“Sorry, Kenz.” He actually gets up, coming over to me as I slide into a stool at the tiny counter. “What’d they say? You getting better?”
I stare at him. His knack for completely ignoring what’s happening continues to astound me. “No, Rick. I’m not getting better.”
“Ah.” Rick sucks on a tooth, the sound grating. For once, he doesn’t sweep past it. Instead, his eyebrows draw down untilthey’re pressed together over dark brown eyes. My eyes. The only thing that makes us look related at all. “So… what’s the plan now, exactly?”
“I have to go back every week.” I don’t look at him, keeping my gaze on the counter. “I need you to take me, Rick. Please. I’m not going to be able to use the bike for much longer.”
I don’t point out that I’m supposed to be resting.
He inhales. “Everyweek?”
“It’s not like it’s going to be for much longer.” My finger traces over the old ripped laminate. “They said… it’s gonna be weeks, now. Probably less. Days, even. It’s not like this is a permanent arrangement.”
If I cared to think about it, I’d probably speak to someone about how fucked-up it is that I need to persuade my useless sperm doner to take me for critical end-of-life care by leaning into my impending demise.
Luckily I have a knack for not thinking about it at all.
When he doesn’t say anything, I roll my eyes and push away from the counter, sliding past him. “Or don’t. I’ll die either way. Why is there no food here?”
“You know I can’t shop for shit.” He folds his arms as I open the cupboards, searching for something edible. All that greets me is an old, twisted tube of tomato puree and an abandoned box of cereal. “Besides, they cut my hours at the yard.”
The slam of the cupboard door is my only response. We both know why his hours have been cut. “Well, I can’t do anything aboutthat. Are we planning to starve? Should I go ahead and start licking the floor for crumbs? Plenty of ‘em.”
Fuck knows he’s never heard of a vacuum.
Rick scratches his neck awkwardly. “I was thinking…you could speak to Mick at the diner. He’d probably take you back.”
Silent, I lower my hands until I can grip the counter, my knuckles whitening until I can wrestle my rising temper under control. “You want me to go back to work? Now?”
“Well, you’re not going to college.” Rick sounds uncomfortable. “It’s not forever, Kenz.”
No shit.
“And after?” I stare down, not looking at him. I know what he means. “Got any plans for when I’m six feet under?”
What will he do, when he’s finally free of the tiny amount of responsibility he’s bothered to shoulder?
“Plenty of work in other towns.” I hear the sound of the refrigerator opening and closing again. He shifts, placing something down in front of me, and I blink at the wrapped sandwich. He must have made it with the last of the bread I saw this morning. “We could go now. Find another place. Maybe it’d be better somewhere else than here, Kenz. You know, after what’s happened.”
Biting on the inside of my cheek, I consider it, and not for the first time. It’s not like we haven’t talked about it before. I’m not exactly attached to Widow’s Peak – in fact, I’d drive away and leave this fucking place happily in the rearview mirror. “But I need access to the clinic.”
And fuck knows we can’t afford anything within fifty miles of here. We’ve only held onto the trailer because nobody else wants it, and Rick is beer buddies with our landlord.
He doesn’t say anything, and my throat tightens. It’s not the first time I’ve wondered if he might give up on me before I actually take my last breath. If I might wake up one day and he’ll be gone. But he sighs. “Then we need to make do with what we can.”
At least he’s sticking around, I suppose. It’s more than anyone else ever has. I pick the sandwich up, turning it over in myhands. “I’ll speak to Mick. I don’t know how long I’ll be able to work, though. If he even takes me back.”
He’d be stupid to hire me again. Formanyreasons. But Mick’s brain cell count could be done on both hands and still have fingers to spare, so it’s possible.
“Good.” Rick perks up slightly. “That’d help, Ken. And you’ve spent enough time moping in your room. I’ll speak to Rivers about my hours, alright?”
Moping. As if I just got dumped and I’m not rotting from the inside out. I haven’t even been out of hospital for that long. A few weeks.
I lift the sandwich. “Thanks. I’ll eat in my room. Maybe sleep for a while. I’ll speak to Mick later.”
If I can muster up the energy to put one foot in front of the other. Even the thought of going back into town – of seeing anyone after weeks of hiding – has my pulse racing. My scent sharpens, the faint acrid tang that seems to follow me everywhere now filling the trailer, and I swallow, my face flushing.
It’s getting worse.
