Page 74 of Past the Broken Bridges

I threw it up by bedtime.

Then I cried myself to sleep.

It was a low point in my life.

“It isn’t like last time,” I repeat, voice hoarse for an entirely different reason.

I hate this—hate feeling vulnerable. Remembering the times when I could barely function without my mom andaunt by my side. Or all the times Bentley had to run to get the puke bucket when I woke up in the middle of the night sick from my chemo. I’d always feel bad waking him up, but Mom reassured me that he wanted to help.

I didn’t want help then, but I needed it.

And I loathed every second.

I’m determined not to need help now. “I’ll be fine. Don’t come sooner or you’ll catch it too. Then you’ll have to deal with sick Bentley, and he’s a bigger baby than I am.”

Mom is quiet for a second. “You were never a baby. Sometimes I wish you were because it would have been understandable. Seeing you fight everyday…” Her voice trails off. “I’m grateful for your strength. I always will be. But I never wanted to see you in a position where you had to be strong.”

My throat tightens as I swallow down the emotion rising up. We’ve had this conversation before—the one where she feels like I was more of an adult than she was in the time when I needed her most. We’ll never agree. Because I always thought she handled things ten times better than I ever could.

“But you’re right,” she adds reluctantly. “Man colds are no joke. One day you’ll experience that for yourself.”

There’s her optimism again.

One day.

I don’t want to make her sad, so I force a smile on my face as if she can see me and whisper, “Yeah. Maybe one day.”

We hang up after I agree to do a virtual appointment with my primary care doctor in New York. Within ten minutes, I get an email confirmation for the appointment. It’s the least I can do for her.

Peace of mind if nothing else.

I don’t remember falling asleep after that, but I wake up to somebody knocking on the door.

Swinging my legs out of bed, I groan at the achy limbs that drag me across the living room. Everything hurts from my head to my toes, I’m groggy, and I can barely keep my eyes open. Right as I approach the door, I realize that I’m still wearing the silk scarf I sleep in. Hands touching my head, I glance out the peephole to see Banks standing on the other side.

“One second,” I call out, voice cracking in panic.

I don’t give him time to reply before I’m frantically rushing back to my room, searching for the wig he’s used to seeing me in. My room is a disaster, clothes thrown everywhere, textbooks scattered, and my wig nowhere to be found.

I was too tired to care when I got home yesterday, so I tossed my belongings everywhere on my way to bed. Cringing when I see my dirty underwear on the floor, I kick it under the dresser.

It takes me under two minutes to hide the majority of my things, shoving wigs and clothes out of sight. Then another few minutes to secure a new wig to my head, cringing at the soreness of my scalp as I adjust it as best I can. Trying to be quick, I rush to the door before Banks can go away.

The movement has me swaying as I open it, my vision becoming blurry as everything around me spins.

I hear, “Whoa,” before hands grab ahold of my upper arms. Blinking rapidly to regain my vision, I feel heat creep up my neck and into my cheeks as Banks carefully walks us inside and over to the couch. “Sit.”

My body slowly becomes overheated, ears ringing and heart racing in my chest. I don’t know what’s happening, butI don’t like it. Within minutes, I feel something cool press against my head. Peeling my eyes open to Banks squatting in front of me, I watch him hold a cold cloth against my forehead. There’s a glass of water on the coffee table that wasn’t there before, capturing my attention when locking eyes with him is too much.

“I’d say you look like shit, but I’m pretty sure you already know that,” he remarks with a small smile teasing his lips. He reaches out and touches a piece of my hair with his free hand. “You did something with your hair. It looks darker.”

Glancing down at the ends, which are slightly longer than before, I frown.

The strands aren’t that much darker than the sandy color I was sporting for the first couple months of school. I’m surprised he even recognized it. Most men don’t notice the little things, like when Mom spent a lot of time and money at the salon changing her hair to a completely different color and cut only for dad to come home and bring up what was for supper instead of her new hairstyle.

She was mad.

“I like it,” he tells me, dropping the strand between his fingers. “Did you dye it?”

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