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My hands rise in surrender as I back out of the room. “Of course not. Charlotte Brontë can do no wrong.”
“That’s right. Don’t you forget it.”
From the shadows of the hallway, I spy on them a bit longer, not ready to leave the peacefulness of their presence for the cold hum of a machine.
Dad lets his hand rest on one of the bare feet cradled in his lap and gives a gentle squeeze.
“Benjamin Gerhard.” Mom always refers to my dad as Benjamin, so I know she isn’t calling me back.
“What?” His shoulders rise and fall, but I catch the sneaky curl of his lip.
“Just know that my foot is in a very precarious position if you decide to try anything.”
Dad grins, but he retracts his hand. “Yes, dear.”
Like stepping from the warmth of a bonfire into a frigid winter night, I descend the stairs.
Once I’m plugged in, I try watching a movie. Maybe Die Hard will do the trick. But, every time I start to get absorbed, my arm throbs, and I’m pulled right back out. A groan of frustration leaks from my throat. Luckily, my parents are still a floor away and don’t hear me.
If only Holly were here. Treatments seem even harder now that I know what it’s like with her next to me. Holly didn’t pity me or look at me like I was less of a person. The needles grossed her out, but she put that on her fears and issues. Not me.
Around her, I forget the discomfort.
Not giving myself time to reconsider, I lean to the side, so I can slide my phone out from my back pocket.
Over the past week, we’ve exchanged a few texts. Just the basics, like me telling her I got home safe after the bar and her asking how Sammy’s hangover was treating him. I’ve wanted to see her again, but if I show up outside of her class, I’ll feel like I’ve crossed over from friendly acquaintance to stalker. Just because I can’t stop thinking about her doesn’t mean she wants to spend time with me.
But texting her isn’t a big deal. Friends do it all the time.
Ben: How do you feel about Die Hard?
There’s no guarantee I’ll hear back anytime soon.
I wonder where Holly Foster is on a Monday night. Class? Studying? Working? Or maybe she’s hanging out with her boyfriend. It seems unlikely that someone as kind and sexy as her would be single. Selfishly, I want that to be the case. I almost asked her at the bar but held off for two reasons. First, I reasoned she might get uncomfortable if she thought I was hitting on her. Second, I was afraid of her answer.
My phone vibrates.
Holly: One of the best holiday movies I’ve seen.
Damn, this girl keeps getting better.
Ben: Of course. So much better than A Christmas Story.
Holly: Definitely. But everything is better than A Christmas Story.
Ben: You don’t like A Christmas Story? It’s a classic!
Holly: That classic gave me nightmares of ginger-haired bullies and getting my tongue frozen to a lamppost. It took me weeks to get over it! No, thank you.
Ben: Guess I won’t be giving you a sexy leg lamp for Christmas then.
Holly: Only if you want to get smacked in the face with it.
I snicker at the thought of Holly chasing after me, waving that iconic lamp as a threat.
Holly: So, whatcha doin’?
Ben: Dialysis. I’m bored. Entertain me!
