Send Me a Sign(38)

“I should go. Coach Burne’ll kill me if I miss the bus.” He sat up, then crashed back for another kiss. “’Kay, I’m really going now. Wish me luck.”

“Good luck.” The words tasted uncertain.

He hesitated. “Mia, I know you’ve been avoiding me, but have you thought at all? About us?”

“Ryan … I can’t.” I played with the cuff of my pajama pants.

“Why not? At least tell me why. Is it Hil? Since when does she run your life?”

“I thought you had to go.” On cue, his phone beeped. “See? That’s probably Chris or Bill wondering where you are.”

“I’ve got a minute.” He put his hand on mine.

“Why can’t we keep things like this?”

“Because it’s not enough anymore. I want to get to know you, as much as I want to do this—” He kissed me until I was dizzy and breathless, then leaned back against my pillow with a look that was exactly as seductive as he intended. “If you really don’t want to date me, let me know. I’m not going to ask again.”

I stared at my hands and chewed my lip. His words were the second echo of my horoscope. “I can’t.”

“Why not?”

I looked at him, lying across my bed like he belonged there. “I’m sick.” The words weren’t as hard as I’d expected, but I waited for his reaction.

He grinned and stood up. “We don’t have to go on a date this minute. I’m already going to be speeding to make the bus.” He pulled out his phone.

“No. I’m … really sick.” These words were harder. I choked them past my necklace, which I’d twisted strangulation-tight. “I’ve got leukemia.”

Ryan continued to look at his phone, but he wasn’t texting. He hit the Power button, shoved it in his pocket, and sat down. Sank down. His face was gray beneath the tan and his mouth half-open. “What?”

I didn’t repeat myself. He couldn’t want to hear it again; I couldn’t say it again. I reached for his hand. Tentative, because I wasn’t sure how he felt about me anymore. Would he ever look at me like he had when entering my bedroom?

“When?” His eyes looked huge against his ashen face. He cradled my hand like it was breakable.

“I found out this summer.”

“This summer? That’s why … Connecticut? And cheerleading?”

“Those aren’t complete sentences, but probably.”

“Leukemia?” He said it slow, like a tricky vocabulary word. “Are you going to be okay?”

“The doctors say everything’s going well …” He was staring at my hand, but his eyes were unfocused. “Don’t you have a game you need to get to?”

I wanted him to stay, to process this and want me anyway. But it had to be his choice.

“The game.” He placed my hand back on my lap like he was putting away a delicate teacup. “Yeah, the game. We’ll talk.” He stood and turned away.

“Ryan, it’s okay. I didn’t expect …” My voice and heart were breaking a little.

“I can’t … Shit! I don’t—I’ve gotta go.” He failed at smiling, then shut the door. His footsteps ran and his tires sped. He couldn’t get away from my illness—from me—fast enough.

I buried my face in my pillow and sobbed. Mad at myself.

He wasn’t worth it. I’d let myself hope. I’d known he’d react this way. Mom warned me. Telling him was a mistake. I couldn’t take it back, though. Soon everyone would know. I ruined everything.

“Kiddo, you need anything?” Dad called from downstairs.

“No, thanks,” I answered in a voice that almost sounded tear free. Not that he’d notice. “Doing homework.”

“Sounds good.”

I hugged the spare pillow. Tight. Pressed into it to muffle my sobs. It smelled of Gyver and Ryan until I drenched it and changed the scent to moisturizer and sadness.

There was a knock on my door. “Dad, I don’t need anything.”

“Mia, don’t cry! Crap.” Ryan stood at the foot of my bed. His hands curling the bottom of his soccer shirt, eyes red-rimmed, and hair disheveled. “I panicked. I had to think. I’m sorry.”

“What about your game?” I rubbed my cheeks dry, but new tears wet them.

“Screw the game. You can’t seriously think I’m going.”

“But you left. And the coach …” I made a second futile attempt to wipe my face.

“I’ll tell him something came up. Doesn’t matter! Tell me what’s going on. Leukemia?”

“You really want to know?” My breathing almost calmed, I almost hoped.

“I got halfway to school before I asked myself: What are you doing? Mia, this is where I want to be. Please tell me.”

I told him: the bruising, testing, chemo, and hospital stay. I wanted to think it felt good to share, but I wouldn’t know until he responded.

“God, Mia, I can’t believe you didn’t tell me. I could’ve … I don’t know, done something. Who else knows? Anyone?”

“Not really. Gyver. My teachers. If I told the Calendar Girls, the whole school’d know.”