Page 39 of Styx & Stones

“The surgery?”

“Yeah.”

“You want the honest truth, or the truth of a guy who wants you to stick around?”

“Both?”

“Well, the guy who wants you to stick around says have the surgery.” His throat bobs against my forehead.

“And the other guy?”

“The other guy’s a dick. Don’t listen to him.”

I laugh, but all I really want to do is the opposite. A strangled sob tears free of my throat and Styx squeezes my shoulder.

“I know it’s kinda fucked up to put pressure on you, but please don’t listen to the other guy.” His voice catches in the back of his throat and he coughs. “I’m not ready to lose you, Stones. I’ll never be ready for that.”

Styx may only be a seventeen-year-old punk kid, but he always knows exactly what to say.

“Cancer wisdom?” I ask.

He nods. “Cancer wisdom.”

***

The sky outside isSan Francisco gray. It’s early. Too early to be awake, but Mr. Hendricks has been juicing. I’m sure he’s trying to be quiet, but with the thin walls in this apartment, it’s like listening to a herd of elephants press their wheatgrass by jumping up and down on top of it.

“Jesus, Dad,” Styx yells and thumps his fist against the bedroom wall. Some of the cracked paint flakes off and falls to the floor.

“Sorry, sorry. I know. I’m trying to be quiet, but this goddamn juicer didn’t get the memo.”

I glance up at Styx’s face.“The memo?”he mouths.

I cover my mouth so my laughter won’t be heard.

“Christ. I hope I never grow old.”

The laughter dies on my lips, and my throat constricts. Styx is sick, just as sick as me, but it’s even worse for him because this is his second time around. He beat cancer once, and it still came back. The reaper wasn’t done with him yet, so what does that mean for him? For me? For us?

I rest my head on his shoulder and squeeze his side tightly. He bows his head. I’m sure he’s wondering what the hell is wrong with me and why I’m now clutching him tighter than a Vulcan death grip.

“You okay?” he whispers against my hair.

“Forty is not old, kid,” his dad bellows from the kitchen.

“Can you shut the fuck up, old man? Some of us are trying to get laid here.”

“Right then, I won’t ask if either of you want a wheatgrass juice.”

“Jesus, go to work already, hippy.”

“Sure.” Mr. Hendricks knocks once and pokes his head through the door. “Just go to school, okay?”

“Can I borrow your truck?”

Styx’s dad frowns. “Are you going to school with it?”

“Probably not.”

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