Page 31 of Don't Go
"When did you fly in?" I asked.
His hand stayed on my shoulder. "Last night. Couldn't get you on the phone."
I swallowed. "Yeah. I—yeah."
I had no explanation. He didn't ask.
Cade turned from the window and gripped my shoulder hard and didn't speak. Suzanne squeezed my arm. Mom looked up—eyes red, makeup from last night still ghosted at her lashes. She let go of one of Dad's hands, pulled my face down, and kissed my temple. Her hands were cold, and her mouth was warm.
"My boy. We were worried about you."
I pressed my forehead to hers for one beat. "Hey, Mom. I'm alright. Sorry for disappearing suddenly yesterday."
I didn't go to the bed. I stayed on the linoleum at the doorframe, and the bed was eight feet away.
Dad raised a hand off the bed. "Beau."
I couldn't move. Only nodded.
The doctor came around the corner behind me. She looked tired, glasses pushed up into her hair, clipboard against her chest. Two nurses were with her. She nodded at me as she came past.
"Mr. Cross, we have the imaging."
I moved out of her way. She entered the room. I stayed at the doorframe.
She introduced herself to Theo, the new face and skipped the rest. Then she turned to my father.
"Mr. Cross, the mass on the right frontal lobe is a high-grade glioma. The biopsy confirmed glioblastoma."
Hearing it from the doctor again made it hard to breathe for a second.
Mom went very still. Cade didn't move. Dad looked at the doctor with the face he used at the firm when somebody wastelling him bad news about a quarter, a face already moving past the news to what he was going to do about it.
"How long?" he asked.
Mom's hand went to her mouth. "Henry."
The doctor looked at her clipboard, not because she needed to read it. "With aggressive treatment—radiation, chemotherapy, possibly clinical trial enrollment—twelve to fifteen months on average. Some patients do better. Some?—"
Dad cut her off. "Without."
"Mr. Cross?—”
"Without."
"Three to six months."
The room stayed exactly as quiet as it had been.
I stood at the doorframe, and my shoulder pressed into the wood.
I needed something to distract myself from reality. Anything. Anyone
The image came up sideways—a kitchen counter, wet hair clipped at the nape of a neck, the space between her mouth and mine that had been, for one full second, available. Then the picture frame on the wall was hanging straight.
I didn't know why my brain had gone there, but I was grateful it had, so I held it.
Dad's voice came across the room. "Beau."
