Page 30 of The Immortal's One
My breath fogs in front of me, a reminder of the chilly morning air as I complete my first lap.
My muscles loosen. I pick up speed, increasing my pace in small increments, careful not to push too hard before my body has a chance to warm up. The last thing I need is an injury. Not when Dad’s going to need me these next few months.
I’m about to start my third lap when a sudden movement catches my eye. Two men are sprinting on the opposite side of the track. They’re fast. It won’t be long before they catch up. I shift to the outside lane, making space for them to pass.
The men zoom by, their legs pumping furiously. I shake my head. Going from zero to sixty is never a good idea, especially in this weather. They’re asking for a pulled muscle.
I keep a steady pace for the next couple of laps. The burn in my legs grows. Sweat gathers on my brow. I swipe it away with the back of my gloved hand, but soon, the warmth builds up, and I slip off the gloves, tucking them into the sweat-resistant jacket I’ve worn for years.
Running was supposed to clear my mind, to numb the sharp edge of the anger and frustration swirling inside me at how Dad is handling his illness. But as I round the final bend of my last lap, nothing has changed. The storm inside me is just as violent as it was in the kitchen.
Looks like I can’t run away from my problems today.
I slow to a jog, then a walk, to cool down. After one lap, the winter chill bites my damp skin, signaling I’ve cooled down enough. I half-jog, half-walk to my Jeep and dive inside. I turn the key in the ignition, and the car hums to life.
As I wait for the engine to warm up, I pick up my phone from the cupholder where I left it. There’s a text from Dad asking me to pick up a list of items at the store.
The moment I see two prescription pain medications, a fresh wave of sadness crashes over me.
Why does this have to happen to him?
Dad hasn’t had an easy life. Mom left when I was four, and he’s raised me on his own ever since. Being a graduate student at the time, Dad didn’t have much money, and he had no family to lean on. His parents died before I was born, andmy mother’s side never bothered to be involved. They never cared about me, and they certainly never helped Dad when he was left to raise me on his own.
Now that I’m older, I understand the weight he carried—raising me alone while finishing his doctorate. But despite it all, he made sure I had everything I needed and gave me love in abundance. He was my rock.
But now, cancer has entered the picture, and that rock is starting to crumble.
It forces me to confront the undeniable truth that my dad isn’t immortal. One day, he won’t be here anymore. And when that day comes, I’ll be alone.
A tear leaks from the corner of my eye. I brush it away with a sniff, add the items to my shopping list, and slip my phone back into the cupholder. Still, a cloud of helplessness hangs heavy over me, refusing to lift.
After Greece, I always planned to enroll in college full time, my sights set on somewhere out of state. The idea of a fresh start somewhere new appealed to me. And avoiding frigid Northeastern winters would be a bonus.
Now, I’m not so sure that’s a good idea. Maybe I should stay closer to home. If everything goes well, Dad’s chemo will only take four to six months. Then, with any luck, he’ll be in remission. After some time, once I know he’s okay, I can apply out of state.
But every time I think about leaving him, it feels like a betrayal.
I may not be able to cure Dad’s cancer, but I can be here for him in a way he’s always been there for me. That’s the least I can do for the man who gave me everything.
Resting my arms on the steering wheel, I let my forehead drop to my hands, and the tears come. I cry for my dad. Forhis diagnosis. For the life I’d been looking forward to, those dreams now hanging by a thread.
I cry for the uncertainty of the future, for the plans I have to put on hold. I cry for the helplessness I feel in the face of it all.
I hate it.
A tap sounds on my window. My head jerks up. Bleary-eyed, it takes me a second to recognize one of the men from the track standing there, bundled up in winter gear.
I swipe at my eyes and crack the window. “Yes?”
“Sorry to bother you,” he says, his voice tentative. “I was wondering if—wait… Darcie?”
I start at the use of my name. Blinking away more tears, it hits me. I know this guy. “Thane?”
A grin spreads across his face. “That’s me. Small world, huh?”
I nod slowly. “Yeah. Really small.”
His expression falters as his eyes trail over my tear-streaked face. “Is everything okay?”
