An Alarming Quantity of Honey Blonde Hair

A revelation on the bathroom floor

I toss and turn until morning. At six AM I decide I need to confront her, or this will eat me alive. I watch her chest rise and fall for a moment, she is exquisitely beautiful and still like a marble statue and I wish I could keep her this way: full of life, devoid of chaos. I wake up again an hour later and she is gone. I take careful steps down the hallway to the bathroom where the door is open a crack and the light is on. As I approach I can see that she is seated on the floor, crying silently. I push the door open gently and her eyes flash up at me, a look of panic and desperation colors her features. Clutched in her hands is an alarming quantity of honey blond hair. 

Some part of me remains calm, some part of me deep, deep down. And it’s that part of me that speaks up, in a hushed, but even tone. “You’re really sick, aren’t you?”

She nods, weakly, not breaking eye contact with the floor. 

“What is it?” I ask, even though I know. In my mind the lengthy list of possible ailments I read earlier has been carved down instantly, leaving a singular possibility. Part of me is wishing she would lie to me, but she doesn’t. She says it plainly, like you would say “pears” or “whiskey” or “banana peppers.”

“Leukemia.” 

I can sense the calm inside of me slowly trickling out, like sand in an hour glass, so I take the trashcan from under the sink and set it in front of her. She empties her hands into it and I put it back in its place. I sit down next to her on the floor. I don’t know what you do when you find out one of your friends has cancer, but I think this is a good start.

“I haven’t told anyone.” She says, “Not even my boss. I just said I was sick.”

There is a long pause. Long enough for me to register that the floor is ice cold. “So,” I venture at length, “Are you gonna’ be okay?”

Anger flashes in her eyes and dispels the final shred of calm I had been clinging to. “It’s cancer, Jimmy, not chicken pox. No, I’m not gonna’ be okay; I’m f*****g dying.” 

“I,I’m sorry,” I whimper, tears roll down my cheek. 

Her voice softens almost imperceptibly. “Oh, come on, don’t cry about this, you idiot. I’m sorry I snapped at you, okay? I’m just really scared.” She turns away from me, in an attempt to conceal the pain in those beautiful blue eyes. 

I put my arms around her, but she remains stiff and does not turn to face me. After many many tears, though, her head falls to my shoulder, but the gesture is one of exhaustion, not tenderness. 

I want to tell her it will be okay, but I can’t. I want to say something, but I can’t.

“I’m sorry. I just wanted someone to talk to. I was so lonely, but, damn it,” She takes a deep, shaky breath, “I really like you, Jimmy.” My heart skips a beat when she says this, but she shakes her head. “I didn’t want to tell you, because,” She sobs, glances at me, then looks away again, “It just sucks so much.” 

I look down into her eyes and experience a moment of heartbroken clarity. “I love you.”

A sob catches in her throat and she shakes her head, face frozen in grief. She cries into my shoulder for a moment before continuing. “I didn’t even like Randy, I would have broken up with him sooner but after I got my diagnosis I, I just didn’t want to be alone. After he cheated on me, I broke it off because I thought I was stronger than this. I thought I could handle this alone.” She wipes her eyes, laughs bitterly and looks up at me, her face full of disarming vulnerability. “I gave up everything I knew and I felt invincible. Then leukemia came and took all that away.” She looks down at her hands, “Sorry.” She whispers.

“No, don’t be sorry, I whine all the time, and you actually have a reason to.” 

She smiles, and kisses me on the cheek and I feel warm all over. “Jimmy, you can leave anytime you want, I don’t want this to be the reason that you stay.”

I shake my head, “You gave me pizza. You’re never gonna’ get rid of me now.” Looking down into her face I can hardly fathom how the past few pain-filled months have led to this moment. I am filled with a bizarre combination of paralyzing fear and an overwhelming sense of duty. I understand that somehow I need to take care of this beautiful girl, and that scares me, because no one has ever needed me before. Tasha didn’t need me; she was just a victim of circumstance. That circumstance being that she was drunk when she met me and too much of a humanitarian to break my heart and let me die. 

Olivia wipes her eyes and yawns, “It is way too early to be awake, let’s go back to bed.”

“Yes, Ma’am.” 

Author's Note

I vacillate between thinking this chapter needs a lot of work and thinking it's fine the way it is. input would be appreciated
the story is pretty mutable from here on, and there are no more clever chapter names )= so sorry