tell him how I felt (even if I wasn’t exactly sure how to describe it)?
I spent a long time thinking about what I’d say, and revising my lines, but in the end I was about as successful as I’d been with my good-bye note to Dad. As in: Not. At. All.
Sample:
Robinson, I think I loved you from the first moment I saw you.
(But I was high on painkillers that day, so I loved everyone.)
When I look at you, I see a better version of myself.
(Wait—so I want to kiss myself?)
I don’t know what I’d do without you in my life.
(Um… not steal cars?)
It was stupidly, infuriatingly impossible. No wonder I hadn’t written anything decent in ages—I couldn’t even figure out how to tell a boy that I loved him. That whenever I looked into his eyes, I felt like I was drowning and being saved, all at the same time. That if I had to choose between dying tomorrow or spending the rest of my life without him, I would seriously consider picking imminent death.
I was afraid of what I felt. But was that the only reason it was so hard to admit it to him? Or was I afraid that he didn’t feel the same? Yes, I was definitely afraid of that.
Now, as we drove in silence through the wide-open morning, I wanted so much to slide over to his side of the bench seat. I wanted to put my hand on his leg and feel the answering tremor go through him. I wanted to say,
Pull over and kiss me
.
I took a deep breath. I couldn’t sneak over toward him, inch by cowardly inch. I was just going to have to go for it.
All or nothing, Axi. Now is the time.
I closed my eyes, offering a prayer to the gods of young love, Cupid or Aphrodite or Justin Bieber:
Don’t let this be a terrible mistake.
When I opened my eyes again, I saw that the truck was drifting to the right.
“Robinson?” I said, my voice rising as we veered toward the shoulder.
He didn’t answer, and I looked over. His face was so pale it looked almost blue. He began to cough—a terrible, racking, wet sound that came from deep within him.
He looked at me and his eyes were full of fear.
And suddenly he was vomiting.
Blood.
“Stop the truck!” I screamed, reaching for the wheel.
We were already on the shoulder, and Robinson somehow managed to hit the brake while still gagging. Cars whizzed past us, shaking the cab with their speed.
“Oh my God, Robinson!” I cried, moving toward him. I was holding out my hands as if I could catch the blood—as if I could stop it from coming out of him and then put it back inside, where it belonged.
The air swam in front of my eyes. I was crying.
After a horrible, endless moment, Robinson stopped coughing. He wiped his red-streaked mouth with the sleeve of his flannel shirt.
“It’s not that much, really,” he said weakly, looking at his shirt. “I’m okay now.”
But I knew this if I knew anything:
Robinson is not okay.
Then again, it was possible that I wasn’t, either.
26
A ND SO NOW, UNDER A C OLORADO SKY so blue it hurt my eyes, we arrived at the terrible truth. You can plot your escape, you can ditch your life and your family, and you can race down a two-lane highway in a stolen car. But there are things you can never outrun.
Things like cancer. Because that comes along for the ride.
I managed to get us to a hospital forty-five minutes up the road in La Junta. Robinson lay with his head in my lap, and I ached to run my fingers through his hair and tell him everything would be all right. But because the truck didn’t have power steering, I needed both hands on the wheel.
And I wasn’t sure that everything
would
be all right, not at all.
The small hospital waiting room was freezing cold, lit with the kind of harsh fluorescent light that makes people look asdamp and gray as fish. Robinson shivered and leaned against me. There was a bloom of dark blood on his T-shirt. He buttoned his flannel self-consciously. “Otherwise I look like I’ve been stabbed,” he explained.
“I’m not sure that’s a bad thing,” I said.
I spent a long time thinking about what I’d say, and revising my lines, but in the end I was about as successful as I’d been with my good-bye note to Dad. As in: Not. At. All.
Sample:
Robinson, I think I loved you from the first moment I saw you.
(But I was high on painkillers that day, so I loved everyone.)
When I look at you, I see a better version of myself.
(Wait—so I want to kiss myself?)
I don’t know what I’d do without you in my life.
(Um… not steal cars?)
It was stupidly, infuriatingly impossible. No wonder I hadn’t written anything decent in ages—I couldn’t even figure out how to tell a boy that I loved him. That whenever I looked into his eyes, I felt like I was drowning and being saved, all at the same time. That if I had to choose between dying tomorrow or spending the rest of my life without him, I would seriously consider picking imminent death.
I was afraid of what I felt. But was that the only reason it was so hard to admit it to him? Or was I afraid that he didn’t feel the same? Yes, I was definitely afraid of that.
Now, as we drove in silence through the wide-open morning, I wanted so much to slide over to his side of the bench seat. I wanted to put my hand on his leg and feel the answering tremor go through him. I wanted to say,
Pull over and kiss me
.
I took a deep breath. I couldn’t sneak over toward him, inch by cowardly inch. I was just going to have to go for it.
All or nothing, Axi. Now is the time.
I closed my eyes, offering a prayer to the gods of young love, Cupid or Aphrodite or Justin Bieber:
Don’t let this be a terrible mistake.
When I opened my eyes again, I saw that the truck was drifting to the right.
“Robinson?” I said, my voice rising as we veered toward the shoulder.
He didn’t answer, and I looked over. His face was so pale it looked almost blue. He began to cough—a terrible, racking, wet sound that came from deep within him.
He looked at me and his eyes were full of fear.
And suddenly he was vomiting.
Blood.
“Stop the truck!” I screamed, reaching for the wheel.
We were already on the shoulder, and Robinson somehow managed to hit the brake while still gagging. Cars whizzed past us, shaking the cab with their speed.
“Oh my God, Robinson!” I cried, moving toward him. I was holding out my hands as if I could catch the blood—as if I could stop it from coming out of him and then put it back inside, where it belonged.
The air swam in front of my eyes. I was crying.
After a horrible, endless moment, Robinson stopped coughing. He wiped his red-streaked mouth with the sleeve of his flannel shirt.
“It’s not that much, really,” he said weakly, looking at his shirt. “I’m okay now.”
But I knew this if I knew anything:
Robinson is not okay.
Then again, it was possible that I wasn’t, either.
26
A ND SO NOW, UNDER A C OLORADO SKY so blue it hurt my eyes, we arrived at the terrible truth. You can plot your escape, you can ditch your life and your family, and you can race down a two-lane highway in a stolen car. But there are things you can never outrun.
Things like cancer. Because that comes along for the ride.
I managed to get us to a hospital forty-five minutes up the road in La Junta. Robinson lay with his head in my lap, and I ached to run my fingers through his hair and tell him everything would be all right. But because the truck didn’t have power steering, I needed both hands on the wheel.
And I wasn’t sure that everything
would
be all right, not at all.
The small hospital waiting room was freezing cold, lit with the kind of harsh fluorescent light that makes people look asdamp and gray as fish. Robinson shivered and leaned against me. There was a bloom of dark blood on his T-shirt. He buttoned his flannel self-consciously. “Otherwise I look like I’ve been stabbed,” he explained.
“I’m not sure that’s a bad thing,” I said.
Similar Books
