“Turn around!” she screeched so loud that I decided right then and there that even going deaf had its perks.
As I turned away, she didn’t delay in burying her forehead between my shoulder blades. She didn’t wrap her arms around my stomach, but I suspected that was only because they were holding Mia’s final words in front of her eyes.
Good words.
Happy words.
Not jealous at all.
I blew out a relieved breath, and as Liv start giggling behind me, I decided to go back to reading.
First off, I need to apologize.
I’m sure you had to put on a suit and sit through some dreadfully boring funeral. My bad. I really wanted something a little more “lively,” but Mom nixed it, complaining that a DJ would be tacky. Whatever. Besides, I figure, if I let her plan my funeral, it will at least give her a distraction for a few days. It’s the least I could do since I croaked and all. Anyway, I hope it didn’t suck too much.
Now, on to the hard stuff. I’m guessing that you’re still mad at me for not telling you about Tommy the tumor. (Yes, I named him. Zip it.) But, if you’re here expecting an apology, I don’t have one for you.
Wait! Wait! Wait! Don’t start shredding shit yet. I do have an explanation.
It’s best if I start at the beginning.
(Imagine I’m dramatically clearing my throat right now.) The day the doctors found that asshole Tommy in my brain was the most surreal day of my life.
I went from happy and healthy to dying in just one visit to the doctor.
My mom cried as he rattled off statistics about the typical life expectancy for someone like me, but with every number, I only got more and more pissed.
I didn’t want to know that shit. Months. Weeks. Days. Why? So I could waste the rest of my life marking days off the calendar?
That’s not living, Quarry.
That’s waiting to die.
I typed out no less than seventy-five texts to you on my way home that day, but in the end, the only one I actually sent said “I love you.” You know what you replied? “Love you too. Whatcha cooking me for dinner? I’m starved.”
I was dying…and you wanted me to cook dinner. I laughed until I couldn’t see the words through my tears. It was the first time I’d smiled since I had been given my life sentence—and the exact moment when I decided not to tell you or Liv the truth.
Fine. I have a brain tumor. But why does that get to dictate how my life ends? Why did I have to spend an entire afternoon holding my grief-stricken parents’ hands when we could have been making jokes over a greasy burger that I no longer had to worry would make me fat? I mean, who wants to live like that? Where everyone around you cries all the time and treats you like you’re made of glass. Definitely not me. I wanted to live the fun life I’d made with the people I loved while I still had it.
You might remember the feast of lasagna, salad, cheesy, garlic bread, and banana pudding I made you that night. But what I remember is the peace I felt while you sat on the counter trying to throw lettuce into my hair when you thought I wasn’t looking. I remember the rush of excitement that morphed into a fit of laughter when you threw me over your shoulder and spun around after you got caught mid-toss. And I remember the overwhelming sense of contentment that washed over me right before I fell asleep securely tucked into your side on the couch.
That night, and however many nights I got after it, I wasn’t waiting to die, Quarry. I won’t apologize for that.
I am sorry I couldn’t stay with you forever though.
I love you, Quarry Page. And I know you loved me too. But, if you’re reading this, I’m past tense. You can’t be afraid to move on.
Live, Q!
Love.
In the present!
Go!
Like, right now!
Put this letter down.
And live.
I know I did.
Thank you for an amazing life,
Mia
P.S. It’s safe to exhale now.
My breath left my burning lungs on the rush of a laugh. God, Mia. In all the times I’d imagined the words on those pages, I’d never once considered how I’d feel after having read them. The relief was just as surprising as it was exhilarating. Her note didn’t really say anything I didn’t know, but it still freed me. The last memory I had of Mia alive was her connected to a slew of wires and machines at the hospital. And the one before that, she was seizing in the front seat of my car. But, in that letter, she wasn’t broken and helpless. She was laughing and cracking jokes. Which was exactly how I wanted to remember her.
Two arms folded around my waist. “You still okay?”
“Yeah, Rocky, I’m good. You feeling any better?” I asked, tilting my head to wipe a stray tear away with my shoulder.
“Much,” she replied, squeezing me tight. “I’m getting a tattoo!” she announced. “Right now. Tonight.”
I dropped my chin to my chest and sighed. Fucking, Mia. Somehow, in only two pages, she’d convinced our little Miss Preppy to get inked.
“I wouldn’t mind starting on my sleeves,” I said, glancing over my shoulder.