The Fault in Our Stars(17)

“Not bad,” I said. “Bit pretentious. I believe Max Mayhem would refer to that as ‘sissy shit.’”

“Yes, with his teeth gritted, no doubt. God, Mayhem grits his teeth a lot in these books. He’s definitely going to get TMJ, if he survives all this combat.” And then after a second, Gus asked, “When was the last good kiss you had?”

I thought about it. My kissing—all prediagnosis—had been uncomfortable and slobbery, and on some level it always felt like kids playing at being grown. But of course it had been a while. “Years ago,” I said finally. “You?”

“I had a few good kisses with my ex-girlfriend, Caroline Mathers.”

“Years ago?”

“The last one was just less than a year ago.”

“What happened?”

“During the kiss?”

“No, with you and Caroline.”

“Oh,” he said. And then after a second, “Caroline is no longer suffering from personhood.”

“Oh,” I said.

“Yeah,” he said.

“I’m sorry,” I said. I’d known plenty of dead people, of course. But I’d never dated one. I couldn’t even imagine it, really.

“Not your fault, Hazel Grace. We’re all just side effects, right?”

“‘Barnacles on the container ship of consciousness,’” I said, quoting AIA.

“Okay,” he said. “I gotta go to sleep. It’s almost one.”

“Okay,” I said.

“Okay,” he said.

I giggled and said, “Okay.” And then the line was quiet but not dead. I almost felt like he was there in my room with me, but in a way it was better, like I was not in my room and he was not in his, but instead we were together in some invisible and tenuous third space that could only be visited on the phone.

“Okay,” he said after forever. “Maybe okay will be our always.”

“Okay,” I said.

It was Augustus who finally hung up.



Peter Van Houten replied to Augustus’s email four hours after he sent it, but two days later, Van Houten still hadn’t replied to me. Augustus assured me it was because my email was better and required a more thoughtful response, that Van Houten was busy writing answers to my questions, and that brilliant prose took time. But still I worried.

On Wednesday during American Poetry for Dummies 101, I got a text from Augustus:

Isaac out of surgery. It went well. He’s officially NEC.



NEC meant “no evidence of cancer.” A second text came a few seconds later.



I mean, he’s blind. So that’s unfortunate.



That afternoon, Mom consented to loan me the car so I could drive down to Memorial to check in on Isaac.

I found my way to his room on the fifth floor, knocking even though the door was open, and a woman’s voice said, “Come in.” It was a nurse who was doing something to the bandages on Isaac’s eyes. “Hey, Isaac,” I said.

And he said, “Mon?”

“Oh, no. Sorry. No, it’s, um, Hazel. Um, Support Group Hazel? Night-of-the-broken-trophies Hazel?”

“Oh,” he said. “Yeah, people keep saying my other senses will improve to compensate, but CLEARLY NOT YET. Hi, Support Group Hazel. Come over here so I can examine your face with my hands and see deeper into your soul than a sighted person ever could.”

“He’s kidding,” the nurse said.

“Yes,” I said. “I realize.”

I took a few steps toward the bed. I pulled a chair up and sat down, took his hand. “Hey,” I said.

“Hey,” he said back. Then nothing for a while.

“How you feeling?” I asked.

“Okay,” he said. “I don’t know.”

“You don’t know what?” I asked. I looked at his hand because I didn’t want to look at his face blindfolded by bandages. Isaac bit his nails, and I could see some blood on the corners of a couple of his cuticles.

“She hasn’t even visited,” he said. “I mean, we were together fourteen months. Fourteen months is a long time. God, that hurts.” Isaac let go of my hand to fumble for his pain pump, which you hit to give yourself a wave of narcotics.

The nurse, having finished the bandage change, stepped back. “It’s only been a day, Isaac,” she said, vaguely condescending. “You’ve gotta give yourself time to heal. And fourteen months isn’t that long, not in the scheme of things. You’re just getting started, buddy. You’ll see.”

The nurse left. “Is she gone?”

I nodded, then realized he couldn’t see me nod. “Yeah,” I said.

“I’ll see? Really? Did she seriously say that?”

“Qualities of a Good Nurse: Go,” I said.

“1. Doesn’t pun on your disability,” Isaac said.

“2. Gets blood on the first try,” I said.

“Seriously, that is huge. I mean is this my freaking arm or a dartboard? 3. No condescending voice.”

“How are you doing, sweetie?” I asked, cloying. “I’m going to stick you with a needle now. There might be a little ouchie.”

“Is my wittle fuffywump sickywicky?” he answered. And then after a second, “Most of them are good, actually. I just want the hell out of this place.”