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Chapter Text

Pierre was wrenched out of his deep sleep, his entire body coated in a heavy sweat. With reluctance, he sat up and wiped the small water droplets off his brow with his already moist palm. This was the fourth time in a week he'd been violently awoken by night sweats. They had been plaguing him on and off for at least a month, maybe two. Pierre didn't even know anymore. Breathing an exasperated sigh, he opened his eyes and angrily switched off the fan he'd employed to prevent further episodes. He swiped his thick brown matted hair off his face. Nothing seemed to help. He glanced at the clock-just after four am. He'd never get back to sleep now. The band was having an important meeting with their producer in the morning to talk about recording another album. Pierre would be getting up early anyway.

He stood and quickly grabbed a bottle of water and an aspirin. After swallowing, he took a moment to wake up. He'd done nothing the last few months but hole himself up, write lyrics, write music, and rewrite. At thirty-five, he felt lucky the band and he still had the chance to record and tour. It was a gratifying feeling knowing that he still couldn't walk out in public without fans chasing him down for an autograph. They loved him, and he loved them back. Before leaving his room, he glanced down at the bed, noting the soaked sheets. His eyes couldn't help but wander toward the other vacant side of the bed. He never should have bought such a large bed; it just reminded him of what he'd lost. With another sigh, he walked toward his bathroom to find some relief in a cold shower.

~~

Pierre stumbled down the basement stairs into Sebastien's home studio, disheveled and exhausted. His hair was a mess, but he couldn't bear wearing a baseball cap today. The heat needed to leave his body somehow.

"Pierre, how are you feeling?" Chuck asked from his spot on the couch, concern etching his face. "Fine," the singer said, reaching the final step and taking a seat in his favorite chair. "A little nervous, but I think I've got some good stuff to work with." Pierre rested his guitar on his lap and pulled out his notebook. Chuck met Sebastien's eyes, and he nodded toward Pierre. Sebastien cleared his throat nervously.

"Pierre, don't you think you might be working a little too hard?" Pierre's eyes shot up from his notebook, unamused. Seb continued, carefully. "I mean, you've been sick for weeks now. We're all a little concerned, that's all." "Well, don't be," Pierre said flatly. "I'm just stressed out." He paused, trying to believe the words himself. "I just need a vacation. Been in the same place for too long." He was cut off by a booming voice.

"Hey guys, sorry I'm a little late, but let's get right to work!" Bob Rock was always so full of energy. The tension in the room immediately dissipated. Pierre was thankful for a reason to break away from the conversation. He was doing all he could to ignore the anxiety that accompanied his symptoms. It grew as each day passed without a name to his problem.

~~

Mittens let out a weak meow as I hurriedly palpated her lymph nodes and abdomen. The two-year-old orange tabby was my last patient of the day. She'd been brought in a few hours ago by her concerned owners for vomiting and diarrhea.

"Carissa!" I yelled.

I fumbled to plug my stethoscope ear tips in with one hand, gently holding Mittens with my other. I pressed the cold diaphragm of my stethoscope against her chest, willing myself to listen to her heart instead of think about my daughter standing outside our locked front door at 3:15. I'd never make it home in time before the school bus. It was already five past three. It had been far too busy at All Hearts Veterinary Hospital today. The only other veterinarian here left an hour into her shift because she wasn't feeling well. The receptionists were able to move all of her surgeries but only a few of her appointments. Unfortunately, I'd seen almost double the number of patients I should have, and now I would barely make it home in time for my daughter, Faye.

"What do you need, Malorie?"

A tall blonde girl dressed in scrubs peaked around the corner into the back exam room. "I really need to go, Carissa," I said, whipping my stethoscope around my neck and scrawling in the finishing touches in Mittens' medical chart. "This cat needs fluids. Make up an in-patient form for her meds. I wrote it all her chart. I also want temperature, vomiting, urine, and diarrhea to be checked and noted tonight before you leave." I quickly grabbed my bag and a large stack of medical charts. I would have to do all my call-backs from home today.

"See if she'll eat a little wet food tonight too."

"No problem," the head-tech replied before calling out for an assistant tech. "Hurry up before someone kidnaps Faye." I let out a laugh as I jogged toward the back door, spotting Dr. Green on his way into his first appointment of the day.

"Caleb, are you sure you can handle everything by yourself until tonight?"

He snickered. "Malorie, relax for once. Just go." I nodded. As I reached to open the door, our two technicians, Maggie and Hayley, burst into the backroom carrying a yelping dachshund. He was dripping blood from somewhere on his body. Shocked, I waved off Dr. Green into his appointment and raced behind the girls as they set him onto an empty exam table.

"What's going on?" I was already putting on gloves.

"Owner says he found him in the backyard with this cut on his back. He has no idea what happened," Maggie said, giving the dog a tight hug to keep him restrained.

"It's okay, sweetie," I said softly, stroking the wailing dog's head. I cleaned some blood off the wound to get a better look. It was very deep and in need of immediate attention and care. I pulled my gloves off and walked toward my bag that I had abandoned near the door.

"Hang on to him for just a minute. I need to call someone to pick up Faye." I grabbed my phone from my bag and jogged into the vacant surgery room for privacy, dialing one of my best friends.

"Pick up," I begged impatiently after a few rings.

"Hi, you've reached Alexa, and-"

"Damn it!" I whispered, ending the call. Sometimes I regretted moving to Montreal. All of my family members lived in Massachusetts, and my friends in the area were all working right now. I had only one option. I hesitantly pressed the "call" button.

"Hello?"

"Hi, Pierre. Look, I really need you to pick up Faye from the house ASAP."

"What? I can't. I'm with Simple Plan right now, and we're in a really important meeting with Bob. What's going on?"

"I'm trapped at work, and the bus is dropping her off soon. I already tried to call Alexa, and she's not answering. I literally can't leave. I have to perform an emergency laceration repair," I explained desperately.

"Well...I definitely can't leave. I mean, our producer's here. Call another vet in."

"No! This is an emergency. This clinic has been in a frenzy all day. Please, just help me out."

"What do you want me to do? Just get up and leave? I'm working too."

"Maybe your parents will pick her up."

