The First to Die at the End (Death-Cast #0)(12)

“I’m so sorry,” Dalma says. “That’s horrible.”

“That’s total bullshit,” Orion says.

I almost tell them it’s okay and don’t because it’s not. There may be a lot I’m still processing about where I stand on faith since coming out, but my parents weaponizing God against me isn’t right. “Thanks for siding with me,” I say. It really is nice to have more support. I couldn’t find enough of it at home and now I’m finding it in a new city.

Orion looks up at the mega screen, watching the hourglass. “I get why you’re torn.”

“Maybe you can be the tiebreaker for me. Why did you sign up for Death-Cast?”





Orion


11:44 p.m.

Why someone signs up for Death-Cast tells you a lot about them.

Here’s Valentino—former stranger, now friend-in-the-making—who wants to buy into the End Day calls because of a near death but not death.

There’s a huge difference, obviously.

I’m not dead, but I regularly feel like I’m living that near-death life. I know that motherfucking grim reaper keeps inching closer and closer, almost like he moved into our brownstone, starting off with a cute little lounge across the couch, and then got lonely so he rolled out an air mattress in my room, but then his scythe popped all the air out the mattress and he had no other choice but to cozy up with me in my twin bed. I might have that death breath all up on me, but I’m still here.

When it comes to near death and death, I know both sides of that coin.

I’m not alone in that.

Dalma has been through it too, and we swap looks, like we’re trying to see who’s going to spill first on why we signed up for Death-Cast.

“You wanted to tell your story,” Dalma says. “Now’s your chance.”

I’m nervous now, feeling the pressure to actually sell the service to Valentino.

“I’ll just go first,” Dalma says flatly, buying me time. “So my dad died from kidney cancer. I was three, so I don’t remember a ton, just little things, like he lost a bunch of weight even though all he did was sleep all the time. My mom told me he was sick, so I would bring him ginger ale and crackers, but it never helped.” There’s no heartbreak cracking up her voice, it’s all in the past. “Then one day he was gone and I didn’t understand why, and he kept being gone and eventually I understood.”

I’ve known Dalma my entire life, but I’ve never heard her describe her grief that way. Like it was riding a bike with a tiny hole in the tire, leaking just enough air that it’s slowing you down but takes a while before you understand the full problem. Except no, that analogy has to be trashed because unlike that tire that can be replaced or resealed, no one could pump more air into her father and bring him back to life. And Dalma is quick to shut someone down if they talk about her stepfather as a replacement, no matter how much she loves him.

Man, I’m ready to offer condolences like this is fresh when Valentino beats me to it.

“I’m really sorry for your loss. It’s not fair that you lost him so young.”

“It happens,” Dalma says with a shrug. “Unfortunately, it happened to me.”

I bump shoulders with her, knowing that she’s always down for a hug, but she’s only going to let herself be so vulnerable in front of strangers—and friends-in-the-making. Back home, we’re always swapping stories about what it’s like not having our fathers or my mother around anymore. Like after our graduation party, when it was just the two of us, we talked about missing her father and my parents in the audience cheering with everyone else, though we’d never say any of that around Dayana or Floyd because we don’t want them to feel bad. It’s wild how we protect the grown-ups like that. But also, not really.

Life doesn’t care how young you are. It forces you to grow up anyway.

“That’s my fun little Death-Cast origin story,” Dalma says. “Your turn, O-Bro.”

Her story wasn’t fun, and mine isn’t either. There’s got to be many someones across the country who are signing up for Death-Cast just because, no strings attached, no trauma lived. Must be nice.

“I’ve got a heart thing,” I say, and it immediately shocks Valentino, like that first slap of winter air when you step out the door.

“Are you serious?” he asks. “But you look healthy.”

“Hey, it’s what’s on the inside that counts, right?” I throw that line at people a lot, can’t lie. But it fails to draw a smile out of Valentino. “I got diagnosed with viral cardiomyopathy a few years ago, which can be super dramatically translated as my heart trying to kill me. If you want boring medical details, then WebMD can give you the CliffsNotes.”

“Two different websites,” Dalma says.

“Whatever. The point is that it can happen whenever, wherever.”

“Now Death-Cast will help you breathe easier,” Valentino says. “Orion, I’m so sorry that this is something you even have to worry about. I’m in awe of you.”

I probably shouldn’t tell him that kind words like that get my heart going. I’m not trying to die, but death by compliment sounds nice.

“If only that was everything,” I say.

I kind of want to stop, feeling guilty that we’re swinging at Valentino with all this death talk when he came to Times Square tonight to live his life. But with Valentino’s concerned, raised eyebrows and soul-gazing blue eyes, I get the vibe that he’s waiting for me to drop this other chapter in my story.