Page 81 of Finding Delaware

Reaching out to take it from him, I shrug self-consciously. “Used to be better. But I haven’t practiced in four years, and my proportions are all cartoonish.”

“Let’s see.” Joel leans forward, gesturing for the book, which I reluctantly pass over.

He and Maisie study it quietly.

“Wow.” Joel glances up at me with twinkling eyes. “Impressive, son.”

Maisie nods, “I didn’t know you drew, Huckslee. This is very beautiful. He’s going to love it.”

My throat closes as they hand it back to me. “Thank you.”

I should have kept up on it. Should have kept up on a lot of things.

Rubbing my eyes, I stuff the sketchbook into my backpack before pulling out the homework I’ve neglected. My body is too big to really ‘curl up’ in a chair, so I use the backpack as a makeshift desk, losing myself in the nuances of American Government to take my mind off everything. Logan seems to have the same idea, pulling out his laptop while Joel and Maisie chitchat.

This is the worst part of it all. The waiting, the not knowing, the hoping and praying that everything goes well and life returns to normal. Even though I know there will never be a ‘normal’ anymore. At least, not an old one. But a new normal. He’ll be alive, though, and that’s all that matters. Because I can’t lose another parent.

Eventually, when the thoughts get too loud, I give up on homework and scroll through my phone, answering texts from friends back in Cali and browsing socials. Somehow, I end up on Taylor’s Instagram with my body turned away from Logan, and his newest post catches my eye. It’s a photo of him in the middle of a backflip on his bike, his feet on the seat, and his knees pulled up to his chest. Must be an older picture because there’s no snow in the background, and the caption reads:

Guess who’s going to the qualifier for Nitro Fuel Games in April?! This motherfucker, baby! Life is good.

Hashtag blessed, blah fucking blah. Thousands of likes. Resentment coils in my chest.

As usual, Taylor’s living his best life while mine slowly unravels. It’s not fair. But just to mock him, I pull up a photo my roommate Shawn took of me sitting on a surfboard shirtless and post it to my own IG with the caption:

Who’s ready for the NFL draft in April?! This motherfucker, baby! Life is good.

My pettiness knows no bounds, apparently. And not even three seconds later, Taylor hearts my post and comments on it with the hands raised emoji.

It doesn’t feel good being this way. I know I should be the bigger person, but he drives me fucking crazy. Seriously, he brings out the absolute worst in me.

Footfalls against the tile draw my attention, and my heart jumps into my throat when I glance up to see a nurse coming forward. We all straighten in our seats as she stops before us, and the smile on her face has relief coursing through me.

“Mr. Davis is out of surgery and doing well,” the nurse says, looking tired, “he’s still under anesthesia right now, but the immediate family may see him. Would you like me to take you?”

“Yes, please.” Maisie stands, tears in her eyes, as Joel hugs her and Logan claps me on the back.

“Give him our best,” he says, smiling, “text me when you’re ready, and I’ll come get you.”

“It’s fine, I’ll just call an Uber. Go do what you gotta do, Loge.”

He and Salem are spending the weekend in the mountains at his dad’s cabin, so I get the apartment to myself for a few days.

Taking Maisie’s arm, I squeeze it as we’re led through a hallway to Dad’s room, but I freeze just beyond the doorway at the sight of him in his hospital bed. He looks so...small. Frail.

A memory replays in my head of my mother dying of cancer, lying in a similar bed with all kinds of tubes hooked to her body. My last image of her. It’s too similar.

Maisie steps up to his side, running a hand through his hair, and I just stand there with my throat working like a lunatic because I can’t. I can’t go in there. My legs won’t move. I’m sure the nurse begins to speak, saying something about his condition, but the blood rushing to my ears drowns it out.

Shit, shit, shit.

“I...”

Maisie looks over at me, her brows pulling together in concern, and I flounder for something to say. The room pitches, a tremble in my fingers warning me of the oncoming anxiety attack, chest heaving.

“I’m sorry, Maisie.” Backing out of the room, I spin to make a break for it. “I can’t. I can’t.”

She calls after me, but I’m already speed-walking away down the hall, pressing my phone to my ear while bile rises in my throat.

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