Five Feet Apart(25)
Because I’m pretty sure keeping me alive is the only thing keeping my parents going.
*
After my mom leaves, I head straight to the gym with Will, wanting to strengthen my weak lungs as much as I possibly can. I almost tell him not to come so I can think everything over, but I know he probably hasn’t set foot in the gym in ages.
Plus, the combined worry of my parents and that thought would be too much for me to allow me to concentrate on anything else. At least Will going to the gym is a problem I can solve immediately.
I start pedaling on a stationary bike. I haven’t minded my afternoon workouts ever since the gym became one of the nicest places in the entire hospital. They renovated it three years ago and practically quadrupled its size, putting in basketball courts, a saltwater pool, shiny new cardio equipment, and rows and rows of free weights. There is even an entire separate room for yoga and meditating, with wide windows looking out over the courtyard. Before that the gym here had been an old, dingy room, with a handful of mismatched dumbbells and decaying equipment that looked like it was made about a year after the wheel had been invented.
I look over to see Will holding on to a treadmill for dear life, gasping for breath as he power walks. His portable oxygen is slung over his shoulder in that classic, trendy CFer-exercising style.
I practically dragged him here, and I have to admit, it’s fun for me to see him concentrating too hard to be snarky. He couldn’t even use his “banned from leaving the third floor” excuse, because Barb is on the night shift today, and Julie was more than enthusiastic to have Will off doing something that will actually improve his lung function and overall health.
“So, when does this little deal of ours become mutually beneficial?” he manages to get out, looking across the entire room at me while I pedal away. He slows the speed down, gasping out words between breaths. “I’ve done everything you’ve asked with no return on my investment.”
“I’m gross. Too sweaty,” I say as a bead of sweat drips down my face.
He slams the stop button on the treadmill, the machine halting abruptly as he spins around to face me, fixing his nose cannula as he struggles to catch his breath. “And my hair is dirty, and I’m too tired, and my med cart is—”
“You want to draw me sweaty? Fine! I’ll sweat harder!” I start to pedal like my life depends on it, my RPM quadrupling. My lungs begin to burn and I start coughing, oxygen hissing out of my cannula as I struggle for air. My legs slow down as I go into a coughing fit, before finally catching my breath.
He shakes his head. I immediately look back down at the glaring digital numbers on the bike, trying to ignore the red creeping slowly up my face.
Afterward we both exhaustedly make our way to the empty yoga room, me walking six feet ahead. I sit down against the wide windows, the glass cool from the blanket of white on the other side, covering everything in sight.
“Do I need to pose or anything?” I ask, my hand reaching up as I fix my hair. I strike a dramatic pose, which makes him laugh.
He pulls out his sketchbook and a charcoal pencil, surprising me as he puts on a pair of blue latex gloves. “Nah, just act natural.”
Oh, good, yeah. That’ll be easy.
I watch him, his deep-blue eyes focused on the paper, his dark eyebrows furrowing as he concentrates. He looks up, meeting my eyes as he studies me again. I look away quickly, pulling my pocket notebook out and flipping to the page for today.
“What’s that?” he asks, pointing to the notebook with his pencil.
“My to-do list,” I explain, crossing off number 12, “Work out,” and heading to the very bottom of my list to write “Will drawing.”
“A to-do list?” he asks. “Pretty old school for someone who builds apps.”
“Yeah, well, the app doesn’t give me the satisfaction of doing this.” I take my pencil and draw a line through “Will drawing.”
He fakes a sad face. “Now that really hurts my feelings.”
I duck my head, but he sees the smile I’m trying to hide.
“So, what else is on the list?” he asks, looking back down at the drawing and then back up at me before starting to shade something in.
“Which list?” I ask. “My master list or my daily list?”
He laughs warmly, shaking his head. “Of course you have two lists.”
“Immediate and long-term! It makes sense,” I shoot back, which only makes him smirk.
“Hit me with the master list. That’s the big stuff.”
I flip through the pages, getting to the master list. I haven’t looked at this page in a while. It’s filled with different-colored inks, reds and blues and blacks, and a couple of sparkly fluorescent colors from a gel pen kit I got back in sixth grade.
“Let’s see here.” My finger trails up to the top. “?‘Volunteer for an important political cause.’ Done.”
I draw a line through it.
“?‘Study all the works of William Shakespeare.’ Done!”
I draw a line through that one.
“?‘Share everything I know about CF with others.’ I have this, uh, YouTube page . . . .”
I draw a line through it and look up at Will to see him not at all surprised. Someone’s been checking up on me.
“So is your plan to die really, really smart so you can join the debate team of the dead?” He points out the window with his pencil. “You ever think about, I don’t know . . . traveling the world or something?”