Page 29 of The Immortal's One
My frustration boils over. “You’re sick. You should be resting, not running off to the city.”
“You could come with me.”
“No, Dad. You shouldn’t go.” My voice cracks as I lose the fight with the desperation flooding my chest. “You promised you’d rest. Youpromised.”
He winces. “Darcie…”
“Stop pretending like everything is normal.” The words tear from me, raw and guttural. “You’re sick, and you’re acting like nothing’s changed.”
Angry tears roll down my cheeks.
Dad shifts. The strain in his gaze hits me harder than anything else. His shoulders sag under the weight of everything he’s refusing to acknowledge. “Don’t cry, Darcie.”
I can’t help it. Emotion thickens my throat. “Do you even care that you’re sick?”
“Of course, I care.” His voice is softer now, defeated. “But I don’t want to stop living because of my diagnosis. I’m still me. I still want to do the things I love.”
I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to block out the flood of sadness threatening to drown me. I understand what he’s saying, but it still hurts. Watching him insist on acting like the world hasn’t shifted beneath us breaks something inside me.
My phone buzzes on the counter.
I open my eyes. Kayla’s calling.
“You going to answer that?” Dad asks.
“No.” I silence the ringer. “She’s probably just checking to make sure I’m still on for brunch with her and Kevin.”
My stomach sinks even more. I’d been looking forward to seeing Kevin again, but now, meeting up with my childhood crush feels insignificant next to the battle my father is fighting—or should be fighting.
Dad tries to change the subject. “Where are you planning to go?”
My phone buzzes again. This time, it’s a text from Kayla. Like I thought, she wants to confirm our plans.
I text back a quick thumbs up, then look back at Dad. “Brick Cottage.”
“Ah.” He nods. “That’s a nice place.”
I nod.
The silence in the kitchen is heavy, loaded with unspoken words. The coffee maker eventually beeps, and Dad walksover and picks up the mug. He takes a sip, drawing back with a wince when the hot liquid hits his tongue.
I stare at him, drowning in my emotions—anger, sadness, frustration—each one bubbling to the surface with no outlet.
You don’t have to deal with this right now.
“I’m going for a run.” I push away from the counter, sliding my stool back, done with the oatmeal in front of me. I’ve lost my appetite.
“Oh. Okay.” Dad turns the mug between his hands. “Can we… talk later? Maybe at dinner?”
I nod stiffly. “Sure. I’ll grab stuff for chicken parmesan at the store later.”
“Fantastic.” His smile is hesitant, and he watches me with quiet sadness. “I’ll see you later, sweetheart. I love you.”
I know he does. I just wish he loved himself enough to fight this disease head-on.
“I love you, too, Dad.”
The rhythmic slapof my tennis shoes against the cushioned rubber track at my former high school echoes in my ears. Each step is met with a satisfying thud that grounds me, reminding me that I’m still here, still moving forward. Despite the turmoil in my life.
