Don’t stay up too late. You’ve got a tough week ahead of you,” Dad cautioned.

 

“Not long. I promise.” I upped the wattage on my obedient-daughter smile.

 

“Tell Ryan we say hi. Sweet dreams.”

 

When I came downstairs, I expected Ryan to be putting his hands all over me, like he’d always been at parties last spring, but he wasn’t. He placed an arm around my shoulders and turned on SNL reruns. It would’ve been vindicating to know Hil was wrong if I wasn’t panicked about why.

 

Was it Ryan who’d changed, or me? This seemed like the most important question in the world. Like I couldn’t breathe until I’d heard his answer. “Do you, you know, want me? Even though I’m sick?”

 

“What?” He muted the TV and turned to me.

 

I stumbled over the words. “Now that you know. Do you still want me that way?”

 

“Mia, I’m eighteen. You’re seriously hot. If your parents weren’t upstairs …” He rested his hand on the back of the couch and leaned in. “I’d still go for it if I thought you wanted to. Do you?”

 

“It’s not that simple. Leukemia’s not a pretty disease. I’m probably going to lose my hair.” I tucked my knees under my chin and played with the fringe on a throw pillow.

 

“If I shaved my head would you like me less?” He ran his fingers across his hair then placed his hand on my arm.

 

“No, but it’s different.” I leaned my cheek against his hand and wanted to believe him.

 

“Maybe. Or maybe you’ll be faster getting ready and I won’t have to make small talk with your dad. Do we have to worry about it now?” He shrugged and moved closer on the couch.

 

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