"My parents live an hour away! Isn't there anyone else you can call?"

I paused, annoyed. "If I'm calling my ex-husband, don't you think I've exhausted all my other possibilities?" I said in a low growl. It was silent on the other line for a moment, and I quickly regretted speaking to him in such an awful way. I wanted to apologize. A blob of nervous heat rapidly lodged itself into my throat and quickly spread to my cheeks-the result of holding back for two years everything I knew an ex-wife wasn't allowed to say.

"Fine, I'll get her," Pierre said with a mix of defeat and exasperation.

I breathed a sigh of relief. "Thanks." I paused, swallowing hard. Should I apologize?

"The bus usually gets to the house around 3:15." Guess I swallowed that too.

"Where are you?" I pressed on.

"Seb's."

"All right. I'll come by as soon as I'm finished here. Just have her start her homework."

"Yeah. Right. I gotta go."

"Bye."

"Bye."

~~

I slowly pulled the phone from my ear, trying to shake the emotional slobber and rabid chokehold that was the typical phone call with Pierre. I walked back into the exam room. Maggie and Hayley looked at me expectantly, waiting for me to speak. I tossed my phone on the counter.

"What room is the owner in?"

~~

"Hi, I'm just leaving. I should be there in thirty minutes tops."

I was finally climbing into the driver's seat two hours later. It took a few seconds for my back to relax into the seat. I'd been standing so long, sitting hurt.

"The meeting finished about an hour ago, so we're at my apartment now," Pierre said. I placed the phone between my shoulder and ear and started the car.

"All right, I'll see you guys soon." I hung up and headed to Pierre's apartment.

It was hard to characterize his apartment. In one way, it was empty, and each room carried a void of its own. The living room was spacious and led out to a balcony overseeing the lively streets of Montreal. Despite its potential to be inviting, the coffee table and walls were bare, and all the furniture in the room was pushed to one side, leaving a large amount of unoccupied space. Boxes were stacked in the corner, filled with what looked like picture frames and books. On the other hand, the kitchen was cramped. The sink was full of dishes, and half the kitchen table was piled high with mail, notebooks, papers, and snack food. He never had much time to break in his apartment and never had much of a reason. He spent most of the year traveling and touring with Simple Plan. When he was in Montreal, he still didn't spend much of his time at his apartment.

Faye was on the couch when I arrived, giggling at some cartoon and nibbling on popcorn. She was leaning with her back on one of the couch arms. Her long dirty blonde hair was tucked neatly behind her ears, and she was wearing the red and white polka-dotted dress she'd begged her daddy to buy for her a few weeks ago. For a seven-year-old, her finesse was highly impressive. I walked over and bent down, giving her a quick kiss.

"Hi, honey. Sorry I wasn't there to pick you up today. We had an emergency at the hospital. How was school?"

"Hi Mom, it was good," she replied before returning to the TV. Taking my first relaxing breath of the day, I looked around Pierre's apartment. The way the shadows were cast on the walls only accentuated the emptiness of the living room. Although distant, the sounds of traffic and roaring truck engines added to the gloomy atmosphere. I slowly began to feel uneasy. I turned my attention to the kitchen where Pierre was pouring water into a kettle on the stove. My nerves lurched further when his eyes met mine from under his baseball cap. I quickly broke the gaze.

"All right. Get your things. We're gonna go."

"Wait, Mom! This episode's almost over!" Her chocolate brown eyes begged me. I sighed. Maybe it was because her eyes were an exact replica of her father's, but I hesitantly agreed.

"Fine," I said. Initially unsure of myself, I tried to feign interest in the cartoon, but a commercial break started. I peered into the kitchen. Pierre was standing at the counter sifting through mail. He exhaled strongly, swiftly removing his hat and tossing it aside along with his unopened mail. He was wearing basketball shorts and a loose-fitting tank top. I hadn't really looked at him in quite some time. He seemed thinner than I remembered. His jawline was more noticeable. While his skin remained its typical bronzed color, it had developed a lackluster pale, as if some unseen force had sucked the blood out from beneath his skin.

After running a hand through his hair, Pierre ripped open a chamomile tea bag and dropped it into a mug. He would only ever drink chamomile tea when he was anxious or upset. The kettle whistled, and he reached for it. Although it was only slightly, I noticed that his muscles had lost definition. It was unnerving seeing him in such a stressful condition. I cleared my throat.

"Faye. We need to go. I have a lot of work to do."

After protesting, she gathered her backpack, headed into the kitchen, and dropped her popcorn bowl into the sink. "Bye, Daddy." Pierre set his mug down and gave her a kiss and hug.

"I love you," he said.

"I love you too. I'll see you this weekend." She started to walk out but turned around. "Oh, and Daddy? You really need to clean your kitchen. It smells." I hid a laugh behind a closed fist as Pierre chuckled.

"Yeah, it does smell," he agreed after a nonchalant attempt at sniffing the air. I ushered Faye toward the door.

"Thanks," I said quietly. He smiled. "No problem."

"And I hope you feel better." He knitted his eyebrows together in confusion. I nodded toward the mug on the table. He followed my eyes and smiled softly.

"Good night, Pierre."

Chapter Text

As I walked up the pathway to Jordan and Seb's house, I pulled out my key and proceeded to barge in, like any best friend would do. "Hi, I'm here!" I announced loudly. I kicked off my shoes and dove onto the couch, reaching for the remote. Moments later, someone came thundering down the stairs.

"Jesus Christ! Don't you fucking knock?" Seb teased.

"Not for you, dumbass," I said, squandering all the pillows on the entire sectional for myself. "And where's the woman you drugged into marrying you?"

"In the fucking bathroom dying her stupid hair...AGAIN," Seb raved. I laughed at him. "My fucking bathtub is about fifteen different colors!"

Jordan hopped down the stairs. Her hair was a vivacious auburn. "Oh, stop your bitching," she remarked, flicking the back of his head. "It was only a touch-up!"

"It's a good thing I love you," Seb replied, snaking his arm around Jordan's neck until she was locked under his chin.

