Hating You, Loving You (Inked Hearts 4)

I nod. At the time, it was the scariest thing in the world.

"Is he okay?"

"Yeah. It's treatable, as far as cancer goes. He caught it early."

"Did he have to do chemo?"

"No. Just radiation treatment for a few weeks. He took it in stride. Acted like it never fazed him. But now… I don't know. He must have been scared."

She nods. "It's scary when someone you love is sick. Not knowing what's gonna happen. Trying to be strong for them when you're falling apart inside."

"With your mom?"

"Yeah." Her voice trails off. Her gaze shifts to the cookie on her plate. "When she looked at me, and she saw the concern in my eyes… she had to swallow all her fear to placate me. She had to hide her feelings."

"You were a kid."

"But if I wasn't?"

"Doesn't matter. You were."

"But it must have been hard for her. Feeling like she had to convince me I was okay. Like she was the one who took the weight of everyone else's grief."

She's not talking about her mom anymore.

She's talking about someone else.

But who the hell is it?

Chapter Nineteen

Chloe

Dean never quite gets back to his carefree self.

We finish our massive lunches, sip another round of tea, drive back to my place with Stone Temple Pilots filling the car.

Hug goodbye.

I push my thoughts aside. Pour myself into tattoo mock-ups. Into swimming laps. Into inking bananas.

Sunday is work. I'm officially on Dean's schedule.

I sit next to him as he tapes a stencil to a pretty girl's ribs. I watch him flirt just enough to set her at ease. But it's not the same as it was. He holds back. Keeps the conversation tame. Glances at me every few sentences to check my reaction.

I barely manage to hide my jealousy.

I barely manage to keep my hands to myself.

I barely manage to swallow all the confessions that rise into my throat.

It was me. I was the one who had to convince everyone I was okay with dying. That their preemptive grief wasn't tearing me apart.

And it might be me again.

Even though our schedule is packed, the day passes slowly. My thoughts keep turning to kissing him. Touching him. Telling him.

We finish, I head to aikido, stretch, spar, drive home, make dinner for Dad, watch sitcom reruns on the couch, hide in my room with my sketchbook.