فصل شانزدهم

CHAPTER 16

WILL

I dangle my legs off the side of the roof and listen to her voice mail over and over and over again, just to hear her voice on the other end. Her room is dark except for her desk light, and I see her furiously typing away on her computer, her long brown hair pulled into a messy bun.

What could she be doing this late at night?

Is she still thinking about me?

I look up, watching as a gentle flurry of snow starts to fall, landing on my cheeks and my eyelids and my forehead.

I’ve been on the roof of dozens of hospitals through the years. I’ve looked down at the world below and experienced this same feeling at every single one. Longing to be walking through the streets or swimming in the ocean or living life in a way I’ve never really gotten the chance to.

Wanting something that I couldn’t have.

But now what I want isn’t outside. It’s right here, close enough to touch. But I can’t. I didn’t know it was possible to want something so bad you could feel it in your arms and your legs and in every breath you take.

My phone goes off and I look down to see a notification from her app, a tiny pill bottle emoji dancing away.

Bedtime meds!

I can’t even explain why I’m still doing it. But I take one more long look at her and stand, walking over to the stairwell door and grabbing my wallet before it slams shut. I climb slowly down the stairs and back to the third floor, making sure no one is in the hallway before sneaking back in and down to my room.

Going over to the med cart, I take my bedtime pills with chocolate pudding, just like she taught me. I stare at the drawing I did earlier of myself as the Grim Reaper, the blade of my scythe reading “LOVE.” You still doing okay? Hope texts me.

Sighing, I pull off my hoodie and send a text back, fudging the truth a bit. Yeah, I’m fine.

I set up my G-tube feeding and get into bed. I grab my laptop off my bedside table and open YouTube, clicking solemnly on a suggested video of Stella’s that I’ve already seen, because I am just that pathetic right now.

Hope and Jason would not even recognize me.

Hitting mute, I watch the way she tucks her hair behind her ear when she’s concentrating, and the way she throws her head back when she laughs, and the way she crosses her arms in front of her chest when she’s nervous or upset. I watch the way she looks at Abby, and her parents, even the way she jokes around with her friends—but, most of all, I watch the way that people love her. I see it in more than just her family. I see it in Barb’s eyes, and Poe’s eyes, and Julie’s eyes. I see it in every doctor and every nurse and every person who comes into her path.

Hell, even the comments aren’t the garbage fire most YouTube videos get.

Soon I can’t watch anymore. I close my laptop and shut off my light, and lie there in the darkness, feeling every heartbeat in my chest, loud and resolute.

The next day I stare out the window, watching the afternoon winter sun slowly near the horizon as the steady vibrating of my AffloVest thrums away at my chest. I check my phone, surprised to see a text from my mom, checking in with me, instead of my doctors, for the first time since her visit almost two weeks ago: Heard you’ve been doing your treatments. Glad to see you’ve come around.

Rolling my eyes, I toss my phone onto my bed, coughing a wad of mucus into the bedpan I’m holding. I glance over at my door as an envelope slides underneath it, my name written on the front of it.

I know I shouldn’t be excited, but I unhook the AffloVest anyway, jumping up to grab it off the floor. Ripping the envelope open, I pull out a carefully folded piece of paper, opening it all the way up to reveal a cartoon drawing done entirely in crayon.

A tall boy with wavy hair is facing a short girl, black crayon labeling them as Will and Stella. I smile as I notice the tiny pink hearts floating above their heads, chuckling at the giant arrow in between reading “FIVE FEET AT ALL TIMES” in big, bright-red letters.

She clearly didn’t inherit the same art skills as Abby, but it’s cute. What exactly is she trying to say? And five feet? It’s six and she knows it.

My laptop dings behind me, and I race over to it, swiping my fingers across my trackpad to see a new text. From Stella.

There’s nothing there except a link to a YouTube video. When I click on it, it takes me to Stella’s newest video, posted exactly three minutes ago.

“B. cepacia—A Hypothetical.”

I smile warily at the title, watching as Stella waves to the camera, her hair in the messy bun I saw last night from the roof, a pile of items carefully laid out on her bed in front of her.

“Hi, everyone! So, there’s something a little different I want to talk to you about today. Burkholderia cepacia. The risks, the restrictions, the rules of engagement, and how to successfully say it ten times fast! I mean, come on, that is quite a name.” I watch, confused. “All right, so, B. cepacia is a hardy bacterium. It’s so adaptive that it actually feeds on penicillin instead of being attacked by it. So our first line of defense is . . .” She pauses, reaching down to pick up a pocket-size bottle of liquid and holding it up to the camera. “Cal Stat! This is not your average Purell. This is a hospital-grade hand sanitizer. Apply liberally and often!” She snaps on a pair of blue latex gloves, wiggling her fingers to get them comfortably onto her hands. “Next up is good old-fashioned latex gloves. Tried and true, and used for protection in”—she looks down, clearing her throat and examining the pile of items on her bed—“all kinds of activities.” All kinds of activities? I shake my head, a smile creeping onto my face. What is she doing?

Next, I watch as she pulls out a handful of surgical face masks, hanging one around her neck. “B. cepacia thrives best in saliva or phlegm. A cough can travel six feet. A sneeze can travel up to two hundred miles per hour, so don’t let one fly in mixed company.” Two hundred miles per hour. Wow. Good thing I don’t have allergies, or we’d all be done for.

“No saliva also means no kissing.” She takes a deep breath, looking right at me through the camera. “Ever.” I exhale, nodding solemnly. That’s a major bummer. The thought of kissing Stella is . . . I shake my head.

My heart rate practically triples at just the thought of it.

“Our best defense is distance. Six feet is the golden rule,” she says, before bending over to pick up a pool cue from next to her bed. “This is five feet. Five. Feet.” I glance over to the cartoon drawing of us, the red bubble letters jumping out at me. “FIVE FEET AT ALL TIMES.” Where the hell did she get a pool cue?

She holds it out, staring at it with remarkable intensity. “I did a lot of thinking about foot number six. And, to be honest, I got mad.” She looks up at the camera. “As CFers, so much is taken away from us. We live every single day according to treatments, pills.” I pace back and forth, listening to her words.

“Most of us can’t have children, a lot of us never live long enough to try. Only other CFers know what this feels like, but we’re not supposed to fall in love with each other.” She stands up, determined. “So, after all that CF has stolen from me—from us—I’m stealing something back.” She holds up the pool cue defiantly, fighting for every one of us. “I’m stealing three hundred and four point eight millimeters. Twelve whole inches. One fucking foot of space, distance, length.” I stare at the video in total admiration.

“Cystic fibrosis will steal no more from me. From now on, I am the thief.” I swear I hear a cheer somewhere in the distance, rallying in agreement with her. She pauses, looking directly into the camera. Looking directly at me. I stand there, stunned, jumping as there’s three loud knocks on my door.

I yank open the door and there she is. Live.

Stella.

She holds the pool cue out, the tip of it touching my chest, her full eyebrows rising in challenge. “Five feet apart. Deal?” Exhaling, I shake my head, her speech from the video already making me want to close the space between us and kiss her. “That’s going to be hard for me, I’m not gonna lie.” She looks at me, her eyes intent. “Just tell me, Will. Are you in?” I don’t even hesitate. “So in.”

“Then be at the atrium. Nine o’clock.”

And with that, she lowers the pool cue, spinning around and walking back off to her room. I watch her go, feeling excitement overtaking the doubt sitting heavy in the pit of my stomach.

I laugh as she holds up the pool cue in victory like at the end of The Breakfast Club, smiling back at me before going inside room 302.

I take a deep breath, nodding.

Cystic fibrosis will steal no more from me.