"Ew," Alexa said, pushing through the front door. "That's gross. Also, we're watching The Notebook tonight." She pulled the DVD from her purse and held it up. Jordan and I groaned. Every time Alexa picked the movie for our get-togethers, it had to be a romantic chick-flick.

"Yay!" Seb shouted, jumping on the couch. "I actually really love this movie!"

"Oh come on, Lexi," I whined. "Movies like these are ridiculous. They're not based on real life at all. One of the lovers always ends up running after the other right before it's too late. She's either about to marry someone else or get on a plane and move to a different country. Then, miraculously, he realizes just in time that he still loves her and goes after her. It's so stupid! No one's really like that."

"How do you know it never happens in real life?!" Lexi protested.

"Well, I've never heard of it happening. Love in real life is boring."

"Oh, stop being so bitter!" Lexi said as she started up the DVD player. "Maybe men aren't like that in real life, but women are!" She paused. "And David." I rolled my eyes.

"As if David's such a romance junkie." She turned to me with her hands on her hips.

"I'll have you know that David is a fantastic husband, and he is very romantic! He even surprise-cleans the house for me if he knows I've had a long day at work. Plus, even though we're married, he eats me out like, once a week!"

"OH, FOR FUCK'S SAKE!" Seb exclaimed, plugging his ears. "I do not need to hear about what David does in his spare time. That is disgusting!"

Jordan laughed. "Aren't you used to Pierre and David making out backstage and humping on stage? You're the one who's disgusting for watching all the time, you sick bastard."

Seb's eyes widened. "What?! That's just a weird fantasy that a bunch of fan girls have. They're both idiots for feeding that fire!" He paused. "And I do not watch!" Jordan and Lexi laughed.

"Speaking of Pierre..." I began, as the laughter faded. "What's going on with him? He doesn't seem well. He looks sick to me."

"Why do you say that?" Alexa inquired as she poured herself and me a glass of red wine. I shrugged, taking the glass from her.

"I don't know. I could be wrong, but when I picked up Faye last night, he just didn't look right to me." There was a pause, and Jordan turned to Seb, expectantly. I rotated my gaze to copy her stare. Seb shifted uncomfortably and made sure to avoid eye contact. Why had the atmosphere shifted so suddenly?

"All right, Lefebvre, what do you know?" I leaned forward.

"Well, I'm not sure," he stammered, glancing up at me only once. "None of us really know what's going on. He's been a little off lately." He was hesitant to speak.

"What do you mean?" I asked, furrowing my eyebrows. I moved my thumb up to cup my chin, aiding the drill of my stare.

"He gets mad if we try to talk to him about it. I think he's just going through his own shit, and the band decided to let him ride out whatever it is. I guess it's really none of our business anyway."

"None of your business? The man's more stubborn than a bull. If you want an answer, you'll have to force it out." I snorted out a laugh and looked to the girls. "Have either one of you gotten that vibe from him lately?"

"No," Alexa replied quietly. Jordan shook her head, eyes suddenly down and focused intensely on her bright fingernails. I waited for a real answer.

"Okay, what's going on here?"

"Malorie, we don't know," Seb assured. "The guys and I are pretty sure he's depressed." Jordan shot Seb a fiery look. Don't you dare, Sebastien, it warned.

"Depressed?" I raised a dubious eyebrow.

"And please don't tell him we talked about any of this."

"Why the fuck is that bastard depressed?" Jordan sliced right through the tenderness of the conversation. "Oh wait, I know. He's sad because he fucked up his own life by cheating on his wife, ruining his family, and making everyone hate him!"

"Jordan..." Seb begged.

"No! I still can't believe Simple Plan forgave him. For all you know, you might wake up one morning and find out he's the lead singer of another band. Once a cheater, always a cheater!"

"Jordan, cut him a little slack," Alexa said.

"He doesn't deserve forgiveness." Alexa opened her mouth to respond, but I cut in.

"He might. But every time I think about forgiving him, I just imagine him on a beach in Hawaii getting his dick sucked by a twenty-four-year old slut." I was getting flustered. "What bothers me the most is the question of whether or not he actually used a condom." I paused. "No...what bothers me the most isn't that he didn't give a fuck about our marriage. It's that he didn't care about Faye, ya know? I mean, there he is partying, drinking, and fucking some bitch while his daughter waits on video chat with the saddest look in the world on her face." I knew I should stop, but I couldn't.

"I think she cried more than I did. And ya know, he's a great dad when he's there, but when he leaves home, it's like he just ditches his head at the Canadian border. He's not meant to be a father or a husband. If he's depressed, it's because he hasn't been to a party with a bunch of girls drooling all over him. Throw him a blondie; he'll perk right up." I looked at Seb. "You wanna see depressed? Look at what he left behind." I'd said way too much and regretted it instantly.

"I'm sorry," I muttered after a few shallow breaths. "I just wish things were different."

"Wow," Seb uttered. I looked over at him, expecting to see a flustered, empathetic friend. Instead, the bastard was smiling. His lips slowly curved upward at the corners. "You still love him. I can't believe it."

"What?" I spat. "How dare you? What the hell are you even talking about? Did you not hear a word I just said?"

"Yeah, you're still angry. Only people in love are angry." Jordan backhanded Seb's shoulder.

"Ow..." he muttered, rubbing the spot gently.

With my eyes wide, I sputtered a sarcastic laugh. "It's like you were on a different planet our entire divorce."

"If I wasn't ferociously addicted to red wine, I'd plunge this right in your face, Sebastien," Alexa said.

"Jesus, you're an idiot," Jordan added. "Where do you get off saying something like that?" Alexa followed up in agreement.

"All right, enough!" Seb begged for mercy. He looked back and forth between Jordan and Alexa with a wavering glare. He couldn't even scare a rabbit if he tried. Finally, he turned to me.

"Sorry...guess I was wrong," he muttered quietly. "Can we just watch the movie?" The king of agitation had given up awfully quickly. Jordan lifted herself off the couch and hit the lights.

As we settled into the tension, I realized my heart was sputtering. I stopped letting Seb get under my skin in the tenth grade. What was the deal?

