Confess(96)

Trey shakes his head and says, “You already said good-bye. We have to go.”

He has no heart.

He holds the doors for her to step on, and she considers it. But then in the next second, she begins to take off in a sprint in the other direction. My heart smiles for her, because I want her to be able to say good-bye to him again. I know that’s what Adam would want, too. I know how much it would mean to him just to see her run back into his room one last time and give him one last kiss and allow him to say, “I’ll love you forever, even when I can’t,” just one last time.

I can see in Trey’s eyes that he has every intention of stopping her. He turns to run after her, to pull her back, but I’m suddenly in front of him, blocking him. He shoves me, and I punch him, which I know isn’t the right thing to do, but I do it anyway, knowing I’m about to get hit in return. But one punch is worth it, because it’ll give her enough time to get back to Adam’s room and tell him good-bye again.

As soon as his huge fist meets my jaw, I meet the floor.

Goddamn it, that hurt.

He steps over me to run after her. I grab his ankle and pull, watching as he falls to the ground. A nurse hears the commotion and comes running around the corner, just as he kicks me in the shoulder and tells me to f*ck off. He’s on his feet again and running down the hall, and I’m standing now.

I’m almost back to my father’s room when I hear her say to Adam, “I’ll love you forever. Even when I shouldn’t.”

It makes me smile, even though my mouth hurts and is covered in blood.

I walk into my father’s room and go straight to the counter where the painting supplies are stacked up. I grab an empty canvas and rummage through the box, inspecting all the other supplies.

Who would have thought that my first fight over a girl would be for a girl who isn’t even mine?

I can hear her still crying as she’s pulled down the hallway again for what I know really is the last time. I sit down in the chair and stare at the box full of his art supplies. I begin to pull them out one by one.



It was eight hours later and almost daylight when I finally finished the painting. I set it aside to dry and fell asleep until dark. I know she won’t be in his room tonight and that makes me sad for both of them, and even a little selfishly sad for myself.

I stand at his door for a little while, waiting to knock, wanting to ensure his brother isn’t in the room. After several minutes of quiet, I knock softly on the door.

“Come in,” he says, although his voice is so weak tonight, I have to strain to hear it. I open the door and take a few steps into the room. When he sees me and fails to recognize me, he attempts to sit up several inches. It looks hard for him.

God, he’s so young.

I mean, I know he’s about the same age as me, but death makes him look younger than he should. Death should only be acquainted with the old.

“Hey,” I say as I slowly make my way into his room. “Sorry to bother you, but . . .” I glance back at the door and then to him again. “This is weird, so I’m just gonna say it. I . . . I made you something.”

I’m holding the canvas in my hand, afraid to turn it around so that he can see it. His eyes fall to the back of it, and he inhales a breath and attempts to push himself further up on the bed. “What is it?”

I walk closer to him and point to the chair, asking for permission to sit. Adam nods his head. I don’t show him the painting right away. I feel like I should explain it first or explain me or, at the very least, introduce myself.

“I’m Owen,” I tell him after I take a seat in the chair. I motion to the wall behind his head. “My father has been in the room next door for a few weeks.”

Adam regards me for a moment and then says, “What’s wrong with him?”

“He’s in a coma. Car accident.”

His eyes become genuinely sympathetic, and it makes me like him almost immediately. It also lets me know that he’s nothing like his brother.

“I was driving,” I add.

I don’t know why I clarify that to him. Maybe to show him that even though I’m not the one dying, my life isn’t much to envy.

“Your mouth,” he says, making a weak effort to point at the bruise that has formed since my scuffle in the hallway last night. “Were you the one who got into a fight with my brother?”

I’m taken aback for a moment, shocked that he knows about it. I nod.