A Mess of a Man (Cruel & Beautiful #2)(96)

“What’s going on?”

I planted myself before him on the coffee table.

“What do you think? I’m going to f*cking die.”

“No, you’re not. You’re going to beat this.” Whatever this was. Had he gotten the results back? “Where’s Cate?”

“Cate’s in school where she should be. Where I should let her stay.”

“What the f*ck, man? What’s up with all the doomsday talk?”

“I have Ewing Sarcoma.”

“Yeah, and?” Because I had no idea what that was. It didn’t sound good.

“My chances of surviving this are somewhere between nil and none.”

“That’s not true,” I said, even though I had no idea.

“Okay, you’re right. If I were say ten to fifteen years younger, I would have a fighting chance. But at my age, the prognosis is far worse.”

For a second I watched him stare at the ceiling with fate kicking his ass. But I wouldn’t let him give up. “You said worse, not no chance. You can beat this thing. Have you told Cate yet?”

That’s when the first water drops leeched from his eyes. And f*ck if I had to grit my teeth to not break down myself. There were only a handful of times I’d seen Drew cry. And most of them were before we were out of elementary school.

“I have to let her go, Ben. I have no right to hang on to her. She deserves better than to watch me die.”

“You’re not going to f*cking die Drew. We’ll figure this out. You can’t give up yet. And you can’t break Cate’s heart. She’s one of the good ones. You fight this for her.”

“For her,” he echoed.

Slowly, I come back to myself realizing the water had turned tepid on its way to cold. I shut off the shower and get out, wrapping a towel around my waist. I can’t go through this again. The lies about his chances of survival and how I was coping with it had spilled off my tongue as I watched my best friend slowly lose his battle with cancer. The disease didn’t seem to care he’d been the best guy there was out in the world. It still choked the ever-loving life out of him.

I stare into the mirror where Woolly the Fucking Mammoth has taken up residence on my face. I have no desire to shave. So I brush my teeth and towel off, only to find myself standing in my room with no place to go.

You could go apologize to Sam.

That thought sends me into my kitchen with only a pair of boxer briefs on. I yank open the refrigerator door, mad at myself, mad at the world. I pour some of the soup in a cup and put it in the microwave, nuking it until it’s scalding hot. I don’t wait for it to cool off. Instead, I take my punishment like a man and drink it down before fanning myself like a little bitch.

Fuck.

I head to the stocked cabinet and find a bottle of vodka. It burns worse than the soup. But at least I’ve kept my promise to Mom. I’ve eaten something.

The sofa calls to me as the vodka dulls my headache. I pick up the remote and press play. At some point the Drew on the screen seems to be talking to me.

Call her.

Squinting at the TV, that day when we were happy flashes there. He’d said one day we would rule the world. And that was the biggest bullshit ever. I reach for the half empty bottle of vodka.

Shit.

My conscience won’t let up as the words call her keep repeating in my mind.

“For what?” I yell, hoping that will stop the incessant mantra in my head. “Sorry for being an ass? But, oh, I still can’t f*cking be with you.”

I get a firm grip on my hair and tug. The pain reminds me I’m still alive. I let my head fall back and glimpse a picture of Drew, still young with a head full of hair. And I remember.

The phases of Drew flash before me. Healthy Drew, Sick Drew, Recovery Drew, Relapsed Drew, Realistic Drew, Dying Drew … Dead Drew.

“How am I supposed to go through that again?” I say out loud.

If anyone heard me, I’d probably be locked up. And maybe that’s for the best. I can’t imagine Sam losing her hair, her tits … her life.

“Wasn’t there a bald chick who sang sad shit?”

Drew isn’t here to answer me though.

“Yeah, that’s right. Sinéad O'Connor. She was kind of cute. I bet Sam would look even better bald.” What the hell am I thinking?

My dick tents my shorts as a bald Sam sings to me when I should be singing that chick’s song “Nothing Compares to You” or something like that to Sam. I sit up and find my laptop. I fire it up and google the song needing to hear it. The song streams through my speakers as I pick up the f*cking vodka.

Shit.

“You were right. Look what a * I’ve become,” I say to Drew’s phantom.

When the song is over, I feel just like the bottle of vodka—empty.

I wake the next day or so, drool on my cheek, head pounding. Glaring at me on the TV is Drew and on my laptop the singer’s eyes. And more empty bottles stand around me in accusation.

Knowing what I need to do, I stumble into my room, not sure how many more days have passed. The bathroom light yells at me, so I turn it off and take care of business before staggering back to my room to plug in my phone.

On my laptop, I fire off a message to the office that I’ll be working at home this week. I can’t face anyone right now. They’re bound to see through me, but I can’t handle anyone asking me about Sam.