~~

Fuck, what is taking him so long? Pierre wondered. He'd been sitting in Dr. Peterson's office for the last five minutes, staring at his fancy nameplate. He had a slight headache, and he was tired.

A phone call would have sufficed. Is this really necessary?

He hadn't twiddled his thumbs this much since he was a kid sitting in the principal's office. At the moment, it was the only way the strange combination of boredom and nervousness that was consuming him could manifest itself. His doctor's office was less exciting than he'd expected. For some reason, he'd imagined there would be an authentic human skeleton propped up in the corner or some kind of grayed organ stashed in a jar of formaldehyde. It would have at least provided him with some form of entertainment.

Just as he tilted his head sideways to read the titles of a few large medical books across from him, there was a swift and gentle double-knock on the door. Dr. Peterson entered, holding a single medical chart in one hand and a mug of what Pierre assumed to be coffee in the other.

"Sorry to have kept you waiting, Mr. Bouvier." Pierre shifted in his seat as the doctor entered and looked him up and down, absorbing his aura. Dr. Peterson might have been only moments away from a discussion with him, but Pierre wanted as many hints as he could get beforehand.

Blank, unreadable. Numbed by experience.

The doctor sat down across from Pierre, flipping open his medical chart and pulling out separate sheets of paper filed inside. He briefly looked over them. His trained eyes narrowed, drawing Pierre's attention to the cracks of wisdom surrounding them.

"Mr. Bouvier, as you know, the results of your blood test were of concern to me because your platelet and red blood cell counts were a little too low, which is why I asked you to come back for a bone marrow aspiration. The results of the aspiration came back to me this morning after being reviewed by a hematologist." Pierre nodded, listening intently. Dr. Peterson folded his hands on top of the medical chart.

"It seems that your bone marrow is producing abnormal white blood cells that are not functioning properly. They're also interfering with the production of your red blood cells and platelets." Pierre blinked and followed up with a shrug.

"What does that mean?"

The doctor paused. "It means, you have leukemia."

"But isn't that cancer?"

"Yes. Leukemia is a cancer of the bone marrow."

"But I can't have cancer. I'm healthy."

"Well, according to your test results, you do. The hematologist was able to characterize it as acute myelogenous leukemia."

No.

He choked out a tense laugh, but the doctor's face was stony and certain. He was shaking his head now, back and forth, violently rejecting the conversation. The heels of his palms dug into the desk and pushed his chair back.

"I don't understand." He'd walked across the room. "How did this happen?"

"Mr. Bouvier, I suggest we don't focus on how it happened but rather how to cure it. It is possible. However, it is imperative that we begin treatment immediately. Acute cases of leukemia can spread rapidly without aggressive treatment."

Pierre's head was spinning faster and faster, but he walked back to his seat in front of Dr. Peterson. He fished out a ball of saliva from his suddenly arid mouth and looked Dr. Peterson in the eye.

"What treatments?"

"I recommend you begin treatment with a round of chemotherapy on an outpatient basis within the next few days. The sooner you begin, the better." He swallowed hard.

Jesus Christ.

Dr. Peterson regurgitated some type of treatment plan and attempted to educate Pierre about support groups. He ended their meeting by asking Pierre if he had any questions. Am I going to die? was the only question Pierre could fathom, but he knew it would have been stupid to vocalize such an inquiry.

There wasn't much feeling left in his outer limbs when he left the doctor's office. Initially unsure of a destination, he wound up on the highway. His music was too loud, he knew, when he started getting dirty looks from other drivers.

And fuck, what the hell is bone marrow anyway? I have cancer in a part of my body that I DON'T EVEN KNOW ABOUT.

He twisted the knob and made the music louder. He was sure the speakers would blow before his eardrums. There was far too much traffic on the highway on Tuesday afternoons.

Fuck this.

He was on the back roads for hours. He drove through his old neighborhood. He drove past his parents' house. His first job. His high school. He drove to the lake where he'd spent his summers as a kid and a teenager. It might have been October now, but it was perfect. Finally, a smile crept onto his lips when he found his initials still carved into an old wooden bench. The soft air filled his lungs, and he exhaled, releasing everything. He plopped onto the bench and threw his head straight back, letting his eyes close. The peaceful calm of the lake reentered his respiratory tract. He felt a revving in his gut, and a sudden spark of courage. He quickly retrieved his phone from his pocket.

Chapter Text

The days were shortening. It was six o'clock and already almost pitch dark. I could barely pick out the trees against the sky from the kitchen window as I shoveled the last of the day's dishes into the dishwasher. The shorter days always made me anxious.

"Faye!" I shouted upstairs, amongst our German Shepherd's pleading barks.

"Yeah, Mom?"

"Take Crash out back. She's scratching at the door." I headed upstairs to collect laundry in the bedrooms.

"Can we go for a walk instead?" Faye asked hopefully as I walked awkwardly down the stairs bearing a large laundry bag.

"No, it's too dark. Take her out back and then feed her." I reached the bottom step. "And put a coat on!" I yelled after her as the back door closed. She didn't hear me. I exhaled loudly and headed into the laundry room. I opened the washer door and began loading the clothes inside. The phone rang. I jogged into the living room.

"Hello?"

"Hi."

"Oh Pierre. Hi. I'm glad you called. I've been meaning to call you since yesterday."

"What for?"

"I hope you're free next weekend. Faye really wants you to take her Trick or Treating around our neighborhood. You should spend as much time as you can with her while you're around. Just wear a mask. No one will know it's you." I headed back toward the laundry room and spotted Crash rolling in a pile of mud and leaves. She jumped up playfully onto Faye, leaving two black prints across her chest.

"Oh my God!" I screamed. "The dog is covered in mud! I'll call you back!"

"Wait, hold—"

I ran for the door, screaming at the top of my lungs. I never did care what the neighbors thought of me. Both dog and daughter headed for the door with their heads down and tail between their legs.

"What the hell were you doing?! Take off your shoes, and change your clothes!"

Thank God I only had one child.

I grabbed Crash by the collar and led her to the hose.

"Well, you're pretty damn proud of yourself, aren't you?" I paused to observe the damage.

"Not too bad. Mostly on your back." I turned on the hose and grabbed the nozzle.

