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It takes everything I have to contain my panic over what is rapidly becoming a dire situation. Will is absolutely right. I was trying to run away. I’ve got five different tabs open on my laptop, which is so slow it takes a few minutes to toggle between them, but it doesn’t take a brand new laptop to tell me what I need to know. I’m broker than broke. My credit card balances are going up, and my bank account balance is going down. Frustrated, I slam my laptop shut. If only that could make the problem go away.
I open it again, navigating to the Chloe Dillon website because I’d rather look at that than my credit card nightmare. I rub my hands across the goose bumps spreading across my fore arms as I watch the runway walking and headshot images zig zag across the screen.
My phone jingles. I check my messages.
Bumble Bee. I’m going in.
I text him back.
You got this. I’ll talk to you soon.
Will flew to Ohio, met with his treatment team, and is going in for brain surgery less than a month after being diagnosed. I still can’t believe this is happening. I tried convincing him I would be okay with missing out on Agency Day. I hadn’t even applied yet. I wanted to be with him. I told him I was ready to pack up everything and go, but he wasn’t having any of it. He refused.
“Listen, when you hit the big time, I get to be the first to know. I want to hear how wonderful your life is turning out, and then I’ll tell you a story about how I got brain cancer and lived to tell about it.”
I felt terribly guilty. I still do.
Closing the Chloe Dillon website, I turn my attention to the dreaded job listings. I tailor my resume to fit four different jobs, submit them, then make a list of a few others to follow up on. If all else fails, I’ll have no choice but to go back to retail. My neck is stiff and my legs are tight from hunching over my laptop. I realize how much time has passed when the only remaining light in the room comes from the hazy glow of my laptop screen. Putting it aside, I stand up slowly, flicking on lights and checking my phone. Nothing. It’s probably too soon. The surgery is expected to take anywhere from six to twelve hours.
It’s too dark to go for a run, so I do my workout at home. Leftover Chinese food for dinner is a rare treat these days. After an hour of television, I tuck myself into bed with a book, checking my phone again in cased I missed it. Still nothing, and I’m starting to worry.
In the morning, I check my phone again. The long wait has my stomach in knots, so I call Will’s mom. She picks up after one ring.
“Hi, it’s Alexis. I was just calling to check on Will.” I pull the phone away from my ear, glance at the screen to see if the call is still connected. “Hello?”
“Will’s gone,” she says. Her voice is barely a whisper. “There was a complication during surgery, but he came out of it...and then went downhill. His heart stopped. There was nothing they could do.”
“Oh my god,” I choke out, covering my mouth to muffle a sob I can’t contain. I can still see him wringing that white beanie nervously in his hands, chin set with determination. He was supposed to beat this thing. He can’t be gone.
“Oh my god,” I say again. “I’m so sorry...oh my god.”
“You stole him from me,” she says in a steely voice. “He wanted to come home, but you wouldn’t let him...he needed you and you weren’t there...he’s gooone.” She’s wailing now, and I’m sobbing uncontrollably into the phone.
“I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry,” I say in a whimper before collapsing to the floor. “I’m so sorry...I loved him so much.”
I hear a thud from the other end, then stare at my phone in disbelief. She’s disconnected the call, and my tears have come to an abrupt stop. I lay on the floor like an abandoned rag doll; unmoving, unblinking, staring at the ceiling, shattered by the sting of hate in her voice and the realization that Will is dead. Hot tendrils of pain curl through my body, dampening my skin with perspiration. Will is gone. I’ll never see him again or hear from him for as long as I live. Will is gone and his mother hates me because I’m a terrible, awful person who stole the last years of his life and let him down when he needed me most.
If I’d died all those years ago, lying next to my roller skates in my closet like I was supposed to, he never would have met me. He wouldn’t have been shackled to a sad, selfish, toxic person that would later ruin his life. With knees drawn to my chest and arms wrapped around my legs, I roll over on my side. The rough carpet digs into the side of my face, but hours later, I still can’t move. My stomach growls from hunger and my bladder begs me to get up and go to the bathroom, but I’m paralyzed, drifting away as feelings of worthlessness return, rooting their way into my mind.
The other Alexis is ever so quick to nose her way back in. She beckons to me with her hateful, irresistible smile, reminding me that I’m different; compelling me to give up. You aren’t good enough. You are a bad, worthless person who everybody hates, and you don’t deserve to live. Forget about acting because if Will didn’t have his chance, you don’t deserve to have yours either. Like an obedient child, I listen, allowing myself to be strangled by the perceived trappings of my own life. Guilt worse than anything I’ve ever felt reminds me that I’m not deserving of good things. Missing out on Agency Day is my punishment. One step forward, five steps back, thrusting me back into that dark closet I can’t seem to escape. This time, I don’t think I’m ever coming out.
