Dirty Headlines

No boyfriend.

No job.

A dying father and a pile of bills I didn’t know how to pay.

After we both finished, he kissed the back of my neck, turned over, and went to sleep. And me? I had a direct view to his dress pants and the outline of his fat wallet, which seemed to glare back at me.

My heart was a lonely hunter.

Tonight, I’d let it feast.

Three Weeks Later.

“How do I look?”

“Nervous. Anxious. Sweet. Pretty. One of those ought to be the right answer, right?” Dad chuckled, rubbing my arms.

I had put on a white pencil dress and my black Chucks. Classy. Understated. Plus, I was going for serious and professional today. My dark blond hair was styled in a loose chignon, and I’d streaked my hazel eyes with a dramatic eyeliner. This wasn’t my usual attire of flannel shirts, skinny jeans, and faux leather jackets. Then again, it was my first day at my new job, so not looking like a Tokio Hotel dropout was a priority.

I stroked Dad’s bald head—forsaken patches of white hair scattered around it like sad dandelions—and kissed his cheek, where his veins stood out through pale, bluish skin.

“You can call me any time,” I reminded him.

“Oh, yes. My favorite Blondie song.” He grinned.

I rolled my eyes at his dorkiness.

“I’m feeling fine, Jude. Are you coming home after this or staying at Milton’s?” He ruffled my hair like I was a kid, and I guess to him I was.

He launched into another coughing fit mid-sentence. Which is why I felt slightly guilty for the lie. He thought Milton and I were still together. My dad had stage three cancer in his lymph nodes. He’d officially stopped attending his chemo sessions two weeks ago. Time was slipping through our fingers like sand.

His doctors had begged him to continue treatments, but he’d said he was too tired. Read: we were broke. It was either refinance our house or give up treatment, and Dad didn’t want to leave me with nothing—no matter how hard I fought against that decision. Now I was guilt-stricken, walking around with my lonely, worry-soaked heart, carrying it like a chest full of gold—so many precious, heavy, useless things inside.

My voice was gruff from yelling at him to just sell the damn apartment. I’d finally stopped when I realized I was just putting him through more unnecessary agony and stress.

“Back here.” I kissed his temple and waltzed to the kitchen, pulling out the meals I’d made him for the day.

“You don’t spend much time with him lately. Everything okay?”

I nodded, pointing at the Tupperware in front of me. “Breakfast, lunch, dinner, and snacks. There are fresh blankets on your bed in case it gets cold. Did I mention that you can always call me? Yes. Yes, I did.”

“Stop worrying about your old man.” He mussed my carefully done hair again as I exited the kitchen, walking to the door. “And break a leg.”

“With my luck, I don’t doubt it.” I grabbed my shoulder bag, watching as he groaned when he settled in his armchair in front of the TV.

He was wearing the same PJs I knew I was going to see him in when I got back from work God-knows-when. Most people wouldn’t have invested in Netflix when they were neck-deep in debt, but my dad barely left the house. Up until very recently, he’d always been suffering from nausea and felt extremely weak. Chemotherapy killed not only his cancerous cells, but also his appetite. The only thing he did have were shows like Black Mirror, House of Cards, and Luke Cage. No way was I going to deprive him of his only entertainment, even if I had to pick up another job on top of this one.

And this is the part they don’t tell you about losing a loved one to cancer: They’re not the only people being eaten alive. When they get it, you get it. The cancer nibbles away at your time with them, feasts on the happy moments, feeds off every second of bliss. It devours your paycheck and savings. It nourishes itself on your misery and multiplies in your chest, even if you don’t have it.

I lost my mom to breast cancer ten years ago.

Now my dad was next, and there was nothing I could do to stop it.

The ride from Brooklyn to Manhattan was long, and I didn’t have my iPod with me. That’s what you get for being a shithead and stealing from a stranger. I’d left it, my earbuds, and my morals back in the hotel suite. No matter. The money had paid two red electricity bills and covered our weekly grocery shopping. And now I had time to read through all the material I’d printed out in advance about the Laurent Broadcasting Company. LBC was headquartered in a gigantic high-rise building on Madison Avenue. They were one of the top four news channels in the world, alongside MSNBC, CNN, and FOX. I’d accepted a job as a junior reporter in their beauty and lifestyle online blog division, which wasn’t exactly my lifegoal. Then again, not drowning under past-due bills was pretty high on my to-do list.