I wish I had an eating disorder.
Off the common area, there were two locked pantries: one for us addicts, maniacs, and the generally crazy to have a post-dinner snack and one labeled “E.D. Pantry.” I wanted to know what was in there so bad! Did they have Swiss Rolls? Or Fruit Rollups—not just the cheap red kind, but the multi-flavored ones? If they had dark chocolate-covered pretzels, I’d purge loud and clear whenever my roommate got her daily butt shot so the nurses would overhear. I’d get my diagnosis. Then the snacks would be mine.
“Are you eating?” With my ear pressed to the patient pay phone, I could hear Cash crunching over the line.
“Chick-fil-A,” he confirmed before slurping back what had to be sweet tea.
“I’d kill three people for sweet tea and a chicken sandwich.”
“Three?”
“No fewer. You having fun at home?” Cash was on spring break back in Atlanta. He made sure to bring me a dozen books and a stack of impossible math problems to keep me out of trouble until he could see me next.
“Yeah. Sue asked about you.”
I sucked in my breath. “What’d you tell her?”
“That you were home, sick.”
“Thanks.”
“And I said ‘hi’ to Jackson for you, but not Carter.”
“Did it piss Carter off?”
“And made Jackson blush.”
“Love it.”
“Oh.” Crunch, crunch, swallow. “June’s pregnant.”
“What? Already? How?”
“Well, when a mommy and daddy—”
“Yeah, I think I know about that.” Better than he did, that was for sure. “Your family mates like bunnies.”
“Right?”
“Not that I know from experience.”
He sighed, letting us both hang in silence. “I never said never.”
I laughed. “Sometimes I really hate you.”
“I brought you something,” Cash announced as he tucked my hair behind my ear. We sat facing each other on a blanket on the non-smoker lawn of the hospital, feeling the cool Los Angeles breeze that carried the tobacco stink from one building away out of our courtyard.
I felt my eyes brighten with false hope. “Did you sneak Chick-fil-A past them somehow?”
“Sorry.” He scrunched his nose in contrition before handing me a thick white envelope. “I finished your letter.”
I felt the weight of it in my hands. It had to have been as heavy as some of the novels he brought me. Seriously, what had he written? “Thanks,” I whispered.
“You gonna read it?” His accent was thicker today. It always was when he was tired. I wondered if he stayed up late last night writing this. But, no, I didn’t want to read it. If it was kind and thoughtful like Cash, it would break the last intact piece of me.
“I’d rather not cry in front of you.”
His hands trailed down to mine. “That’s right.” He suppressed a smile. “You don’t like crying.”
I slept in Cash’s sweatshirt that night at the hospital. His letter was tucked under my arm, the letter I couldn’t bring myself to read. I held it like a kid held a blankie. I’d keep it safe; it’d keep me safe. And when I dreamt of Third Street, it would be there when I woke up. It would be my proof that the dream wasn’t real. Well, that it wasn’t real anymore.
It was three AM when my eyes shot open to the dark hospital room. My clammy hands left damp marks on the envelope, smearing my name on the front. I took it and a pillow into the bathroom, then flipped the lights on bright. I pulled the letter out and started.
Dear Sawyer…