Page 44 of Unleashed By Eden

“Uno?” he asks, already reaching for the deck of cards in his black bag.

“Okay. If we’re doing old times, we might as well go all in.”

Carter shuffles, fast and neat. “Same stakes as last time?” He deals us each seven cards.

“Sure,” I say. “Why not?”

He flips the top card. Yellow six.

I sort my hand into colors and place down a yellow two. We go back and forth quickly, slapping down cards like something is chasing us, and soon enough, I hit him with a draw four on my second-last card. “Uno,” I declare. “And green.”

He groans as he picks up his penalty. I drop my last card with a flick of my fingers.

“Good game,” he says, taking a long pull from his soda. “Shoot your shot, little Vi.”

In all honesty, a swarm of my why questions are clawing to get out. But a different question has been sitting on my tongue since Singapore.

“The other night when you were wasted,” I say. “You said you were scared. Scared of dying?”

Carter pauses, the can halfway to his mouth. He doesn’t bother to hide the surprise that I went there. He sets the can on the table in front of us and drags a hand through his still-wet hair, then over his face. The breath he lets out feels like it came from the pits of his soul.

He turns to face me fully, meets my eyes and doesn’t look away. “Vi . . .” The rest comes out on a low exhale. “I’m sick.”

“What do you mean, sick?” My words come out sharp.

He stares at a point past my shoulder. “Sick, as in . . . something’s wrong. Been wrong.”

Heat rushes through me, then drops away fast, leaving behind a faint tremble. “Are you sure?”

He nods his head once.

My voice climbs. “Since when?”

“A while.”

“A while?” My lungs feel two sizes too small. “Carter, what the hell does that even mean? What kind of sick are we talking about?”

He shrugs. Actually shrugs. “Not sure yet.”

I almost come off the couch. “What?! What do you mean, ‘not sure’?”

“I think I’ve fucked up my liver.” He swallows. “My hands shake, my eyes go yellow sometimes. I’ve dropped weight, and there’s this pain in my gut. Sometimes, my skin itches, like ants crawling all over me.” He exhales hard. “I think . . . I think I have cancer.”

“Fuck, Carter! Wait.” Something clicks. “What do you mean, ‘you think’? Have you not been tested?”

He shakes his head.

I see red.

“Why the fuck not?” I grab the nearest couch cushion and whack him in the head with it.

His hair is messed up. He blinks. “Nice,” he states dryly. “Was that necessary?”

“Abso-fucking-lutely,” I snap. My eyes suddenly feel too wide for my face.

I stand and pace in front of the coffee table, my bare feet thudding across the carpet. “Promise me, right now. No more coke. No more weed. No more pills. And cut back on alcohol. Actually, fuck that. No more booze at all. Like, none.”

He looks up at me, eyes tired. “Vi—”