“I know,” I agreed, nodding, “but they said it’s normal to start treatment within a month of the surgery. It’ll be about three weeks by then.”
“But they got it all, right?”
I shrugged, but it felt like two twigs were bending under my shirt. Brittle.
“As far as we know. She’s got to have chemo for a few months to make sure, and then I guess we’ll know more.”
We sat in the silence for a few moments. It was a testament to our hard-won friendship that neither of us felt the need to fill the gaps with useless platitudes.
Some people found Becka… abrasive, too opinionated, but that was okay because Becka had never felt the need to fight for everyone’s approval. I always joked about how I wanted to be Becka when I grew up. I fell into the trap of trying to be everything, all at once, and not who I truly was. It was exhausting.
“How’s your dad doing?” Becka’s voice shook me out of my brief reverie.
I sighed. “He worries. He’s not even trying to put on a brave face, which is actually a good thing because we all know he’s rubbish at it.”
Becka grinned. “Remember that one time I spent Easter at your house? When your dad hurt his foot?”
I barked out a laugh, remembering the day. Dad had stubbed his toe on a chair leg, rather spectacularly. He’d tried to ‘walk it off’, but his face had turned more and more red, until Mum insisted that he sit down and ice it. His voice had gone a full octave higher every time someone had asked if he was okay.
“So, he’s just wearing his normal face around the house,” I carried on, “and Mum keeps telling him that if he keeps looking at her like that, she’s going to make him go stand in the shed.”
We laughed again, and I waved at Dad, who had glanced up when the noise leaked through my open window.
“And how are you, babes?”
I looked to my phone, but Becka was carefully not looking at me. She had moved onto eye shadow.
“I’m not really sure,” I admitted. “I’ve been home a couple weeks now, and I just feel…” I tried to search for a good word, eventually coming up with, “paused. Like, I came home for mum, and I don’t regret that choice, but it feels like I put my life on hold to be here, y’know?”
Becka seemed to freeze, and I watched as the emotions flickered across her face. I rolled my eyes.
“Say what you’re gonna say, Becka.”
She put down her brush and focused on the screen, uncaring of her half-done look.
“I hear you,” she said, clearly choosing her words, “and I think you’re right. Stop looking so surprised. What you and the idol- Jihoon,” she corrected, “have is real. And I think he’s good for you. Seriously, close your mouth, it isn’t that shocking. But I also can’t help questioning if what you were doing in Korea was for you – or him. No, hold up, let me finish.”
I’d opened my mouth, the words readying to fall off my tongue, but I choked the automatic defence back, and let her continue.
“I know he’s enough for you, and I love him for you, but I love you for you more. I know you don’t wanna hear this, but ENT was just a bigger Pisces. You weren’t figuring your shit out there, anymore than you were here in LA. Am I wrong?”
All the arguments I’d had to bite back just moments ago fled, because no. She wasn’t wrong, and I didn’t have the energy to pretend otherwise. Besides, hadn’t I said the exact, same thing?
“I don’t know if I’ll be able to figure my shit out in Cumbria, either.” I sighed.
“The where isn’t the problem, babes,” Becka said, picking up her mascara and looking away. “It’s you.”
I snorted. “Did you just call me a problem?”
Becka waved the mascara wand dismissively. “I’ve called you worse. What I meant is that now you’re there, unemployed-”
“Thanks for the reminder,” I muttered.
“And on your own,” she went on, ignoring me.
“Thanks, again.”
“You have the liberty to reflect inwards, y’know? Use this time to figure out what you want. Where you see yourself in five years, doing what. Y’know – all the shit they told us to reflect on in school.”
