Page 43 of How to Walk Away

“For Instagram!” she said, like that made it better. “It’s photojournalism!”

Had she always been this crazy? We were barely back on speaking terms. “Shut it down.”

“I’m kidding,” Kit said. “But my followersareall rooting for you.”

“That’s rule number two,” I went on. “No photos—ever.”

“Not even selfies?”

“My hospital room, my rules: No comfort. No photos. And no goddamned selfies.”

“Fine.”

“Fine. Now help me back into the chair.”

We worked me back into the bed, and once I was all tucked in, Kit laid out the Chinese food like a feast—fried dumplings and egg rolls and sesame chicken. All my favorites from childhood.

I knew what she was up to. “This isn’tcomfortfood, is it?”

Kit narrowed her eyes. “This is just what I happen to like. You can’t blame me if you find it comforting.”

“I’ll blame you if I want to,” I said, but I gave her a little smile. Which felt shaky, like those muscles had atrophied, too.

Kit speared a chicken hunk with her chopstick. “Aren’t you kind of glad I’m here?”

I was, actually. Far more than I would admit. “When you’re not taking pictures of me on the frigging toilet.”

***

I COULDN’T EATmuch, but Kit could. She finished off all the egg rolls and every steamed dumpling, slurping dipping sauce and licking her fingers. Then, after she’d cleaned up, she said, “Now: the haircut!”

I wrinkled my nose. “I’m too tired.”

“You just had a nap!”

“Yeah. My pre-bedtime nap.”

“No!” Kit protested. “I planned us a whole girls’ night.” She started pulling items out of her purse and stacking them up on the tray table: a box of chocolates, a nail-painting kit with emoji decals, a bag of popcorn, Boggle, and a couple of naughty-looking romance novels. Plus a set of long computer cords.

“You’ve got quite the party planned.”

She nodded. “Total debauchery.”

“Glad you woke me now.”

She nodded, missing the sarcasm. “I can hook my computer up to the TV. I’ve gotGreasecued up.”

I smiled for a second despite myself. We lovedGreaseas kids. We’d put on the soundtrack and dance around the house, climbing the furniture and singing the duets.

She always made me be Danny, though.

Kit stood up and pointed her finger in the air, striking a Travolta-on-the-bleachers pose.

Nothing from me.

“Come on. I’ll let you be Sandy.”

Too little, too late. “I don’t want to be Sandy.”

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