Sometimes I’d invite him to throw the ball with Tucker, Jace, and me.

Once a week, Murielle would have me over for dinner after my parents left town so I wouldn’t feel left out. Because four months after I turned eighteen, my folks moved to Italy. A dream they both cherished. One they had been caressing for years. But also, one I didn’t share. They asked me to come with them. My younger sister, Jessica, did. I refused. My life was in Chicago. My friends were here. And as much as living in Europe sounded awesome, just the idea of going away would knot my stomach in a tight bundle back then.

This was my home. I loved it here. Instead of chasing other people’s dreams, I chose to cherish mine. Because I only had one shot at this life, I wanted to make mine count. On my own terms. I got a job, worked my ass off to get experience, showed my commitment and integrity, and secured my own money. So far, my plan had worked great.

Two years after we met, Derek began chemotherapy. All his hair—including his eyebrows—fell off, and he kept fighting. Thinner and frailer through the battle, he never lost that mischievous spark shining in him.

Still on that bed, his breathing shallow and his frame delicate, I could picture the healthy boy he had been. Because no matter how the illness changed his appearance, it never altered his essence. It shone bright like the scintillating gem he was.

A long huff escaped my tight lips. My eyes stayed anchored to Derek’s figure.

Murielle came back at the exact moment. She touched my side, her tiny hand feather-light against my muscles. “Thank you for spending time with him,” she whispered, her loving eyes resting on her son’s recumbent form, so small under the covers I’d adjusted for him.

I shoved my hands in my pockets, my shoulders sagging forward. “What’s the prognosis?” A lump grew in my throat, and I pushed it down to even up my breathing. I could do this. I had to know. I deserved to know. No matter how bad the truth would hurt.

Murielle cast a glance down and took a wheezing breath before meeting my eyes. “Not good. A few weeks at the most. If at all. His body can’t take it anymore. His white blood cell count is too low. He’s tired. The last infection drained all the energy reserves in him. He doesn’t want to fight anymore. We talked about it. He says he’s ready to go.”

I wiped the tears building in my eyes with my thumb.

“It’s unfair. I’m so sorry.” I shifted around to wrap a defeated Murielle in my arms, rocking her back and forth. I’d do anything to stop the heartbreaking, silent sobs coming out of her. Her shoulders heaved in my embrace. Nothing I could say would make this moment less painful, so I kept my mouth shut, my throat constricting painfully with unshed tears.

* * *

Hours later, after I promised Derek to visit the next day, I slouched my ass on a bar stool, my fingers knitted together on my nape, my elbows anchored to the worn ebony counter as I tried to wrap my brain around all the jumbled-up emotions in my head. And my heart.

Tucker, my best friend since we were five, lightly punched my arm and slid onto the stool next to mine.

“I knew I’d find you here. Bad day?”

I huffed before turning my head to stare at him. “Derek. He’s dying. For real this time. Nothing the doctors can do. It’s over. He’s done fighting.”

“How long?” he asked, motioning the bartender over with a flick of his hand. “We’ll have two more of those,” he said to the man, pointing to the empty tumbler before me.

“Weeks. A month or two at the most.”

“Sorry, man. I know how much you love that kid. Life is fucking unfair. In which world do children have to fight for their lives? It’s a freaking joke.” Tucker shook his head and guzzled half the drink the bartender brought over.

“He asked me if I would look after his mom.” Moisture welled behind my eyeballs, stinging the already raw emotions lingering there.

Tuck glided his finger into his shirt collar and cracked his neck before loosening the navy tie.

“Fuck,” was all he said. Yeah, no other powerful word could translate the feeling we all shared.

In silence, we sipped our drinks while my best friend gestured to the bartender for another round.

“Make them double this time.”

The bartender nodded and turned to grab the whiskey bottle we’d surely empty tonight.

After another minute of silence, where we each ruminated over the unsaid words floating between us, Tuck cleared his throat as his somber eyes fixated on mine. “How’s Murielle?”

The lining of my throat hurt as if a million needles prickled the flesh. And it wasn’t from the liquor we’d been drinking. I blinked fast, pleading my emotions to settle and prevent the tears from blinding me. If Derek could be strong facing a death sentence, then I had to be too. Only then could I support his mother when she’d need me the most. My gaze drifted to a table where a group of women was celebrating one of their milestone birthdays. Big silver balloons, a two and a five, were attached to the back of a chair, and a dozen cherry-red shot glasses spread on the table. The birthday girl rocked a white top and a teal crown, her smile huge and expectant for the years to come. As if nothing could shadow this moment. I used to be that guy. Years ago. Before I understood life was a flimsy line that could fray any moment and shatter everything in its wake. A shake of my head and I swigged down half my drink in one go and focused my attention back on my friend.

“A wreck. The worst part is I couldn’t say anything to lessen the pain. For once, I couldn’t find the words.” I sank my face into my hands and dropped my shoulders with a loud sigh. “What are you supposed to tell a mother who’s about to lose her only child?”

“Nothing, I guess.”

I brought my whiskey to my lips, enjoying the trail of fire down my throat, reminding me I was still alive.

And about to get wasted.

Tags: Emmanuelle Snow Romance
Source: readsnovelonline.net