Page 65 of Fighting a Riot

“Stop using my real name,” he grumbled.

I chuckled. “Not a chance, Noah. If that bothers you, then good. It bothers me that you’re treating me like a fragile piece of art.”

He stood, grabbed my bowl, and took it to the sink along with his. “Not my first time dealing with someone I care about who has cancer.”

Now we were getting somewhere.

The biggest smile stretched across my face.

From the kitchen sink, he aimed an assessing look at me. “What the hell are you smiling about?”

“I’m someone you care about.”

He opened his mouth and then closed it, his eyes sliding to the side like he hated that I’d caught him. After a moment, he stared at me and the glimmer in his eyes made me brace.

“It’s my fault my parents are gone.”

My teeth sunk into the side of my lower lip. “That isn’t true,” I whispered.

He drove his thumb into his sternum. “I got Dad sick while he was in his last chemo treatment. Mom told me not to go to a party and I snuck out. Got drunk, had to walk home in the rain during the winter. By Sunday, I had a cold, or so I thought. Turns out it was the flu. Dad got sick, fucked with his chemo. He died ten days later.”

I shook my head with two small shakes, then I whispered, “That doesn’t make it your fault.”

His hand tore through his hair. “Doesn’t it though? If I’d just listened to Mom, he wouldn’t have had complications.”

I stood. “You don’t get the flu from walking in a winter rainstorm. Like you said, schools are full of germs. You probably got it from going to class and you’d have been sick regardless of partying.”

He shook his head. “Whatever! I won’t do that shit a third time.”

My brow cocked. “A third time?”

His chin lowered so he could give me a stern look. “My mom died of cancer, too, Nora. Followed all the goddamned rules, and she had fuckin’ complications, also.”

Which only solidified my point that he wasn’t responsible for his dad’s death, but I kept that to myself.

He moved toward the door. “I won’t do that to you, too, Nora. You get any more deliveries at the front door, I’ll bring ‘em by.”

“Can I just text you? Give you a heads up?”

“Sure.”

I shot a sardonic smile at him. “I’ll need your number, then.”

He opened the door. “I’ll have Trixie send it to you.”

Two weeks later, my second round of chemo made the first dose feel like a walk in the park. I’d gone back to work that week, but I couldn’t tolerate even half a day at the office after the second treatment.

Mom had ordered me a bunch of little things to help me feel better or focus on something other than my illness - like a few paperbacks, a deluxe manicure kit, fuzzy socks, and a fancy journal with an even fancier pen. The items arrived on three different days. Without texting Trixie, Yak brought them to me. Well, brought them to my doorstep anyway.

I’d texted him my thanks and received the same response each time.

No problem.

Boy, did he have that wrong. There was a problem all right. Namely that he thought he could stop, drop, and roll where I was concerned. Not that I didn’t appreciate him bringing my packages by, but I wanted a friendship with him if nothing else.

Okay, that was an outright lie. I wanted more, but I’d take what I could get at this juncture.

I’d slept so much that afternoon, I had more energy than I expected that night. My fingers slowly spread the wooden slats of my blinds. In the moonlight and weak streetlight, I saw Yak’s Harley glinting in the driveway.

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