Page 2 of Anything But Lonely

“Obviously not.”

Jack inhales through his nose. “I asked if you wanted to say anything before we head to Hey Honey’s.” His voice is tense, like he’s trying to scold me, but I ignore it. Jack being annoyed with me is nothing new—it’s par for the course with an eight-year age gap, our shared grumpy demeanor, and spending most of our respective free time with the same group of friends.

Not to mention the current circumstances.

“I’m good.” I cross my arms over my chest, looking out at the other headstones lining the cemetery grounds.

All of them besides the one right in front of me.

The grass has faded to a sickly green, completely drained of life. It’s as though the earth itself is mourning beneath the darkening sky. The muted color of the dreary, depressing day mirrors the ache that’s been settled deep in my chest since I felt my mom’s hand go limp in mine; the flatline on the machine next to her hospital bed still sounds in my ears whenever it gets too quiet.

“Are you sure?” Rumi asks. My best friend’s soft voice is such a stark contrast compared to Jack’s, and I hear the concern in her voice. It’s the same concern I feel in the way my brother’s eyes watch me closely as they both wait for my answer.

There’s guilt there too. From both of them.

While they’ve been getting engaged and becoming a family over this last year, I was taking care of Mom.

Jack was always willing to help, balancing his shifts at the fire station and his family to take some of the responsibility off me.

But in the end, it always fell on me.

My mom got her cancer diagnosis when I was two, and Jack was ten. For nineteen years, the disease was just a part of our lives—our childhoods and eventually our adulthoods too.

I grew up learning the rhythm of her bad days before she even had to utter a word—the way she would move slower in the mornings while pretending she was fine. I learned how to keep track of the medications and appointments and how to steady her when her body felt like it was crumbling beneath her.

By middle school, we all just pretended I wasn’t more of a live-in caregiver than a daughter.

Because back then, I didn’t have football practice or ACT practice tests or the fire academy like my brother did.

And now, I don’t have a daughter or a fiancé. I just have my barista job and the occasional freelance clients for book cover designs or picture book illustrations.

“I’m sure,” I answer curtly, pretending I can’t see the way the words cut through the air, making Rumi flinch.

I’m lucky Ava isn’t here. My other best friend would rightfully call me out on my bullshit attitude if she wasn’t freshly postpartum and caring for a newborn.

But there are no words left to say—at least none that are appropriate to say in front of my two-year-old niece.

Because fuck this.

Fuck everything about this.

And most of all, fuck cancer.

Rumi looks at me like she wants to say more—Jack too. Their eyes scan over me like I’m a flight risk. Like I’m seconds away from bolting and never looking back.

And they’re right.

If only I had somewhere else to go.

Somewhere that isn’t the coffee shop that reminds me of all the times my stomach dropped when I got a phone call. Somewhere that isn’t my mom’s house that has air that feels too still now. Somewhere that isn’t my apartment that just reminds me how alone I really am.

Somewhere that isn’t here.

Before they can say anything, I turn and start heading for the parking lot.

“See you at Hey Honey’s?” Rumi calls to me, and I give her a thumbs-up without even turning around.

I think we all know I won’t be there.