Page 48 of Styx & Stones

“Yeah?”

“I think that’s bullshit. I think we’re given the obstacles we’re given by fate, God, or a fucking eight-limbed elephant man, and we just do the best we can. Some of us sink, and some struggle to the surface, but I don’t ever see anyone swimming.” He looks out at the ocean and gives a humorless laugh. “I think life sucks, and it’s a cycle of endless birth, death, and rebirth. You have cancer. What you do with it is what fucking matters.”

“What I do with it?” I ask in disbelief. “What the hell am I supposed to do with it, other than try and get rid of it?”

“You’re supposed to live, Stones. We’re all just here to live.”

How can he be so fucking chill about this? How can he be content with only making it to eighteen, and any birthday beyond that is just icing on the really fucked-up cake? I glare at him across the table, at the food he’s shoveling into his mouth, and the blob of ranch on his unshaven face, and I laugh. It’s a slow, disbelieving laugh that quickly turns into something more, into full-out hysterics and then sobbing tears. Styx studies me as he wipes his mouth clean, places the napkin over his half-eaten food, and throws several bills on the table.

He grabs my hand and pulls me to my feet. I follow him, blind through my tears, and when he pulls me into a hug beside the car, I fall apart.

“I’m ... I-I’m ... s-sorry.” I sob into the soft fabric of his hoodie. He doesn’t say anything. He just lets me cry as he holds me so tight I can’t breathe, and I don’t want him to ever let go. His hand rests on the back of my head. I don’t know how he knows to be exactly what I need, but he does. Maybe it’s that cancer wisdom he mentioned. For a long time, we just stand there, holding onto one another as if we’re each other’s lifeline. That’s how it is for me, at least. I don’t know what I bring to the table for him, but Styx isn’t just my friend—he’s my rock. I’d be lost without him.

I step out of his embrace and sniff. My mascara is likely all over my face, and I can feel how puffy and red my nose is.

“Come on. It’s cold out here.” He opens the car door.

“I think I got your hoodie all wet.”

A salacious grin tips the corners of his mouth.

“You’re sick,” I say.

He laughs. “Yes, I am.” Styx takes off his hoodie and hands it to me. “Put this on. We don’t need you coming down with a cold.”

“Okay.” I press the fabric to my nose and smell it.Styx. “Does this mean I have to give you my scrunchie now that I have your hoodie?”

“You own a scrunchie?”

“No.”

“No problem. I’ll take your panties instead.”

I laugh. “Oh my God. You’re so gross.”

“Get in the car, Stones.”

“I’m not sure I want to. I might be safer taking my chances hitchhiking to Disney rather than travelling with a pervert.”

“Get in the fucking car.”

I throw his hoodie on as he fishes another out of his duffle bag, and I climb into the front seat. Styx hops in a moment later, and we screech out of the small gravel lot. He commandeers the Spotify playlist and I let him because finding music that will impress him is exhausting.

“Thank you,” I say overPanic!’s “Far Too Young to Die”.

He turns the volume down. “For what?”

“For being my life preserver.”

His brows shoot skyward. “Well, it’s only fair since my words were the ones that sent you spiraling. Sometimes I forget this is all new to you.”

“How did you get through it?” I frown. “The last time, I mean?”

“I don’t think I really knew what was going on. I took my meds when I was told to. I spent a lot of time in the hospital—practically lived there for the first three months of my diagnosis while my friends went to movies, and Comicon, and started dating girls. I made friends with the other patients until they dropped off like flies.”

“That must have been so hard.”

He shrugs and darts his eyes from the road to glance at me. “No different from what you’re going through now.”

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