Page 95 of Carrie Soto Is Back

“So?”

“So when this thing between us goes tits-up, I don’t want to have to answer questions about it in a post-match.”

Bowe looks at me, his eyebrows high and furrowed. He pinches the bridge of his nose.

“I just mean…” I add.

“No, I got it,” he says, shifting his weight to the window. “Enough said.”

“I’m just saying we don’t know what we’re doing yet.”

“Okay,” he says. “I got it. Let’s drop it.”

He’s quiet for an hour or two. But when the flight attendants come by offering chocolates, he wordlessly hands me his.

The plane lands a few hours later, and Bowe reaches for my dad’s carry-on from the overhead compartment, despite the fact that it clearly kills his ribs.

“Here you go, Jav,” he says.

“Jav?” I say. “You’re on a nickname basis now?”

“Of course we are,” my dad says. Though he’s joking around, he seems tired. “Thanks, B.”

“Bowe is already short for Bowen,” I say. “You don’t need to shorten it again.”

My dad waves me off. “Mind your own business, Care.”

Bowe laughs, and I throw up my hands.

The line begins to move, and the flight attendants gesture for us to go. The three of us exit the row and get off the plane.

“What is our next meal?” Bowe says. “Is it dinner?”

“It’s eleven in the morning, so…no,” I tell him.

“No need for the attitude,” Bowe says. “Just say lunch.”

I turn back to look at my father. “Are you hungry, Dad?” I ask, but before I even finish the sentence, I can see he’s stopped walking. He’s holding up the line of passengers behind him. He’s lost all the color in his face.

“Carrie…” he says.

“Dad?” I take a step to where he’s standing.

He collapses on the jet bridge just before I can catch him.

The cardiologist, Dr. Whitley, isa woman with curly red hair and what appears to be a moral opposition to good bedside manner. She looks up at my father and me. “This is an extreme case of cardiotoxicity,” she says.

My father is sitting up in the hospital bed. I’m in a chair next to him. Bowe tried to stay, but we both insisted he go home.

“What does that mean?” I ask.

Dr. Whitley does not look away from my father. “It means you are in stage three heart failure, Mr. Soto. Most likely a side effect of the chemo treatment you had last year.”

My father gives the slightest scoff. “What doesn’t kill you…might still kill you.”

I grab his hand and squeeze it, offering him a smile.

“Have you been experiencing light-headedness? Shortness of breath?” she asks.

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