The curtains billowed as a breeze blew in. I swung the pillow over my head, eclipsing the dawn rays. I shifted on the thin mattress. The poor excuse for a blanket tangled around my feet. The few meager hours of sleep I had were fitful and overshadowed by nightmares.

Pat had come back with a vengeance, and I'll say this—he'd been working out. But, this time, Heather didn't catch me.

Chuck would drive us to the hospital in a few hours to see Dad, so I forced myself out of bed, glancing out the window.

Chuck's truck is parked on Heather's drive, which is ridiculous because our house is across the street. As with all other lousy news recently, it registered with a sudden drop in the solar plexus. The family therapist, Dr. Oetker, said the best way to avoid situations I cannot control is to visualize them beforehand.

So that's what I did...

The hospital would be ten degrees cooler than my house. The chill it could invoke would seep deeper than the goosebumps on my skin until it became sediment in my veins. I planned to tell Dad I wasn't a virgin anymore, so I would probably be the first to die in a horror film, and that Heather had been the one until she wasn't, and that I probably would not see her much after today because I think I knew what 'The Ick' was and now I'd caught it too.

The worst thing about parental cancer is seeing them vulnerable. Cancer steals memories, erases faces, and inserts a more fragile, baggy-skinned skeleton in its place. Your tunnel visioned on IV bags, tubes, and the smile as they try to still reassure you everything's okay.

Dad, I imagined, would tell me to take a breath, even when it pained him to do the same. He'd tell me a story. His stories are the best. Maybe when he reached what he deemed to be the punchline, Chuck would place a hand on my shoulder, or maybe he wouldn't. Either way, I would show Dad I wasn't a complete fuck up. I would try harder for him because, in our family of thorns, there'd only ever been two of us to me.

Maybe then, with all this going on, I wouldn't notice the tubes so much. And I'd pretend to him that everything would be okay, and for once, one of us would mean it. Whatever came next.

My stomach lurched. My hand caught the bedside table just as my knees threatened to buckle. Visualization sucks ass. Everything but the sun came crashing down. When Heather barged through my door an hour later, I was in a semi-comfortable fetal position on the floor, crying like an infant.

I fixed on a spot above my bed where my old playboy centerfold used to be and, through reddening eyes, stared the shit out of it to avoid eye contact with her. It was the first time in months my thoughts weren't muted. It hurt to high hell but there was a clarity to them that I wanted to keep.

"Adrian, we need to talk."

I tried hard not to listen, but she talked in her super out loud voice. The piercing sound made it difficult to focus. "We're done, Heather. I've got The Ick."

"No, we are not, and no, you don't. I didn't kiss Chuck. Why would you believe it so easily?"

Trust Heather to be mad that I believed her words. "Because you said it, and you've never lied before. And maybe because I pissed you off and you had to walk home alone—USING YOUR OWN LEGS."

"I wanted to go to the party..." she started.

"And you did what every other person does at a party—they make out with Chuck."

I sighed in the silence that preceded, unprepared for her answer.

"No, I wanted to go with you, but you told me you'd rather have radiation poisoning. I thought you dumped your drink down my back because I wouldn't leave with you."

I propped myself up on one elbow ready to clarify. "I would rather go to Chernobyl than hang with Chuck, not rather than hang out with you."

"I sent you that message because I needed to know what you felt for me because I never have a clue. You tell me about the attractive girls you work with and that you don't want to take me to prom—but you have sex with me? I knew, above all else, Chuck would provoke a reaction if anything ever would. But you never responded. I'm sorry—for all of it. Chuck did tell me the truth about the drink, though. At least someone's being honest."

How could she have it so wrong? "I bet Chuck told you a lot. How long was he parked in your driveway for?" I started to nod, letting her know that I saw through the bullshit she was attempting to spin.

She sucked in a sharp breath before her eyes hardened. "Chuck came back to get me after your fight. I wanted it to be you."

She opened her mouth again to speak, but Mom peeked through the door. I suspected she'd been there a lot longer. "It's time to go, Adrian. Visiting hours start soon."

Heather's eyes widened. "Are you going to see your dad?"

I nodded.

"Can I see you later?" she asked. "We still need to talk."

I shrugged and looked toward the window—because now I am the dick, just as Chuck said I am.

Using Your Own Legs

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