"Mom!" Faye ran up next to me.

"Get in the house. I've had it with you today." She handed me the phone.

"Dad's on the phone, and he says he really needs to talk to you." I sighed. Why does everything always have to happen all at once?

"Clean her back, and come get me when you're done." I took the phone from her and headed inside.

"Hello?"

"Hi, what's going on over there?"

"We're all covered in mud," I replied after entering the light of the house and seeing my arms. "What's going on with you?"

"I need to talk to you."

"About what?" I glanced outside.

"Uh...me."

"Okay..." I pressed. The other line went quiet.

"Is everything okay?" I asked tentatively.

"I'm sick." I walked into the laundry room and closed the door.

"Sick. What do you mean? Like, the flu?"

He took in a shaky yet deep breath. "I've got cancer."

I froze. "What are you talking about?"

"Leukemia. I found out this morning."

"...Fuck."

"I'm sorry to hit you with this." I couldn't feel my voice for a moment.

"You're positive?"

"Yeah." His voice sounded smaller.

"Are you okay?" I softened.

He cleared his throat. "I'm fine. I'm starting chemo in two days." I wasn't sure how to respond.

"Pierre, I'm so sorry. Is there anything I can I do?"

"No. I don't need anything. I just wanted to call."

"Mom!" Faye interjected. She startled me out of a trance I didn't even realize I was in.

"I'm gonna go. I just got back home," Pierre said.

"Yeah, I gotta go too." The line disconnected after a moment of thick silence. Before I could collect myself, Faye was pounding on the backdoor.

"I couldn't really get all the mud off—"

"Get dressed. You're going to see Zack."

She cheered and ran upstairs. I yanked a used towel out of the washer and rapidly dried off our dripping dog.

"Hurry up, please."

~~

I remember the first time I diagnosed a patient with cancer. He was an eight-year-old mutt named Riley, and his ultrasound revealed what was undoubtedly a tumor of his prostate. The excitement I felt at successfully diagnosing cancer for the first time was short-lived. His owners were understandably devastated when I delivered the news. Only a few short months later, Riley walked into our clinic for the last time. His owners had decided to put him down after the cancer spread. As a doctor, I knew it was unprofessional to cry in front of my clients. However, as a human and fellow dog owner, I couldn't help but mourn with my grieving clients. Up until now, I had believed that as I was hugging the dog's owner, I felt her anguish and sadness. It wasn't until the moment I was walking up the stairs to apartment 3B that I realized I hadn't understood the torment that cancer brought, even at its diagnosis. It was frightening.

I advanced quickly down the hallway until I approached Pierre's door. The abrupt sound of my knocking alerted me to compose myself. I wiped away the salty streaks on my cheeks.

I hope Faye didn't see.

"Malorie?!" The door had opened. "What are you doing here?" Pierre was in awe.

"Hi," I started. What was I doing here?

"Come in!" he realized, opening the door further. I walked halfway down the hall as he closed the door and turned to face him. His apartment was freezing.

"I thought you could use some moral support."

"Thanks," he replied. "I'm really surprised to see you." With the light from his kitchen, I was able to see beads of sweat over his brow.

"Are you okay?" I asked, scrutinizing his face.

"Yeah, I get these awful night sweats. It's no big deal. I was just about to take a cold—actually freezing—bath."

"Oh, do you want me to leave?"

"No," he nearly shouted. "Please. Stay. I'll..." He shrugged. "... I'll wear my swim trunks." He dipped his chin and laughed gently, embarrassed probably.

I smiled. "Sure."

He walked into his bedroom, and I wandered down the hall toward the bathroom, crossing my arms over my body in a tight hug. I was surprised I couldn't see my breath. His spacious tub was filled almost to the brim with water. I dipped my fingers into the tub. The chill drilled through my bones, and I pulled my fingers out quickly.

"So I went to the doctor's last week..." Pierre's voice came from the hall. He appeared in the bathroom in his baby blue swimming trunks and tossed me a sweatshirt. His entire body was rosy and covered in sweat.

"They sucked some bone marrow out of my hip. It fucking hurt like a bitch. The needle was massive. Thickest needle I've ever seen in my life. I almost shit myself." He demonstrated its apparent size by spacing his palms apart from each other.

I raised my eyebrows. "So I've heard. Where'd they take it from?"

He turned around and pulled down the piece of material covering the crest of his left hip, revealing a small, circular wound.

"Wow," I managed. He recovered the bathing suit and walked over to the tub, before slowly lowering himself in and muttering sounds of pleasure in the process. I sat on the toilet across from him. He leaned his head back, staring at the ceiling.

"I can't believe all of this," I said as I stared into space.

"Me neither. If anything, I would have thought it'd be lung cancer...but not for like, thirty more years. And I only smoked for a few years too."

"What did your parents say?"

"I haven't told them."

I straightened up. "You didn't tell them?"

"No, I haven't told anyone."

"Why not?"

"Let's see. My mom would cry and have an anxiety attack. Then she'd drive here and hug me until I choked to death. My dad would ask me what the hell I've been doing to give myself cancer because, ya know, anyone who has cancer has obviously done something specifically to cause it. David would cry and beg me not to die. Chuck would want me to go public. And I can't tell the rest of the guys without telling them. I can't deal with people who are going to cause me anxiety right now. I feel totally calm."

"Why did you tell me?"

"I don't know," he replied. He sat up and looked at me. "After I got over the news, you were the first person I thought of. I felt like I had to call you." I nodded, shifting uncomfortably and dipping my eyes. A sticky silence followed.

"Where's Faye, by the way?"

"David and Lexi."

"What did you tell them?"

"Emergency at the clinic." Pierre laughed.

"Could you hand me the face cloth next to the sink?" I obliged and sat on the edge of the tub as he dipped the cloth into the water and slung it across his forehead.

"Why are you here?"

"I told you." He looked at me expectantly.

"For support."

"Why?"

"What do you mean 'why'?" I asked irritably. "Why does it matter?"

"Well, because..." He shrugged. "Last time we had a real conversation, you told me you hated me. You seemed pretty sure of it."

I sighed. "Well, I'm here now."

"So, you don't hate me."

