“I’m so sorry,” Beth says, and it’s not the same platitude people offer when they don’t know what else to say. Beth’s eyes beam with emotion—actual, genuine sorrow—for my loss.
But I want her smile back, not her fucking sorrow, and I want to remember the fun memories of Delia, not the end. Not right now. I don’t want to think about visiting her in that bright, sterile place, hearing worse news after bad, watching her waste away to nothing in a matter of months. Even with cancer, you always think there’ll be time. Maybe not years and years, but some time to fight, or at least process.
But Delia didn’t get to fight, and I had very little time to process fucking anything. She got an inoperable diagnosis and a terminal prognosis, and she didn’t discuss the details with some kid she was just starting to get to know. But after a few weeks of what had to have been the most aggressive chemo sessions ever administered, she and Rose informed me that they’d decided to prioritize Delia’s quality of life over suffering more physical torment on the off chance it actually prolonged her life, if only marginally.
I remember wanting to jump out of my own body with how badly I wanted to try to talk her out of it. To fight for survival at any cost. But I was selfishly motivated, I knew even then. I’d just wanted more time with her—to get to know her better, slowly and organically, like we had since we’d first met.
I stuck around, because I did want to know her as much as I could, and she seemed to enjoy my company. It seemed to distract her. Even if it often seemed as if she was the one distracting me—with her inexplicable cheer and hopefulness, random stories, and borderline inappropriate jokes about the cute nurses. Where I felt robbed by the time we’d lose, Delia was only ever grateful for the time we were given.
I saw her about a week before she died, both of us high on the weed I’d baked into brownies to help with her nausea. Of course, Delia’s high was complemented by a pain management cocktail dripping into her veins from a bag on a stand next to the hospital bed, all of which had been brought into her living room.
Beth thoughtfully listens to the rest, her head bowed in concentration as her fingers absently stroke comfort through my skin and straight into my chest, completely unaware that she’s doing either.
It isn’t until her touch falters that I notice the way she’s chewing the inside of her swollen bottom lip.
“What is it?” I prompt her, but she only shrugs.
Beth traces the outline of my pectoral muscles, ducking her blond head under my chin, either to get a closer look, or to hide. “Do you hate him for it?” she finally breathes against me. “Your birth father? For wanting to…terminate?” It’s as if she can barely bring herself to say the word. Her hands stop touching me as her arms wrap around her middle instead, as if she suddenly needs protection, and my arms fold tightly around her, pulling her more firmly into me as if I can somehow shield her from whatever is haunting her.
“No, Bea,” I tell her honestly. “I don’t.”
Beth pulls back to meet my eyes without meaning to, but it’s too late, her heart is in her gaze, and right now it is hurting.
Beth takes her refuge in the crook of my neck, and I let her, stroking her hair gently—trying to soothe her the way she did me just moments ago.
“No?” she challenges softly. “If he’d had his way you wouldn’t exist. You, David.” She swallows down some unfathomable emotion that takes me by surprise. “What about Delia? What if she’d listened to him and had the abortion—if you lost out on your chance to exist? What then?” she chokes out.
I press a kiss to the side of her head, inhaling deeply, letting her scent relax me. “Then she would have chosen the life she wanted. That’s all any of us can ever do. I guess, for Delia, that didn’t include a baby, but it did a pregnancy. And if it didn’t…then what could anyone do but trust that she made the best decision for herself, at the time, for the life she knew she wanted?” I shrug.
I hadn’t expected Beth to have such a strong reaction to my words, but it’s there in her deep exhale, her renewed grip on me, and in her glassy ocean-blues. It’s as if I’ve just issued some kind of pardon or something.
I wonder if I’ve hit on an issue she just cares deeply about, or if perhaps she knows someone close to her who’s had to make that impossible choice. My thoughts flip like a Rolodex to Lani, Rory, Carl, even Toni—but I stop myself. It isn’t my business. That’s the whole fucking point, isn’t it?
Beth and I don’t talk anymore after that, and sex is the furthest thing from my mind when she eventually drifts off to sleep, still wrapped around me, her head tucked securely under my chin. It isn’t until she rolls onto her back in her sleep that I see the trail of dried tears running down both cheeks, and I spend the rest of the night wide awake, desperately wondering at them.
Chapter Twenty-two
David
“You coming over to watch the Jets lose? Bogart got a keg, so I’m sure he invited half the fucking campus,” Reeve grumbles. At first glance you’d wonder why he pledged a fraternity at all, until you remember that it’s the only thing that keeps him even remotely social. Well, that, and of course there’s the fact that he’s a legacy, and his father is apparently a lot like mine when it comes to wanting his son to follow in his footsteps.
I shrug. “I’ll see what Beth wants to do when she gets home,” I murmur.
Reeve chews the inside of his cheek as if he’s trying to fight a smirk. “Home? You two officially shacked up now?”
I roll my eyes. “Fuck off.” I may talk to Reeve more than most, but that still isn’t much when it comes to the really personal shit—and especially when it comes to Beth. All he knows is that he’s barely seen me since the night we’d scoured the fucking campus for her.
Reeve is fully aware of the reason Beth is staying with me, but it hasn’t stopped his annoying fucking observations, implying there’s more to it—more to us. And while recent events may have proven him right, that doesn’t mean I’m anywhere near ready to cop to it.
Reeve snorts, but though he doesn’t say anything more, he hasn’t let his little comment go.
“Dude, quit fucking smirking,” I say in exasperation, failing miserably at my attempt to pull off a foreboding look to intimidate him off this line of questioning. Not that Reeve would buy it, anyway.
His lips twitch once more before he schools them back into his default inscrutable frown—the one I’ve heard girls describe as “broody,” for which I’ve thoroughly enjoyed busting his balls. But his eyes still accuse me, and it’s fucking irritating.
“She’s like a sister,” I repeat for the umpteenth time, cringing inwardly even as I say it.
He scoffs. “Didn’t realize you were into incest. A little taboo, even for you, no?”
