Page 24 of Styx & Stones

I flew over here in my mom’s car. A drive that would normally take me two minutes, I conquered in thirty seconds flat. I wonder if chemo gave me some kind of angry superpower, like I’m the She-Hulk? Or maybe it’s just teen angst and the fact that the boy in front of me is a complete fucking liar that has me so wound up.

“I can explain.”

“Then start.” I fold my arms over my chest and glare at him.

“Do you want to come in?”

“No. I wanna hit you again, but my hand really hurts.” I flex my fingers. Pain shoots through them. I try not to wince. He reaches out to grab my hand, but I yank it back. “What are you doing?”

“Let me see.” His tone is soft, too soft, as if he’s playing the part of the caring boyfriend. Slowly, I hold out my shaking hand and he takes it, massaging my knuckles.

“Ow, ow, ow.”

“I don’t think it’s broken, but you need ice.” He flexes his jaw. Guilt sluices through me. “And so does my face. You wanna come in and I can explain while you ice your hand?”

“Fine, but only because it hurts too much to drive right now.”

He glances at my car parked across his and the neighbor’s drive, the door wide open and the car chiming its annoyance at me for having left the lights on. “Gimme your keys. My mom will pitch a fit if she comes home.”

I frown, a little embarrassed by my She-Hulk impersonation, and I press my keys into his waiting palm. “I was really angry.”

“Was?”

“Am,” I rectify with a scowl.

Styx moves past me and jumps in the driver’s side, adjusting the seat before reversing out of the drive and parking on the street. He climbs out and uses the fob to lock the door as he walks into the house. I follow, taking in the pictures of Styx that I didn’t get to look closely at the last time I was here. There are some where he looks happy and others where he’s frowning at the person snapping the pic. There’s even a photograph of him flipping the bird—which is odd, but it makes me laugh, and it’s so perfectly Styx that I can’t help but smile. I guess his mom felt the same because they gave it prime position on the mantel.

The photos are like a timeline of his life: baby, toddler, and tween, Styx with short hair, Styx with long hair, and then Styx with no hair at all. I look closely at those photos, picking one up to study it further. With his shiny, bald head and dark circles under the eyes, he looked so sick, but his cheeks had taken on that chipmunk, chemo appearance that mine have right now.

“Hey, you wanna stare at the embarrassing evidence of my childhood all day?” Styx leans against the wall, watching me as if I might attack him again. “Or do you want to come ice your hand?”

I straighten and glance at him. “They’re not embarrassing.”

“Yeah, they are, but that’s what happens when your mom’s a semi-famous photographer.” He pushes off the wall and turns toward the kitchen. I follow, opening and clenching my fist.It still hurts.

Styx opens the freezer and pulls out a container of ice, then he grabs a kitchen towel from the holder over the oven and forms a tightly packed cold compress. He gestures for me to place my hand in his, and I hesitate.

“Give me your hand, Stones.”

“I’m still mad at you.”

“I know. Give me your hand anyway,” he says softly. The way his lips turn up in the corners makes my insides tighten, and butterflies swarm my belly. It’s just chemo nausea. It has to be. I place my hand in his, wincing when he turns it over and gently places the ice pack against it. “Is this the first punch you’ve ever thrown?”

“No,” I say defiantly.

He levels me with a disbelieving glance.

“Yes.”

“Well, lucky for both of us, you hit like a girl.”

I scowl, and a grin spreads across his face. “I could always try again.”

“Hold this.” He tilts his chin toward the icepack. I take it from his hands, ignoring the brush of our fingers and the way my heart skips. What the hell is wrong with me?

Styx puts together another makeshift icepack and presses it to his face.

“I thought I hit like a girl?” I ask.

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