Whiskey and Country

1

NICHOLAS

My knuckles rapped on the ajar door, pushing it open when the words “Come on in” resonated from inside the room. Murielle, Derek’s mom, gestured for me to join them.

“Nick,” the boy exclaimed, a permanent smile etched on his face, as if his life was fucking fantastic.

“How are you doing, big guy?” I asked, quirking an eyebrow at him, pulling my lips into a warm smile when we fist-bumped.

“Amazing. Look at this,” my little friend said, pulling a red jersey from the side, pride gushing out from every pore of his being. “Barry Hamilton came over this morning.”

“The hockey player?” I asked.

“Yeah. He’s so huge. Cory Black and Rory Dupont came too.”

I smoothed the polyester fabric of the shirt between my fingers, taking in all the signatures written in black ink.

“Man, this is awesome. The entire team signed this?”

Derek bobbed his head, stars twinkling in his eyes, his grin stretching to both ears. “And we took pictures too. Show Nick, Mom. Show him.”

Murielle handed me her phone, and I swept through the dozens of pictures with the pad of my thumb. My heart frizzled in my chest. I blinked, pushing my emotions down. Derek didn’t deserve me being an emotional mess beside him. He needed my strength. And my unconditional optimism.

“Man, this is pretty cool.” I lifted the paper bag I’d dropped on the edge of the bed when I walked in. “Thought you and I could have lunch together, you know, just us guys. I’ve had a shitty week—oops, sorry,” I said, wrinkling my face and offering Murielle an apologetic smile.

Derek let out a heartfelt laugh. “I’m not six anymore, Nick. It’s okay, I won’t repeat it.”

His mother rose to her feet. “Since Nick is here, I’ll take an hour or two to run some errands. You boys be good, okay?” She turned to face her twelve-year-old. “You all right, baby?”

Derek nodded, the smile still anchored to his face as if every day was the most amazing one in his short life.

“Make sure you keep Nick out of trouble.”

The boy’s laughter reverberated through the small room. And it multiplied when I shrugged. Murielle gave a headshake and spun to face me. “Can you stay until I’m back?”

“Sure. My entire Sunday afternoon is dedicated to my friend here. I’m not going anywhere.”

She squeezed my upper arm and bowed her head before walking out of the room, her lips pressed together in a thin line. I knew the look. Something was going on. It was in the air. Thick and barbed. With a grin plastered across my face, I tried my best to avoid bringing the subject up while Derek could hear us. It could wait. Later, I reiterated to myself.

With a soft thud, I landed my ass on the chair Murielle vacated seconds ago and fished the food from the bag. Greasy cheeseburgers, seasoned fries, extra-large sodas—root beer with no ice for my young friend, just the way he liked it. I knew Derek wasn’t supposed to eat junk food. But I’d asked his doctors a few months ago, and they agreed he could use some fun in his life. And if it meant eating burgers or tacos with me once a week, then so be it. Even Murielle concurred.

Derek lifted his cup and clinked it to mine. “Thanks for the burger, bro.”

I coughed, almost choking on the pieces of fries in my mouth. “Bro?” I repeated, taking a sip to alleviate the itchy feeling in my throat.

Derek shrugged and ended up giggling. Like a kid should always do. “Saw it in a movie last night. Sounded nice. Since we’re best friends, I thought it fitting.”

I swallowed hard. Sometimes I forgot I was the closest thing Derek had to a friend. His peers from school had stopped visiting a year ago. Kids his age ought to be running around on a soccer field or riding bikes, chasing frogs or going to camp, not stuck in a hospital bed, bald, skinny, alone all year round. It wasn’t fair. None of this was how childhood should be.

My eyes found a picture of us by his bed, back when I coached his Little League team, before cancer, smiling on the field with matching golden jerseys and unruly blond hair. A mixture of emotions swirled inside me. I remembered that day as if it were yesterday. When we used to be carefree.

I swiveled my gaze to my friend and mirrored his smile.

“I’m fine with bro if that’s what you want. What do I call you from now on then?”

Derek sighed. Like the pre-teen he was. “Bro. C’mon. If I call you bro, you call me bro. That’s how it works, no?”

I nodded. “I guess.” Bro wasn’t a word I used with Tucker and Jace. We usually called each other man. “Bro’s fine, bro.”

After a game of chess, which Derek won, as always—this kid was smart beyond words—he asked in a small voice, needing the reassurance of my presence, “If I take a nap, will you be there when I wake up?”

I nodded.

There was no other place I’d rather be. Since we’d known each other, this kid had touched my heart in countless ways. I didn’t have it in me to refuse him anything. Minutes later, the sound of his steady breathing filled the air, and my heartbeat kicked up. A nagging feeling clawed my spine, crushing each vertebra. Derek could bring much-required sunshine to this world in the way he beamed and left a permanent mark on those he blessed with his presence rather than being stuck in this room, glued to a bed, too weak to get up. A dark cloud hovered over me each time the thoughts ran freely through my head. With a deep inhale, I scanned the room, pushing all my gloomy reflections as far as I could. Over the last year, Murielle had decorated the walls with her paintings and framed family pictures. The hospital allowed it. Since cancer hit Derek five years ago, this room had become a second home to him. Between surgeries, radiation, chemo, and an endless list of infections, he now lived here full time.

My gaze lingered on his taut face as he slept. Pain dodged his footsteps and won most days. Purple rings shadowed his eyes. In the last year, they had lost their vibrant blue color and were now more a dull shade of gray after everything his body went through. A baseball cap covered his bald head. My eyes drifted to a picture on the wall. A six-year-old Derek blowing candles on his birthday cake, the same smile he bore earlier today, lighting up his healthy little boy’s face. A weight grew in my chest, pressing against my lungs, suffocating me. Nowadays Derek’s skin looked pasty white—almost translucent—having lost its rosy tone.

The boy was dying. I could feel it. My soul recognized the signs as my body ached at the realization. Chills ran through me, involuntary tremors shaking me. The sight of him brought back the memories of watching my father fight cancer when I was fifteen. But my father survived. Derek wouldn’t.

I put the remnants of our lunch back in the paper bag and took everything to the trash can next to the bed.

My gaze lingered on the boy I’d got attached to over the years. Each time I had time off, I swung by the hospital to spend a few hours with him. It felt important. Filling my lungs with quivering inhales, I pinched the bridge of my nose, fighting the emotional storm spiraling inside me that threatened to shatter the facade I usually wore in his presence.

Memories of my time spent with him resurfaced. A tiny smile tugged at my lips.

I was barely seventeen when I met him on the field before one of our Little League games for the first time. From that day on, I’d stuck by his side. His spirit of the game, his cheerfulness, the glow in him drew me in. He was always eager to learn more, always giving his best. We connected big time during those games. Soon Derek felt like a little brother to me. Murielle, being a single mom, often ran late to pick him up after practice. He and I started hanging out together while we waited for her, eating ice cream from the truck parked next to the baseball field, chatting about school and his friends. In more ways than one, from that moment, Murielle and Derek became my second family.

I watched him the nights Murielle had to work double shifts at the restaurant.