Page 40 of Styx & Stones

“Alright. Then don’t tell your mother,” he says, tossing his keys at the bed. Styx plucks them from midair as if they’ve performed this routine a number of times. “We’ll order in tonight, yeah?”

“We always order in. Will you just leave already so I can fuck my girlfriend?”

Girlfriend?Is that how he sees me, and was he ever going to clue me in? And for the love of God, why are they discussing me and Styx having sex?

“Right, sorry. Going. Oh, and kid, happy birthday.” He closes Styx’s door and a beat later, beyond the crashing furniture—which is likely just his bike squeezing through the tiny kitchen and hallway—he opens the front door and leaves.

Wait. What? I glance up at him. “Today’s your birthday?”

“Yeah. Officially an adult.”

“Oh my God. Styx, why didn’t you tell me?”

He shrugs. “Guess I didn’t want to jinx it. For a long time, I didn’t think I was going to make it to this day. Anyway ... sorry about all that girlfriend stuff.”

“Did you really mean it when you said you were trying to get laid?”

“No!”

“So, you don’t want to have sex with me?”

He exhales loudly and rubs the sleep from his eyes. “You know, I was sure cancer was going to be the thing to take me out of the game, but it seems you’re determined to kill me early, Stones.”

I push up on my elbow and stare down at him. I’m sure my hair is as crazy as usual, and my cheeks get kind of puffy when I sleep, but I can’t resist seeing Styx’s sleepy morning face.

“Do you want to kiss me, Styx?”

His throat bobs. I let out a slow, steady breath and lick my lips. He follows the movement, watching me as intently as I watch him. My heart hammers against my ribcage, a wild, untamable beast, and I know without a doubt he can feel it.

Styx reaches out and cups my cheek, searching my face. “Yeah, I wanna fucking kiss you.”

I grin and flop back on the bed. “Well, I would kiss you, but your morning breath smells like shit.”

“Oh, you’re gonna pay for that.”

Styx rolls on top of me, pinning my arms above my head. I try to kick, but his weight immobilizes my legs too. He leans in, and just when I think he’s about to finally kiss me, he opens his mouth and breathes on me. I thrash and squeal, tossing my head from side to side, trying to escape his death breath. Styx continues breathing his foul, putrid breath on me as tears stream down my cheeks.

Eventually our struggles dissipate, and silence fills the space between us. His sweats are soft and worn against my bare thighs, and his erection presses into me. My panties are soaked, my heart races, and my body trembles beneath his. His skin on my skin is too hot, too much. I ache. All over, I ache for him, for Styx Hendricks, the weirdo loner, that kid with cancer. The boy who shoved his way into my life and became such an important fixture, such a permanent part of me, that I can’t breathe without him.

I can’t process anything I feel. I want, and I ache, and I don’t know how to turn it off. I don’t know how to focus on anything but him, but I’m scared. Scared of loving him, scared of losing him. I’m scared to live.

I swallow around the lump in my throat, and fight back the tears pricking my eyes, but they spill over my lashes anyway.

“Shit. Stones, I’m sorry.” Styx tries to move but I wrap my legs around his hips and my arms around his shoulders, and I pin him in place. Like a butterfly stuck through the middle, I clutch him to me.

“Don’t go. Stay, please ... just stay.” I whisper the words over and over like a mantra, but I’m not even sure if I’m talking about right now or forever.

Stay. Just stay.

He nods and buries his head in the pillow beside me. I’m sure he’s afraid I’ll go all Carrie-at-the-prom on his ass if he moves, but I don’t care. I need to hold onto something. If I don’t, I’m afraid I’ll fall apart completely.

“I’m not going anywhere, Stones. Not without you.”

“Promise?”

He pulls back and studies my face. I don’t know what he finds, but in his eyes, I see it’s not a promise either of us can keep. We don’t get to decide, and that’s what sucks about this situation. We met because we go to a hospital once every three weeks and have our bodies pumped full of chemicals, and if I hadn’t felt a sense of obligation to sit with the others, I probably never would have uttered a word to this kid. Our diagnoses brought us together, but it may be the very thing that tears us apart. I don’t know who I’m more afraid for—Styx or me.

I don’t know which is worse—dying too young, or being the one left behind.

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