fickle like that—on your side one moment, against you the next.
After she forgave me, my first thought was selfish: I can’t go home without her. How could life betray me like this? Again? Who the fuck did I piss off? Then my mind went back to losing my mother, dredging up all sorts of crap I’d rather let lie. The whole while, Nina’s been a wreck. The tears, the questions, the what-ifs. I’ve lived those fears, drowned in them. It kills me to see her following the same path.
I’m sick about her mother. Through Nina’s endless stories, I feel like I know the woman even though we’ve never met. But my tears right now, the ones falling on Nina’s hair as I hug her tight, those tears are for us. I can’t leave my dad. Not now. He’s been up and down because I left. One moment he’s taking care of himself, cooking, shopping, and calling my sister to check on her. Then he’s back in bed, trying to find a reason to get out. He was better when I was home, better with me around. When I took off on this trip, I knew he might get worse. I also knew I was floundering and needed to get away.
So this is my punishment for putting myself first.
My sister is off at college, and I made her promise to stay in school. My uncle has a new job, more demands, and can’t be around as much. That leaves me to make sure my dad makes it through. It also puts Nina and me between a rock and the Mount Everest of hard places.
I know people do long-distance relationships, but I also know most of them don’t work. Too many milestones that can’t be shared. Too many nights alone. Too many distractions. It’s not me I’m worried about. I’d wait a lifetime for Nina. I know that now. Once we’re apart, though, I’m not sure she’ll be okay with me and my legs if someone whole comes along. And if her mom doesn’t pull through…
A band tightens around my ribs.
Nina stirs, her long lashes blinking against my neck. “Sam?”
“Mmhmm.” I give my head a shake.
“I feel guilty.”
I slide down so we’re face-to-face, our foreheads practically touching. “That’s ridiculous. Guilty about what?”
She sniffles and runs her fingertips over the scar on my chin. “I’m upset about my mom. Really worried. I’m sad for her, for my dad, my family. And me. But I’m lying here, and all I can think about is us. I just…” The words get swallowed by a sob.
I grab her wrist and press her palm over my heart. So much for me not bawling in front of her. Wetness coats my cheek. “We’ll get through this.” I blow out a breath and blink the sting from my eyes. “We’re the fucked-up guy and disaster-magnet girl ready to take on the world, remember? We’ll Skype. We’ll text. We’ll send fucking letters in the mail. This doesn’t end here. Not by a long shot. Look at me and promise. Promise me this doesn’t end.”
She nods, more tears falling. “Yes. God, I promise. This doesn’t end. We don’t end. We can’t. But we need a plan. I need to know I’ll see you again, even if we change it or the worst happens. I need to have something to hold on to.”
She’s right. We need an endgame. An objective. I have to treat this like college football: playoffs, tied in the fourth, one second left, a failed field goal the only thing between me and a mad dash toward the end zone. Like my coach says, “You fail at a hundred percent of the goals you don’t set.”
“One year,” I say. “How about a year? To the date. Your mom said she thinks she’ll need six months of chemo after the surgery. And people beat breast cancer all the time. Figure in the recovery, and one year is doable. She’ll be as good as new, and we can pick up where we left off.” I kiss her as another tear slips out, the liquid running over our lips.
But those damn ifs pile up. If her mom’s not okay…if the worst happens…if my dad’s never okay enough for me to live somewhere else. I pull back, bitterness and sadness all I taste. Goals. Endgame. Focus on the positive. “We’ll squeeze in some weekend trips, too. I’ll visit you. You’ll visit me.” I say a silent prayer to my mom to help make