Page 108 of Remember Us This Way

“It doesn’t make you selfish for needing me, Zo.”

“But your games, your life at college. You have so much going on right now, and I’m terrified that I’m going to be a distraction. I know you, Noah. You’re going to be at home every chance you get, being here with me through all of my treatments, even if it means risking everything you’ve got going on at college. I don’t want you to lose that, but I also can’t stand the thought of having you anywhere else.”

“College and football doesn’t fucking matter to me, Zoey. You do. If you need me here, then I’ll be here, every fucking second of every fucking day. I’m not going anywhere. Nothing is more important than this,” I tell her. “There will always be football, another time, another team, but there’s only one of you, and if being here to hold your hand makes you stronger and gives you what you need to fight this, then that’s my priority.”

Zoey wipes her face on the back of her hand, tears streaming down her face as we sit in the heat, both of us drenched from the raging storm outside. “I’m scared,” she finally says.

“I know, Zozo,” I say, swallowing over the lump in my throat. “I am too. I’m fucking terrified, but I’m not about to let you give up.”

“Dr. Sanchez says the chemo is going to be intense, worse than when I was a kid,” she says. “It’s aggressive, like it’s been lying dormant in my system for the last ten years, and now it’s come back with a vengeance.”

“Fucking hell,” I mutter, needing to pull off to the side of the road and stop the car again. My head falls into my hands, and I let out a shaky breath.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you,” she tells me, reaching for my hand again. “I just wanted to be honest with you. I don’t want to sugarcoat this, not with you.”

“I know,” I tell her, finally able to lift my head back up. I take a moment, trying to remember what she told me over a year ago when I first realized her sickness had been leukemia. “Is it the same as before? Three rounds of chemo over eighteen months and then you should be in the clear?”

“Best case scenario, yes. That’s what we’re hoping for, but when I was a kid, my leukemia wasn’t nearly as advanced. This is going to be more intense, and there’s a good chance that my body doesn’t respond to the chemo.”

“Then what?”

“Then we look into other treatments like radiation therapy or a stem cell transplant and hope like hell I’ll still be strong enough to fight it.”

“You will be,” I promise her. “I know you, Zo. You’re going to kick this thing’s ass.”

She gives me a sad smile and squeezes my hand. The determination in her eyes is enough to ease the fear inside my chest, if only a little, making it easier to breathe. Hitting the gas, I get back onto the highway, hating the thought of having to leave her alone in her bed tonight. “How are your parents taking it?”

“They’re not,” she admits. “They’re barely holding on. Every time Mom looks at me, she crumbles, and Dad . . . He thinks he’s being strong for all of us, but I hear him crying at night when he thinks everyone is asleep.”

“Shit,” I grunt, blowing my cheeks out as I try to hold myself together, reminding myself to check in on Mom. “And Hazel?”

Another tear rolls down her cheek, and she looks away, needing a second to compose herself. “We told her last night,” she murmurs. “She’s terrified. She thinks this is Linc trying to take me away from her. She thinks she’s being punished.”

My jaw clenches as every last part of me shatters, but I do what I can to hold myself together, knowing the second I break, Zoey will too. But I need her to know that she can lean on me when this gets hard.

“I have to go in on Monday morning to get my subcutaneous port implanted in my chest,” she tells me. “It’s only a small procedure and doesn’t take long, but for some reason, it’s terrifying me more than everything else.”

“Subcutaneous port?”

“It’s like a permanent catheter. It’ll deliver the chemo directly into my veins. Saves me from having to get poked and prodded each time I go in. It’ll come out once my treatments are done.”

“Will it hurt being in there?”

Zoey scrunches her face and shrugs her shoulders. “I don’t actually remember,” she says. “I’m assuming it will be uncomfortable for a while, and probably hurt like a bitch if I accidentally bump it, but in the grand scheme of things, I think it’s the least of what I need to worry about.”

I’ve never heard a truer statement in my life.

“It’s going to be alright, Zo. You don’t need to be scared. I’m going to be right there holding your hand the whole time. I’m not going to let you fall.”

“I know,” she whispers, squeezing my hand.

The rest of the drive home, she tells me about the past two days, how she’s been at Dr. Sanchez’s office getting every test under the sun to determine just how far her cancer has spread. She tells me about her fear of losing Hope when she tells her about her diagnosis and about her concern for Hazel and me in all of this.

When we finally make it back to her place, it’s after midnight and she’s exhausted.

I get out of the car and make my way around to her side, opening the door for her, and as she climbs out and takes my hand, I see her exhaustion. I can’t help but wonder if this is normal because it’s so late or if this is an effect of the leukemia coursing through her veins.

Taking her inside, I expect to find the house asleep, only there’s a single lamp on in the living room. Zoey’s mom sits alone with a glass of wine, tears staining her cheeks, and hearing us walk in, she turns our way. From the looks of it, she’s more than made her way through a whole bottle, but who can blame her? I wouldn’t mind a stiff drink right about now.

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