"Pierre," I warned. A slanted smile curved into one of his cheeks.

"Whatever the reason, I'm glad you stopped by." Our eyes met, and I felt sick. This was a mistake. I shouldn't have acted so impulsively.

I diverted my eyes and swallowed hard. "I'm gonna get going. I can't leave Lexi with Faye and Zack all night."

"Zack is David's demon spawn, and Faye's a sweetheart. I think they can handle her." He laughed. "Plus, it's only seven."

"I know." Pierre removed the washcloth from his forehead.

"You're uncomfortable."

"I'm not," I stammered, standing and removing the sweatshirt. I patted down my flyaway strands of hair and then looked down at Pierre, trying to figure out how to leave as smoothly as possible. The sadness in his eyes was unbearable, but he managed a soft smile.

"Thanks for coming by."

"It's fine," I said, hugging myself from the cold. "Make sure you get some fever reducers, and uh...call if you need something." Pierre nodded.

"Will do."

I was standing outside his apartment door now, but my Vans felt like they were carrying bricks in the soles. My heart was stammering again. Why?

Damn it all to hell, Sebastien. You schemy little fuck.

Chapter Text

The next day at the clinic was hell. No neuters, no emergencies, no idiots, no accidents. Every lyme disease test even came back negative. Perfect day, right? Hardly. For one thing, this was the calm before the storm. For another thing, I couldn't get my mind off my ex-husband. Why had I bolted out of his apartment as soon as I got there? I cared, didn't I? That's why I had dropped everything and ran to his side when he called. I mean, I guess that was only natural though. When someone you know tells you they've been diagnosed with a life-threatening condition, of course you offer your support. Even if you hate them. I may hate Pierre a lot and want to punch him in the face, but I still care about him. I cringed at my own thought process.

What the fuck does that even mean? Pull yourself together, Dr. P.

Every free second I got throughout the day was spent with some derivative of these thoughts crawling through my mind. Appointments and phone calls came in and out. By the time I finished call-backs and treated the in-hospital patients, it was just after eight o'clock. I pulled my phone from my coat pocket as I headed to my car.

"See you tomorrow, Malorie!" Austin, one of the technicians, called. I waved and sat down, quickly turning the heat on in the car. As usual, I found a few work-related text messages and the typical text message from Jordan:

"I just embalmed a one hundred one year-old man who has been wearing diapers for the last five years. If I ever get to that point, just euthanize me. I mean, holy shit. How many cat years is one hundred one?!"

No matter how tired I was, she could always make me burst out laughing. I quickly sent a reply:

"Unfortunately, my patients don't ever reach that age, and I'm way too tired to count right now. Come over, and make me dinner, bitch."

I grinned as it sent and checked back to my inbox. There was one more message that had been received hours ago. It was from Pierre.

"Hey, I was going over some stuff my doctor gave me, and I was hoping you could give me a call later when you've got a chance. It's just a big blur to me."

I froze for a moment and then exhaled as I stared down at the message. Him and his terrible timing. I found myself calling him before I gave it any real thought.

"Hello?"

"Hi, what's going on?" I inquired, trying to relax into the warmth of my car.

He sighed, irritably and exhaustedly. "Just...all of this."

"Have you talked to anyone else about it?" I asked, although I already knew the answer.

"No. My doctor gave me leukemia pamphlets, chemo information, bone marrow transplant shit, support group stuff...I think I'm onto something, but I wanted your opinion." He paused. "I know you're not a human doctor or an oncologist, but I just wanted you to tell me what you thought," he said firmly.

I cleared my throat. "Um, I mean, I'd be happy to look it over with you, but if this is about your treatment plan, that's really something you need to talk about with your doctor."

"It's not my treatment plan. It's my, uh, future plans, I guess. And stuff he wanted me to be aware of." A long awkward silence followed as I fidgeted.

"I can read it to you."

"Pierre, that sounds like a lot of stuff. Look, Faye's at Alexa's tonight because of my late shift." I paused. "If you want, I can come by and go over it quickly." I suppressed a yawn.

"Y-yeah, that works." He sounded surprised.

Once we'd gotten off the phone, and I'd realized what I'd done, I groaned. Five minutes ago, I'd had a night to myself without having to watch Faye or Zack. Now, I'd be spending it with a stomach in knots at Pierre's when I could be sleeping.

~~

Malorie hastily buttoned up her coat with one hand as she walked down the hallway to Pierre's door, expecting sub-zero temperatures in his apartment. Her other hand was occupied by a turkey sub, which she couldn't eat fast enough. She'd barely gotten lunch, but she certainly didn't want to walk into Pierre's apartment eating when she hadn't even offered to get him anything. She paused in the middle of the hallway to swallow the last piece before guiltlessly tossing the wrapper down the flight of stairs.

"Hey," Pierre greeted, attempting to sound relaxed. "Thanks for stopping by."

"Yeah, sure," Malorie said with a smile, walking past him. Pierre exhaled and forced his shoulders to loosen as he closed the door. It was just a few degrees warmer in the apartment than the typical late October weather—much warmer than it was when Malorie last visited. The TV was tuned in to some game show, and papers were splayed all across the coffee table in the living room.

"Everything's over by the couch," Pierre mentioned in a low voice as he headed into the kitchen. "Want some coffee?"

"No thanks. I'm planning on hitting bed as early as possible tonight," Malorie replied, taking a seat on the couch. She briefly eyed the show but lost interest almost immediately. Pierre poured his fourth cup of black coffee for that evening. He felt like he hadn't slept in forty-eight hours. His eyes were plagued with a dull sting, and his bones ached of exhaustion. He'd already drained half his mug when he took his seat beside Malorie on the couch.

Malorie palmed through the material on the table, occasionally propping a booklet open if the title needed a further explanation. Pierre watched on nervously, eyes shifting between her and that nauseating mess of papers he couldn't bring himself to look over more than once. They attempted to paint a hopeful picture, but Pierre felt condemned. Malorie furrowed her eyebrows when the seemingly infinite pile revealed beneath it a large manila envelope. She picked it up cautiously and looked at Pierre, expectantly. He nodded towards it. Malorie eagerly flicked open the prongs on the back holding its flap down and pulled out copies of Pierre's medical records. Pierre sighed uncomfortably and looked on over Malorie's shoulder.

