Page 14 of Styx & Stones

“You know, there are plenty of other people in your position, who are just trying to live, and who aren’t making light of their illness.” I button my coat, because my hands need something to do other than punch him in his pretty face.

“Like you?” He raises a brow. The cool autumn breeze stirs his hair from his shoulders. The kid isn’t even wearing a coat. It’s like he wants to die. “Tell me, Stones, how should I treat my diagnosis? How should I behave so that you’re comfortable?”

“Like you actually give a shit. Like you actually want to live,” I snap. My words hang heavy between us.What is it about this guy that drives me so fucking crazy?

A humorless laugh escapes him, and he steps closer. His eyes bore into mine, but they’re not angry.No. His brow is furrowed, his mouth turned down at the corners, and his eyes? His eyes don’t just look sad—theyaresadness. My heart pangs, my stomach twists, and he takes another step closer. So close his breath skims my face. So close we could kiss. “I want a lot of things that I’m likely never going to get.”

I inhale. He exhales. His warm breath brushes my cheek, and then he pushes past and walks to the car waiting at the curb. A car I hadn’t even noticed. He doesn’t look at me as the vehicle peels away, but the woman driving does—his mom, I guess. She smiles and waves, but Styx just looks straight ahead, as if he’s done with me.Dismissed. I’ve been dismissed by loner boy.

Oh, hell no.

***

Ipick up my phoneand open the Gram. Bypassing my feed and notifications, I open up my earlier message to @zedatwoodsbellybuttonlint.

@alaskasaerosoladdiction: You were right. Group therapy is the worst. Why didn’t you warn me?

I stare at the message, waiting for a reply. When it doesn’t come, I click on his profile and check out his page. His bio states: Music journo wannabe,will never grow up, kicked cancer’s ass once ... the bastard came back.

Black and white pics of concerts and rock stars litter his feed. There are also a lot of pictures of Zed Atwood from the band Taint in the throes of rock-god-dom. I guess it makes sense, given his handle, but there is some next-level hero worship going on here.

I scroll for far too long, hoping for just a glimpse of my mystery messager, but if he’s one of the guys in the bands pictured, I wouldn’t know. There’s not a single photo of one man on his own other than Zed Atwood, and I’m pretty sure I’m not talking to him.

@zedatwoodsbellybuttonlint: I’m pretty sure I did.

@alaskasaerosoladdiction: Nope. No, you didn’t.

@zedatwoodsbellybuttonlint: Yeah, I did.

God. Is every guy going through man-o-pause right now?Why are boys so argumentative today?

@alaskasaerosoladdiction: No. You said only that you were sitting it out this time. By the way, this other guy at group said he wanted to sit it out too, but his mom wouldn’t let him. Anyway, thanks for the heads up. Not.

@zedatwoodsbellybuttonlint: So you’re making friends already, huh?

I remember the awkward conversation with Styx and groan out loud, and then cover my mouth so my parents won’t beat down my door asking if they can get me anything. I love them both dearly, but sometimes I hate all the hovering they’ve done since my diagnosis.

@alaskasaerosoladdiction: Urgh. Don’t even get me started on that guy.

@zedatwoodsbellybuttonlint: What did he do? Hit on you at group? That seems kind of desperate.

I frown, wondering exactly what it was that set me off with Styx tonight. Sure, he’s blasé and abrasive, and if he wants to joke about his illness then what do I care? Only ... Idocare. I don’t know him at all, yet I want to strangle the life out of him for being so flippant about his own, well ... life.

@alaskasaerosoladdiction: No, he didn’t hit on me.

@zedatwoodsbellybuttonlint: Then he’s an idiot, because I’ve seen you. You’re hot.

I laugh.

@alaskasaerosoladdiction: Thanks. Wait, are you hitting on me?

@zedatwoodsbellybuttonlint: No. That would be totally inappropriate. I mean, I could be a seventy-year-old pedophile for all you know.

Oh God, he’s right. I don’t know if this guy is thirteen or thirty. My stomach knots. I don’t know him at all, but the idea of not speaking to him sends a pang of disappointment through me. It’s not like I have anyone else to talk to about the cancer stuff.

@alaskasaerosoladdiction: OMG! Are you a seventy-year-old pedophile?

@zedatwoodsbellybuttonlint: LOL. No, but you should be careful who you talk to on the internet. Didn’t your parents ever teach you stranger danger? And does it count that every inch of me feels like a seventy-year-old?

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