Five Feet Apart(2)

“You were the head of the planning committee this year, though! Can’t you get them to move your treatments? We don’t want you to be stuck here,” Camila says, gesturing to the hospital room I so carefully decorated.

I shake my head. “We still have spring break together! And I haven’t missed a spring break ‘Besties Weekend’ since eighth grade, when I got that cold!” I say, smiling hopefully and looking back and forth between Camila and Mya. Neither of them returns my smile, though, and both opt to continue looking like I killed their family pets.

I notice they’re both holding the bags of bathing suits I told them to bring, so I grab Camila’s out of her hand in a desperate attempt to change the subject. “Ooh, suit options! We have to pick out the best ones!” Since I’m not going to be basking in the warm Cabo sun in a bathing suit of my choice, I figure I can at least live a little vicariously through my friends by picking out theirs with them.

This perks them both up. We eagerly dump their bags out on my bed, creating a mishmash of florals and polka dots and fluorescents.

I scan Camila’s pile of bathing suits, grabbing a red one that falls somewhere between a bikini bottom and a single piece of thread, which I know without a doubt is a hand-me-down from her older sister, Megan.

I toss it to her. “This one. It’s very you.”

Her eyes widen, and she holds it up to her waist, fixing her wire-frame glasses in surprise. “I mean, the tan lines would be pretty great—”

“Camila,” I say, grabbing a white-and-blue-striped bikini that I can tell will fit her like a glove. “I’m kidding. This one’s perfect.”

She looks relieved, grabbing the bikini from me. I turn my attention to Mya’s pile, but she’s busy texting away from the green hospital chair in the corner, a big smile plastered on her face.

I dig out a one-piece that she’s had since swim class in sixth grade, holding it up to her with a smirk. “How’s this, Mya?”

“Love it! Looks great!” she says, typing furiously.

Camila snorts, putting her suits back in the bag and giving me a sly smile. “Mason and Brooke called it quits,” she says in explanation.

“Oh my god. They did not!” I say. This is news. Amazing news.

Well, not for Brooke. But Mya has been crushing on Mason since Mrs. Wilson’s English class sophomore year, so this trip is her chance to finally make a move.

It bums me out I won’t be there to help her make a killer ten-step “Whirlwind Cabo Romance with Mason” plan.

Mya puts her phone away and shrugs casually, standing and pretending to look at some of the artwork on the walls. “No big deal. We’re going to meet him and Taylor at the airport tomorrow morning.”

I give her a look and she breaks out into a huge smile. “Okay, it’s a little bit of a big deal!”

We all squeal with excitement, and I hold up an adorable polka-dot one-piece that is super vintage, and right up her alley. She nods, grabbing it and holding it up to her body. “I was totally hoping you’d pick this one.”

I look over to see Camila glancing at her watch nervously, which is no surprise. She’s a champion procrastinator and probably hasn’t packed a single thing for Cabo yet.

Besides the bikini, of course.

She sees me notice her checking her watch and grins sheepishly. “I still need to buy a beach towel for tomorrow.”

Classic Camila.

I stand up, my heart sinking in my chest at the thought of them leaving, but I don’t want to hold them up. “You guys have to get going, then! Your plane is at, like, the ass crack of dawn tomorrow.”

Mya looks around the room sadly while Camila twists her bag of suits dejectedly around her hand. The two of them are making this even harder than I thought it would be. I swallow the guilt and annoyance that come bubbling up. It’s not like they’re the ones missing their senior trip to Cabo. At least they’ll be together.

I give them both big smiles, practically pulling them to the door with me. My cheeks hurt from all this fake positivity, but I don’t want to ruin it for them.

“We’ll send you a bunch of pictures, okay?” Camila says, giving me a hug.

“You’d better! Photoshop me into a few,” I say to Mya, who is a wizard at Adobe. “You won’t even know I wasn’t there!”

They linger in the doorway, and I give them an exaggerated eye roll, playfully shoving them out into the hallway. “Get outta here. Go have a great trip.”

“Love you, Stella!” they call as they walk down the hallway. I watch them go, waving until Mya’s bouncing curls are completely out of sight, suddenly wanting nothing more than to be walking out with them, off to pack instead of unpack.

My smile fades as I close the door and see the old family picture pinned carefully to the back of my door.

It was taken a few summers ago on the front porch of our house during a Fourth of July barbecue. Me, Abby, Mom, and Dad, goofy smiles on all our faces as the camera captures the moment. I feel a swell of homesickness as I hear the sound of the worn, rickety wood of that front step, creaking underneath us as we laugh and get close for the picture. I miss that feeling. All of us together, happy and healthy. For the most part.

This isn’t helping. Sighing, I pull myself away, looking over at the medicine cart.

In all honesty, I like it here. It’s been my home away from home since I was six, so I usually don’t mind coming. I get my treatments, I take my medicine, I drink my body weight in milk shakes, I get to see Barb and Julie, I leave until my next flare-up. Simple as that. But this time I feel anxious, restless even. Because instead of just wanting to get healthy, I need to get healthy. For my parents’ sake.