Dr. Peterson had kept a very neat and detailed account of what appeared to be an inconsistently healthy and painfully ill man over the last few months. About a month ago, it contained a short scribble: "presenting complaint of high fever, fatigue, and headache. Temp: 102.3 degrees." It appeared Pierre had gone back just a few days later for a recheck: "fever and headache decreased with OTC aspirin. Patient declines blood work." Malorie's eyes widened. Pierre swallowed hard. He couldn't read his doctor's messy scribbles. What was she learning about him?

Malorie flipped through the last few pages of written information before opening to the recent lab reports. There was a report about his anomalous initial blood work. The next page contained notes about abnormal cell morphology and large amounts of myeloblasts found in the bone marrow. Malorie's gaze stiffened at that word as the reality of the reports set in. Pierre had a vicious cancer in his bone marrow; she was holding the evidence right in her hand. She blinked a few times and swallowed hard as her eyes wandered off the labs. She caught sight of chemotherapy information on the table, and a thought occurred to her. She turned and opened her mouth to speak but closed it once she realized how closely Pierre was looming behind her shoulder. He quickly sat back down, facing her and feeling ridiculous for not recognizing just how close he'd been.

Malorie composed herself. "Pierre," she started delicately, moving her eyes to look at his face. His skin wasn't flushed or glistening like it had been the day before, and the hair just above his forehead was subtly gelled up to a standing position. He was shocked by how much his prescription fever reducers had cooled him down. Pierre figured that by the look on Marie's face, she was surprised too.

"You're probably going to lose at least some of your hair," she said slowly. "Not to mention, the chemo can make you feel sick." She paused to make sure he was following. "I think you better tell the guys and your family before that happens. I'm sure everyone is already worried about you. If they have to see you go through those changes without knowing the cause, it's really going to upset them."

Pierre dropped his chin and nodded gently. "Yeah, I know," he said with a sigh, turning away and setting his coffee on the table. "I'm still trying to wrap my brain around all of this. I don't know how I'm going to tell everyone." He shook his head slowly.

A small spicule of his hair had temporarily distracted Malorie. It had snuck over the crest of his ear and was pointing toward his eye, out of sync with the others forced by a wax to project upward. He'd always been so careful about gelling the radicals and ensuring the wax never dried a clump of hair to his skin. Why hadn't he noticed?

Against her better judgment, she reached a hesitant and unsure hand toward the offending spike of hair. Pierre was startled out of his dreary thoughts at the gentle contact of her fingers, as if she had brushed against a fresh wound. Although shocked by the encounter, Pierre kept his head still. Malorie pressed the hair up into uniformity with the others.

"I'm sure no matter what you say..." she began, encouraging the hair to remain behind his ear, "...they'll understand and support you." The tingling feeling her fingers brought to his skin had seeped into his thought process, and he swallowed hard. Suddenly, everything felt very hazy. He couldn't remember the last time he'd been in a touch-induced drunken stupor.

Pierre turned his head toward Malorie, and she reflexively opened her palm to catch his jaw and cheek. His eyes met her tilted forehead, and he waited for her to look up—even just a glance. She could feel his gaze begging, and her eyes dabbled on his chin as she absent-mindedly began to stroke his cheek with her thumb, searching for an ounce of courage. At the soft movement, Pierre's breath tangled deep in his chest, and he leaned into the caress. He wrapped his hand around her wrist to push her palm further against his cheek before moving it upward onto the back of her hand. Malorie timidly altered her gaze to meet Pierre's eyes. They were strangely placid, but she still caught their determined gleam. He was hesitant—maybe even nervous—but he began closing their distance, inching his upper body closer to hers. He paused with their noses separated by a small space. Their eyes met again, but this time he was unnerved, and a tension had interlaced through his eyebrows.

Malorie moved her fixation to his lips and eliminated all doubt between them by pressing her lips against his. It took him about a second to realize he was being kissed, but Pierre quickly dipped back into reality and opened their reunion. Their tongues brushed pleasantly, and Pierre's heart surged when he flicked against Malorie's chipped molar. He moved his hands to her waist, edging her body closer to his. She was free to snake her hand behind his neck, forcing his head—and tongue—closer. Their tongues were wrestling now, and it wasn't long before Pierre felt himself getting uncomfortably hard. Already having mastered the hints Pierre's kisses gave, Malorie slithered a hand over Pierre's stomach and onto the crotch of his basketball shorts. They quickly proved to be a useless restraint against her hand; she could just about grasp his entire width. As she massaged, Pierre tried and failed to suppress a begging whine, accompanied by soft thrusts. He broke their kiss apart only to move his mouth to her neck. His nimble fingers hastily unbuttoned her coat as his other hand gripped securely to her waist. Her maneuvers were disrupted only when her coat was peeled off; her hands then went right to the hem of Pierre's T-shirt and tugged it off over his head. Before it had the chance to settle onto the floor, they were shuffling down the hallway, with their lips connected and their feet tripping over each others'.

Although mildly disoriented, Pierre was able to find his way down the dark hallway into his bedroom while pulling his ex-wife's shirt over her head. It met the same fate as his T-shirt beside his bed. They collapsed onto the soft mattress, and Pierre's body stretched out on top of Malorie's. He grated his hips into hers, punctuating his full erection. It sent a jolt of excitement through her body, and she tugged off the rest of Pierre's clothes in a frenzy. He hovered above her completely naked, as he'd done so many countless times in the past. With her underwear still blocking him, and her teeth nipping at the sensitive skin on his neck, Pierre didn't know how much more teasing he could take. His head was spiraling as he searched frantically through his nightstand for a condom. Each time his pleading ardor pressed against her, Malorie could feel herself increasingly swell against her underwear.

Finally equipped, Pierre awarded himself by removing the undergarment they'd both grown to loathe. He entered rapidly without warning, and the intense pleasure was asphyxiating. The mesh of starbursts that appeared before Pierre's eyes had almost been enough to drown out the passionate screech he drew from Malorie's lips. His pace was anxious, begging, and hopeful. It was fast. Neither of them could endure the slow adjustment of being together for the first time in years.

