Page 64 of Can We Skip to the Good Part?
“Here’s the thing. I would have fucking hated hearing you and Max had something going, but I would have dealt with it.”
“I know.”
“What I can’t handle is you hiding the truth, walling me off from your actual life like I’m this child.” She closed her eyes and shook her head. “Sorry, the room is spinning.”
“That’s okay. And you’re right. I completely decided how you would react and panicked. I screwed up and am not sure how to fix it.”
“I don’t know if we can,” Rachel said, her voice steady but edged with the lingering weight of hurt. She turned and walked out, her footsteps fading down the hall, probably en route to her room, to the quiet refuge of space and distance.
But then, just as Ella braced herself for the cold finality of that exit, Rachel reappeared. She strode back in without hesitation, her expression unreadable, and before Ella could say a word, Rachel pulled her into a tight, unwavering embrace.
Ella froze for a heartbeat, then shattered. The dam inside her broke, and a fresh wave of tears spilled down her cheeks as she clung to Rachel, her fingers fisting into the back of her sweater like she might disappear again if she let go.
Rachel said nothing—she didn’t need to. The warmth of her hold, the strength of it, was enough. It was a balm, an unspoken promise that maybe, just maybe, forgiveness wasn’t out of reach.
That moment of grace was everything to Ella. It was oxygen in a suffocating room, a flicker of light in the wreckage of guilt and regret. And for the first time in hours, she could breathe again.
Rachel hadn’t ended their friendship or kicked her out, which she had every right to do. Time was what Rachel needed. Ella could certainly put in the time and work required to rebuild her trust. It was a kernel of hope that Ella wasn’t sure she deserved, but promised to pay forward one day.
SEVENTEEN
Soft Pants Required
Some days passed without much notice. Some days embedded themselves in Max’s memory for all the right reasons, happy and full of joyful exchanges. And then, there were the days that fucking ate her alive. That had been yesterday.
Max slammed her locker shut, the metallic clang echoing through the nearly empty gym.Good. She rolled her shoulders back, forcing herself to focus on the weight of her own body instead of the weight of everything else.
Rachel’s tear-streaked face. Ella’s trembling hands pulling away. The way the world seemed to tilt on its axis in a matter of seconds. Not that she was innocent, or a victim. That part made it worse.
She exhaled sharply, yanking her wraps tight around her knuckles.
It wasn’t supposed to feel like this. Today.
Two nights ago, she had Ella’s laughter in her ear, warm fingers tracing absent patterns on her skin. And now, she wasn’t sure if she had her at all.
But, of course, that wasn’t the last of it. Earlier in the day, she’d accompanied her mother to her doctor’s appointment,where her family’s future had rested in the hands of an oncologist with a clipboard. Max hadn’t been ready for that, either.
“We’re going to do what we can to get ahead of this thing, Mayumi.” Dr. Rivera scratched his head, a gesture that was so commonplace. It reminded her that these doctors were just human beings, who might be able to help and might not. She swallowed, ignoring the slight nausea that peeked its head in now and then.
Her mother nodded. “I’ll do whatever you say, Carlos. You know that I have a great deal of respect for you,” her mother said with a wave of her hand. Max only caught that it was trembling when she placed it back in her lap. Apparently, the two were acquainted through a professional organization of physicians in the area. They had a shorthand and spoke medical jargon that was sometimes over Max’s head. She did her best to take notes and keep up, knowing her primary role was to provide moral support and serve as a second pair of ears.
“I think our best move is to move forward with chemo,” Dr. Rivera said. “The sooner, the better. We’ll see how you respond after six weeks, and go from there.”
Her mother nodded and offered a wobbly smile—another example of her vulnerability. “Either way, everything will be okay, right? I’ve lived a good life.” Max didn’t like the sound of those words, but she was also coming to understand that there was no right or wrong way to cope with fear, and if this was her mother’s method, she’d support her.
“Well, let’s get you many more good years.” He covered her hand with his, gave it a squeeze, and rolled back to his screen to put in the order. The clickety-clack of the keyboard echoing in the stark exam room had plucked every anxious nerve ending Max had like she was a tightly strung guitar. She pulled her focusaway and instead passed her mom a smile, absorbing the small one she sent back.
All these hours later, the punching bag swayed gently in front of Max, waiting.
Max didn’t.
Her first strike sent a satisfying shock up her arm. She closed her eyes and experienced the much-needed discomfort. Somehow, it helped. The second came harder, the third harder still. The rhythm took over, demanding more force, more focus, more of her breath until she didn’t have space for anything else. Not for the guilt or the ache. Not for the impossible unknowns hanging over her like a storm about to break.
Fists met leather, over and over, until her muscles screamed and the burn in her lungs reminded her she was still here. Still fighting.
Still standing.
“You haven’t been in here for a while. I’d say I missed you, but I can’t stand a big head.”
