The emptiness in her eyes made me nauseous. I could almost hear the sound of her heart cracking inside her fucking chest. I chanced another glance at Baby LeBlanc, wondering how the hell I was supposed to walk out of this one. She took a step back, her eyes lingering on the hot mess express that was still trying to hug me. Millie was distraught. I couldn't deny her. Not then.
"Vicious," the older sister said through a loud sniff. "Vicious happened."
Then she pointed at the calculus textbook like it was evidence.
Reluctantly, my gaze drifted back to Emilia 'Millie' LeBlanc.
"What'd the asswipe do?" I snatched it from her hand and thumbed through the pages, looking for nasty comments or offensive drawings.
"He broke into my locker and stole it," she snuffled again. "Before stuffing said locker with condom wrappers and garbage." She wiped her nose with the back of her sleeve.
Jesus fucking Christ with this idiot. That was the other reason why I wanted to date Millie. The need to protect the strays burned in me from a young age. A soft spot and all that bullshit. I wasn't all bad, like Vicious, neither was I all good, like Jaime. I had my own moral code, and bullying was a long, red line, drawn in blood.
See, as far as strays go, Millie was the perfect, shivering-in-the-rain fleabag in need of shelter. Terrorized at school and haunted by one of my best friends. I needed to do the right thing. I needed to, but fuck if I wanted to.
"I'll take care of him." I tried not to snap. "Go back inside."
And leave me with your sister.
"You don't need to, really. I'm just glad you're here."
I stole a glimpse at the girl who was destined to be the Rachel to my Jacob, this time longingly, because I knew I stood no chance with her the minute her sister kissed me to get back at fucking Vicious.
"I thought about it." Millie blinked fast, too caught up in her own mess to realize I had barely spared her a glance since she appeared at the door. Too busy to notice her sister was right fucking there beside us. "And I decided-why not? I'd love to date you, actually."
No, she wouldn't. What she wanted was for me to be her shield.
Millie needed saving.
And I needed to smoke a fucking blunt.
I sighed, pulling the older sister into a hug, cupping the back of her head, the light-brown wisps of hair entwining between my fingers. My eyes still zoomed at Baby LeBlanc. At my little Rachel.
I'm going to make it right, my gaze promised her. It was clearly more optimistic than I was.
"You don't have to date me. I can make life easier for you, as your friend. Say the word and I'll kick his ass," I whispered into Millie's perfectly curved ear, my pupils honing in on her sister.
She shook her head, burying it deeper into my shoulder. "No, Dean. I want to date you. You're nice and fun and compassionate."
And completely in awe of your sister.
"Doubt it, Millie. You've been shutting me down for weeks. This is about Vic, and we both know it. Drink a glass of water. Rethink. I'll talk to him tomorrow morning at practice."
"Please, Dean." Her wobbly voice steadied as she balled the fabric of my designer tee in her fists, pulling me closer to her and away from my new, shiny fantasy at the same time. "I'm a big girl. I know what I'm doing. Let's go right now."
"Yeah. Go." I heard Baby LeBlanc rasp, waving her hand in our direction. "I need to study anyway, and you guys are a distraction. I'll drown Vicious's ass if I see him in the pool, Millie," she joked, pretending to flex her skinny arms.
Baby LeBlanc was a shitty student, with C minuses for miles, but I didn't know it back then. She didn't want to study. She wanted her sister to be saved.
I took Millie for an ice cream, this time not looking back.
I took Millie when I should have taken Rosie.
I took Millie, and I was going to kill Vicious.
Present
What makes you feel alive?
Condensation. For it reminds me that I still breathe.
I MEAN, I GUESS THIS is classified as talking to myself, but I'd always been this way.
The voice that always asked the elusive question seemed to have been implanted in my brain, and it wasn't me. It was a man's voice. No one familiar, I don't think. He always made me remember that I still breathed, which wasn't necessarily something I took for granted. This time, my answer floated in my head like a bubble that was about to burst. I pressed my nose to the mirror in the elevator of the glitzy skyscraper that I lived in and blew air from my mouth, creating a thick cloud of white mist. I pulled away, staring at my doings.
The fact that I was still breathing was a huge screw-you to my illness.
Cystic Fibrosis. I always tried to get all the details out of the way when someone asked. All people needed to know was that I was diagnosed with it at the age of three when my sister, Millie, licked my face and said I tasted "really salty." It was a red flag, so my parents had me checked. The results came back positive. It's a lung disease. Yes, it is treatable. No, there's no cure for it. Yes, it affects my life immensely. I'm constantly on pills, have three physiotherapy sessions a week, an indefinite amount of nebulizers, and I will probably die in the next fifteen years. No, I don't need your pity, so don't give me that look.