Page 5 of The Score

Chapter 3

Bear

I'm driving. Music plays in the background. Days are getting longer now that it's spring, and the orange sunset paints everything in gold. Pen sits next to me, busy texting with her mom, getting intel and playing with a strand of her long, deep brown hair. Round and round her finger. It's her nervous tell.

Dread takes hold of my chest. My heart does its best to beat despite the stoney feeling. Whatever she's learning, it's not good.

Pen's family is part of my foundation as a man. Without them, I wouldn't have become who I am. My parents have always been nice people, but they were too busy. Even now, they don't participate much in my life.

They say they raised me to be independent. To me, it was simply lonely.

Everything changed when I moved next door to Pen. She taught me all there was to know about my new school cliques and rules, and what to expect of each teacher and admin. We walked to school together and spent as much time chatting as possible every day. Her dad said I could be a great goalie and played soccer with me, teaching Pen to kick the ball and helping me develop quick reflexes. Her mom invited me to eat with them three times aweek— often foronce chilena, where we ate bread with avocado and tomato and cheese, drank tea and talked for a couple of hours. On Fridays, we had movie nights. For almost twenty years, they made me feel like I had a place to go back to. All because Pen took a look at me and claimed me as her friend.

I owe Pen and her family more than they know.

"Okay," Pen says. "I got some info from my mom. During a routine physical, my mom asked to go more in-depth. It took some convincing, but eventually they got the MRI. That's how they found the aneurysm in his brain. It's asymptomatic, so they wouldn't have known otherwise."

"They're still testing? What about the surgery?"

I steal a glance at her. She's still playing with her hair, her eyes stuck on the road ahead of us. Seeing but not seeing, from the looks of it.

"They're testing to make sure the surgery makes sense," she explains. "It's a… complicated operation, my mom said. Fifty-fifty odds, if we're optimistic."

A heavy silence falls between us. We've known of his kidney illness for almost a decade. This complication multiplies the risks. He could get worse, very fast.

With one hand, I squeeze the wheel hard. With the other, I hold her hand. Gently.

"I'm sorry, Pen."

Growing up, I was always too big for kids' games. I was awkward in my own skin and not very fast. My nerdy interests were a refuge, so I didn't mind not being popular and alone a lot. None of those things mattered when I met the Duartes at ten years old. They've always treated me like I belonged. If something happens to her dad, I'll be as devastated as Pen.

"It sucks," she says. "I thought things were stable and we could keep the worst at bay, you know? But with this it just… it's all unpredictable again."

"I wish there was something we could do to fix it. Do you think I can convince him to meet some specialists back in Seattle? We could at least get a second opinion."

Pen's parents, like my friend herself, can be headstrong. Stuck in their ways, sometimes. It hurts to see her struggle with work, and I hate that I can't do enough to make that better yet. She doesn't know but, a long time ago, I promised I'd always be there to support her, as a way to show her what she means to me. Her parents are part of that.

"Maybe." She sighs. "It can't hurt to find some neurosurgeons and get a second opinion."

We're still holding hands. Our interlocked fingers rest on her thigh, and I caress her warm skin with a thumb. It's the kind of intimate gesture that makes me feel the closest to her. A little beyond what people expect of an intimate friendship, but a raft I've never wanted to let go of.

"How are they doing?" I ask.

"Mom said she's nervous but okay, while my dad is a bit all over the place. She said he's researching the procedure, then worried about it, then thinking about his life… " She scoffs. "Apparently, he's talking again about how he wants to see me married."

"It's old-fashioned, but I think they mean seeing you happy in a way they understand."

I'm old-fashioned too. Ever since I first got hooked on a slow burn TV show— a sexy, old procedural with a smart detective and a charming-but-mysterious partner in crime— I've wanted to lose myself in love. The internet was my playground from when I was way too young for it, and it led me to fan-made stories based on my favorite shows. Some of that fanfic wasn't meant for kids my age, but I found my way. I kept reading those stories, and discovered movies and new shows to watch and obsess over.

Every time I was alone at home for one reason or another, I submerged myself in the fantasy. It was to be expected I'd grow up wanting to be the hero of my own romance. In my old loneliness, starting my own family was the perfect solution. No better way than to have my own partner in crime, someone towalk through life with, and with whom to commit to a future together. It's the ultimate way to know you're seen and chosen. Never alone anymore.

"I am happy," she argues.

Pen always argues with me about this stuff.

"I know that," I reply, "but maybe they don't. Your parents don't talk to you most days like I do. They don't have movie nights with you every week, or mid-week dinners like I do. They know you're burnt out at work and that you do tough shit every day. They're happy together, right? They want you to have someone, too."

"Don't justify their stubbornness. Besides, I have someone."