Ten Below ZeroTen Below Zero(18)

“I like milk.”

Everett fought a smile. “I do too. But I also like to know what’s coming. It all boils down to control.” Everett grabbed the bottle of wine from the fridge and came around the kitchen island, refilling my glass. His arm was stretched alongside mine as he poured. Inches. That was all that separated us.

He was standing beside me, so I sucked in a breath and turned to face him. He was looking down at me. His hair was long in the front, drawing attention to his eyes, which were searching mine. He leaned down on the island, bringing our faces closer together.

His eyes searched my face, slowly. And then his lips parted. “I like control, Parker.” His words were a thick whisper, moving the air across my lips.

I licked my lips. “Why?”

“Because,” he whispered, his air warm on my wet lips. He moved his arm slightly, so it was now touching mine on the granite countertop. I felt the heat from his arm ripple up my own arm. It was a shock, his touch was an electric wave, moving through me with his closeness and his words. He brought his face closer to me and my body hummed. “I need it,” he whispered, his other hand coming up to my hair. I felt his fingers touch my strands, but I kept my eyes trained to his. “I want to control the things I can’t control.” He pulled a chunk of my hair towards him, playing with it. “There are a lot of things in my life that are out of my control. Big things. Bad things. So when I can,” he said, leaning in, “I grip control like it’s my lifeline. I don’t surrender control.” His lips were hovering over mine. “Ever.” My chest heaved heavily, the breaths coming in short and fast. My heart beat loudly, the blood thrumming in my ears.

And then he pulled back. “I have cancer, Parker.”

My heart stopped for a minute, restarted. A moment later, my breath caught up. I’d been underwater, slowly, gracefully gliding with his words. And then I was thrust back to the surface, sucking oxygen into my cramped lungs. And I was without words.

Everett watched me go through the series of reactions. The lust that burned a fire across my body had been doused with reality.

“A brain tumor,” he continued.

My lips were open, but no sound came from them.

Everett broke eye contact and sipped his wine. “It’s a good bout, too. Strong.” He raised his hand and tapped his forehead. “The bastard is hanging out right here.”

He was being nonchalant about it, drinking his wine and leaning back on the counter. A million thoughts rushed in at once.

“Are you doing chemo, radiation? Or whatever it is they do?”

Everett set the wine glass down and moved to the other side of the island, grabbing an oven mitt and opening the oven door. “No. Just waiting.”

“Waiting?” I asked. “For what?”

I watched him pull lasagna out of the oven and set it down, pulling off the oven mitt. He looked at me, an eyebrow raised, as if annoyed that I didn’t get it. “To die.”

It was a slap. A viciously cold slap of truth. “Is it inoperable or something?” I was trying to understand what he was telling me, so I could wrap my head around the fact that he was waiting to die, and was nonchalant about it.

“No, I’m sure it is. But I’m not interested.” He grabbed two plates from the cupboard. “Do you want to eat here or in the living room? I rented a couple movies.”

I threw my head back and looked at him like he was out of his mind. Annoyance and anger burned bright, like a candle that had been doused with gasoline. “Are you kidding me right now?” I said, standing up from the kitchen island. Everett set the plates down and looked at me wearily, waiting for me to rant.

“You were just leaning into me like you were going to kiss me and a second later you’re telling me you have a brain tumor and you’re not going to operate, and in that very same breath you’re asking if I want to eat on the couch and watch movies with you?”

He pursed his lips. “Yep. That’s about right. Except for the kissing part; I wasn’t going to kiss you.”

Whiplash. That was the best way to describe the current situation. I forced the kissing part from my brain and concentrated on the rest. “Why aren’t you operating? Why aren’t you doing anything about it?”

“Because Parker, this isn’t my first rodeo. I’ve had this same cancer before.” Everett walked around the counter to me. “This,” he said, exposing the scar along his hairline, “is my every day reminder. I fought this cancer for three years when I was a teenager. And then I spent another three years rehabilitating. I was homeschooled, a loner, a sick nobody.” He thrust his arms in front of me. “I was pricked and prodded and I spent years stuck in a bed or rehabilitating.” He put his arms down. “I fought for a long time. And I’m tired. I’m tired of fighting. The cancer is there, even worse than before. The odds aren’t great. And I’m okay with that. I’m okay with my life. I’m okay with death.”

Fury narrowed my eyes. “What does that even mean? Who can be ‘okay’ with that?”

“With death?” he asked. “Easy. I am okay with it. There’s no other way to say it. It is what it is.”

“What does your family think?”

“Don’t be stupid, Parker. What do you think they think?” He shook his head at me, growing impatient. “They want me to fight it again, of course they do. But this is what I want. I need to have some kind of control over my life. So this is it.”