Page 78 of Slow Burn (Driven 5)
stating ways.
And then I think how arrogant that is of me. To assume I’d be the one in his life. That we’re soul mates.
But for some reason, I just know. It’s that goddamn click.
Besides, I won’t have the time or emotion to invest in a romantic relationship when my thoughts are going to be selfishly on myself and trying to survive. That’s not a fair situation to put someone in even if he tells me to let him make the decision for himself.
I can’t let him fall in love with me as I have with him. Hearts may heal with time, but accepting someone’s love when you’ve experienced the brutality of this illness firsthand yourself is the ultimate act of selfishness.
And I may be self-centered at times, only think about me, but this is one time in my life when I am thinking one hundred percent about others. About Becks and that smile that reaches his eyes and the gentleness of his touch and that solid-gold heart of his that some woman—some healthy woman—deserves to have. One who will love him without the sky falling down around them.
I realize that I’ve opened my eyes and they’re scouring the grass for some reason, focused there instead of looking at Rylee, and then it hits me. I’m looking for a dandelion, a sign from my sister that things are going to be okay. But I can’t find a single one.
And as silly as it seems, that reinforces my decision.
But how do I tell Rylee all of this? I know what she’ll say. She’ll tell me I’m crazy. That I need to stay positive, that my mom beat this beast. That I’m only hurting both of us by shutting Becks out when I need more people in my corner than ever before. She’ll add insult to injury and try to use peer pressure to make me open the doors and let the world in when all I want to do is shut everyone out and hide in the dark for a while.
So I lie to my best friend. Buy some time. Derail her tirade of stubbornness.
“For now. Please?” I open my eyes again and meet her confused look. “I just need some time to accept all of this, deal with this before I can bring someone else—lots of someone elses—into this situation. I don’t want the assessing looks of pity, the constant phone calls where people talk in circles because they’re too chickenshit just to come out and ask my prognosis, or the unexpected knocks on the doors with another foil-covered Pyrex dish as if a frickin’ casserole will cure me.”
Rylee nods, and yet I know she still doesn’t get it. But it’s not her decision to understand. And frankly I’m sick of having to explain myself. My schizophrenic emotions return with a vengeance. Grief giving way to anger, anger turning into disbelief, disbelief somersaulting into a feeling of welcome isolation.
I can’t keep track of them anymore, and I really don’t care to.
I shove up off the ground, needing to move, to embrace the rage I have but still can’t feel. I try to calm myself and focus on what I can feel: the tightness in my chest because I need to cry but can’t seem to urge the tears to come.
I want to tell her that my body’s already broken but just know she’ll arch her eyebrows and give me that “you’ve gotta give me something better than that, Montgomery” look she has mastered to perfection over the near decade we’ve been friends.
“Remember that goulash crap the neighbor across the street brought after Lex’s …” Her words trail off before she says funeral but the memory of that awful food has the corners of my mouth tilting up in a smile.
“The stuff that looked like dog food?” I turn to look at her.
“It smelled like it too.” Her nose crinkles up, and I don’t know what it is, but the laughter bubbles up. The first sounds of it fall from my mouth and hit my ears, sounding so strange against the tumult in my head.
But I can’t stop it.
I can hear the hysteria, can hear the anxiety weaving there, and yet I still laugh loud and deep, the breeze carrying it away and into the distance.
When I look up, Rylee is laughing too, but hers is physically contradicted with tears sliding down her cheeks as her eyes hold steadfast on mine.
Thoughts flicker as I laugh. Fear festers up, and I shove it away momentarily because I need this moment—the sky, the breeze, my best friend. Something to hold on to, to pull back up when I need it on the dark days that I know will be coming. The ones that will try to steal my soul and blind my light.
But this moment gives me the clarity that I’m gonna fight like hell.
I’m gonna fight like a girl: lipstick on, hair done, and attitude in place.
Because shit, I’ve got hearts to break still and heels to wear.
Hearts and heels.
Hearts and heels.
Damn. I’m scared. Petrified.
Trying so hard to keep my grip on reality.
So fearful of the unknown.
