Rushed(28)

Whoa. My father has never wanted to meet someone I've been seeing, casually or not. If we lived in the States, I think he'd have spent most of my high school years with a shotgun ready behind the door, at least until the cancer started back again. "I . . . I'll try. He's on the team, and they won't have a bye week until week six of the regular season. Until then, he's working six days a week."

"I can hang on that long. Don't worry about that. I love you."

"I love you too, Daddy."

We hang up, and I have the cry that's been threatening to burst loose since the beginning of the phone call, and hearing Dad's words. The tears are hot, burning and bitter. It's just not fair!

"I want my parents back!" I scream up at the ceiling. It's not good enough, and I storm out to my tiny balcony, looking up to whatever God or gods are up there, repeating myself over and over until I grow hoarse.

I start crying again, until the tears wash away the hatred, putting out the flames at least for a little while. Instead, I feel hollow, and I know that I can't stay here tonight. I think about what to do, and know there's only one place that I can go, where I'll be safe and protected. I grab my backpack and keys, and head out the door.



"April! How good to . . . what's wrong? Come in, come in," Tyler says when he opens his door, and a little part of me chuckles at the fact that he's back to wearing just a pair of exercise shorts and no t-shirt. I didn't know Californians were also mostly nudists.

"I brought your laundry," I say, trying to keep up a chirpy demeanor, but obviously there are already cracks in my facade, or maybe Tyler just knows me that well already. "I didn't want you wearing dirty socks tomorrow for the game. But the pink underwear I'd like to see."

"Very funny," he replies, taking the bag and tossing it behind him without caring where it lands. It ends up knocking over one of his dining table chairs, but he doesn't even care, instead he's studying my face, pulling me closer. He doesn't ask any questions, but instead just hugs me, his skin warm and comforting. Despite the fact that he's only half dressed, there's no sexiness in it, just comfort. Fresh tears flow, but they're healing, and I let him close the door and lead me to the couch, where I sit down while he goes and gets me a cup of tea. "Here. It's not fresh, I brewed it this morning, but I put milk and sugar in it too."

I sip, and it's not too hot, so I take another sip. It's sweet and good, and helps calm me. "Thanks. I didn't think you drank tea."

"Californians, we either suck down tea, or we have to go gourmet roasted hand-picked beans from the southern slopes of the Himalayas. Since I'd burn instant coffee, tea's easier."

I smile at his little joke while Tyler comes around and sits down next to me, patting my knee. "Okay . . . so what's wrong? And thanks for the laundry."

"You're welcome," I reply, drinking another bit of the tea. I set the mug on the side table and lean into Tyler, needing his comfort more than the sugar and caffeine. "I'm sorry I surprised you like this."

"It's okay," Tyler says quietly, reaching and arm around my shoulders. "Want to tell me about it?"

"My . . . my parents aren't in good health," I say quietly. "My mother was diagnosed with early onset Alzheimer's while I was still in school, and Dad . . . his cancer came back."

"Came back?" Tyler asks, and I nod.

"He was first diagnosed with liver cancer when I was in elementary school, but they thought they caught it. He was supposedly cancer free almost all the way until I graduated, but about six months after Mom's diagnosis, it came back."

"Damn," Tyler says softly. "So you got some bad news tonight."

I nod. “The doctors have given up hope. They're stopping the chemo so he can be comfortable the rest of his days. He and Mom . . . they're moving into the hospice house."

"How much time does he have?" Tyler asks quietly. "I mean, best guess."

"Best guess? If the team sucks this year, he might be able to see all of your first year in Canada," I whisper. "If you guys make the Cup, I doubt he's going to see that."

"So what do you want to do?" Tyler asks softly. "This has got to be a ton of stress on you."

Tyler . . . always helpful, always focused on finding a solution and listening to what I want. No wonder I came to him. "I want to send more money to help them. Dad can't take care of Mom, not the way he is, and the hospice home only has a nurse or an assistant coming by every other day, but I can't afford it. I'm already sending every dollar I can to help them."

Tyler nods, and holds me quietly for a few minutes. He shifts, and I think maybe I'm starting to get too heavy for him, but he clears his throat instead. "I don't think you'd take an offer to help out financially, but you know, there are ways you can get your hands on some money.”

"Like what?" I ask, comfortable against him. "In case you haven't noticed, my current job keeps me hopping a lot."

"Well, before you said you had a roommate. What about doing it again?"

I turn my head and look at him, and he's dead serious, yet nervous too. Why? "Tyler, that's great, but I doubt I can find one in time to really make a difference. Last time it took me five months to find a roomie."