Page 65 of Styx & Stones

She lets go, and I continue trailing my hands over her wet body, and down between her legs. I try not to delve inside her pussy. Instead, I focus only on her clit. I keep my touches light as I circle that little center of nerves I can’t wait to get to know better. Her breath catches again and this time I bring her to orgasm with her back against the tiled walls and her hands jerking me off. We come together, and the water runs cold soon after. I take my time drying her body, and she does mine. We nip and touch, kiss and caress, unable to get enough of one another.

The bandages surrounding our lines are soaked, and even though all I want is to take her back to bed and fall asleep, we can’t risk an infection in the tube that runs straight to our hearts, so we temper our lust and carefully clean, sterilize, and rebandage the areas, one after the other.

In the room, I strip the comforter from the bed, and we lie on top of the bottom sheet, covering ourselves with Stones’ chemo cuddle blanket. For the first time in days, I let thoughts of home creep in. What will happen when we get back? Will our parents separate us? For two days our phones have rung incessantly, and I know it isn’t fair for us to be this selfish, but a part of me doesn’t care. Because I am selfish. I have to be. I don’t know how much more time we have.

Stones is curled up in my arms, and I watch the TV with bleary eyes, unable to stop thinking about the future, about how little time we may have left. But for a second, only a split second, I let myself imagine we’re normal kids, with a normal relationship. Able to do all of the things that regular kids do: date, finish high school, go off to college, travel, get a job, have kids, get married, buy a house. All of the things our illness deprives us of. All of the things we’ll likely never do. At least not together.

One in fifty kids is diagnosed with cancer every hour, and only ten percent make it out alive. I stroke Alaska’s hair and smile, knowing we’re both fucking lucky to have even made it this far. It’s pretty fucked up when stage-three and stage-two cancer patients think they’re lucky, but hey, at least we’re not dead yet. All the shit people take for granted. The pettiness, the anger, the arguments over who owns what, who ate the last donut, who left the toilet seat up, and those people who are concerned with how much they have, what they’ve got, what they earn, and what they can take? None of them get it. That insight belongs only to the terminally ill. Those of us who know our days are numbered. To kids like Alaska Stone and me, as fucked up as life is, as unfair and cruel, it’s also sometimes perfect.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

ALASKA

Iglance out the window, nerves running riot inside my veins. Styx grips my hand and squeezes hard. “You ready?”

I nod. “Ready as I’ll ever be.”

“You’re sure about this?”

“I’m sure.”

“Then let’s do it.”

We climb out of the car and I sling my backpack over my shoulder and head toward the long line. My gaze flits over everything—the people, the signs, the booths.

Once we gain entry to the park, we walk up Main Street to the castle. We take several selfies before asking another parkgoer to take a full-length shot of us. I realize a little too late that we maybe should have asked an adult because realization dawns in the girl’s eyes, and I balk as she looks between me and Styx, and her mouth gapes open. “Holy shit! I know you! Kaitlyn, come here.”

I glance at her friend, who’s busy taking her own selfies with the castle.

“Coming,” she says, snapping more pictures of herself.

“That’s okay. We don’t need—”

“Holy fucking shit. You’re Styx and Stones.”

“Er ... no, we’re—”

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