Pierre's eyes were screwed shut tight, and his fingers pressed into her waist. He couldn't have grated any harder or penetrated any deeper. Malorie's hands traced up his shrinking triceps and onto his shoulder blades, where her nails sunk in deeply. She could feel every muscle fiber in his body tremble, every heartbeat flutter, every breath shake. His state of ecstasy could only be matched by Malorie's.

Each blissful gasp that slipped out of her mouth emptied right into Pierre's ear. He lifted his face from the curve of her neck and altered his focus to her face. His eyes flickered over its surface, absorbing every feature, never growing tired of it. His eyes progressively moved past her parted lips, over her flushed cheeks, and up to her eyes. She was staring back up at him. When the bright blue glow of her eyes landed on his, it sent him into a trance. He wasn't surprised; she'd always had that effect on him. Pierre's lips curved into a half smile when he realized that if she could still change his behavior with just a look after all their years apart, then she always would. Chastened, his pace began to slow gradually. When she laid her hand gently against his cheek, he slipped his face down for a soft kiss. With one forearm braced steadily against the bed, his other hand tenderly caressed her breast, lingering as he gathered courage—and well because, he really loved fondling her too.

The singer's uncertain hand then reached for Malorie's smaller pale one but was met with assurance; her fingers slipped between his tightly. Her comforting grip forced him to bite his lip. All he wanted to do in that moment was tell her he loved her more than she could imagine, that he always had, that his mistakes in the past never changed how he felt. He wanted to blurt out that he was a selfish idiot who probably never deserved her in the first place but certainly didn't now. But even as these thoughts played out in his mind, he could feel her walls tightening around him and her nails nearly bursting through his back. He couldn't ruin it. Just as she'd done in the past, she'd slap him, call him a string of curse words revolving around the word 'liar,' and leave. If she left right now, his heart would break, and he knew, this time surely, he'd die.

"Oh fuck, Pierre!" she moaned breathlessly. Her hand clumsily bolted from his cheek into his hair, where her fingers tangled within his messy spikes, pulling so hard she displaced his chin to the side. He forced himself to take deep and even breaths as he felt the pressure mounting within himself. He was getting close. His slow and diligent thrusts were hitting her just right, but they were torturing Pierre. It took every ounce of self-control he had in his body to stop himself from pounding in and out of her as rapidly as he could.

As her breathing became more and more audible, he stole one extra kiss before surrendering his lips to her neck. Just as he felt her walls squeezing him impossibly tight, she arched her back and let out a scream so loud, he worried his neighbors might call the police. He inwardly begged himself to hold on until she was done, but his ability to control his urges was soon thrown out the window when Malorie nipped at his earlobe and whispered to him.

"Come for me." That was really all it took. His limbs shook as the pressure finally released itself inside his ex-lover. A long guttural groan elicited from his throat as he rode out his high. He could count on one hand the number of times he'd come from slow and passionate sex, and they were all with the same woman.

Still trembling, Pierre dropped his face back down into Malorie's neck, his chest rising and falling as he tried to catch his breath. He slowly released his grip on her waist and pulled out, rolling onto the sheets. It was only after her heart rate had just about returned to normal when Malorie's sense of judgment started to become functional again.

She released their locked hands, revealing a pool of mixed sweat in their palms. She promptly wiped it off on the sheets and sat up quickly, tucking her hair behind her ears. It was already almost ten. Pierre followed her stance.

"It's pretty late, ya know? I should go."

"What?" He was confused. She stood and began stepping into her underwear. He swung his legs over the side of the bed, watching her as his feeling of ecstasy rapidly vanished.

"Why?" he pressed.

"I have work early," she said shortly as she pulled on her pants. Her voice was strangely apathetic for a woman who just begged him to ejaculate.

"So what?" He shrugged. "Sleep here. You've got all your work clothes."

"Yeah, but it's a longer commute from here than my house," she reasoned, finishing the buttons on her shirt.

"I'll get up early and drive y—"

"Pierre, are you kidding me right now?" she asked, raising her voice exasperatedly. Her arms came slapping down against her sides. "We're divorced." She paused.

"We're divorced for a reason." She leaned forward, opening her arms and palms for emphasis. Pierre rolled his eyes. Like he hadn't heard that one before. "I'm not gonna sleepover. We shouldn't have even had sex in the first place." With that, she turned and left the room, heading down the hallway.

Pierre was quickly on his feet, pulling on his boxers and speed-walking after her. She was already putting on her coat when he approached her.

"Hold on." His finger was pointed at her, accusingly. "Am I mistaken here? You're the one who kissed me first and felt me up over my pants. Am I right?"

"I know."

"Then why are you upset right now? What's the problem?"

"Nothing." She averted her gaze and dipped her chin. Once again, he'd both won an argument and lost at it the same time. It was silent for a moment as Pierre's annoyance vanished.

"Look. I'm really confused right now," he said.

"I'm sorry," she admitted, just above a whisper. Her thoughts were far too scuffled for her to have any form of a sensible conversation. She looked back up at him as she tucked her hair behind her ears again. Her eyeliner was smudged, but it didn't hide the deeply apologetic look in her eyes.

Pierre sighed, defeated. "It's okay," he said dejectedly. "I get it." He tried but couldn't read past her uneasiness. She didn't give him much time to fathom their situation either—she had turned and was heading for the door barely a moment later. He followed her begrudgingly.

"Keep me updated." She put a hand on his shoulder, popped up on the tips of her toes, and planted a kiss on his cheek. Before he could even breathe a quick 'good night,' she was gone.

Updated? Pierre didn't have to think for more than a split second. Oh, that's right. The cancer.

Chapter Text

"Faye!" She didn't look up. The boy grasped the basketball bouncing at his feet and stuck it under his armpit. "Faye!" he screamed louder, putting one hand against the corner of his mouth for amplification.

At that, the small brown-haired girl looked up, squinting her eyes at the boy who called her name. She was crouched down under a group of trees in the grass with a few of her other second grade friends. When she realized who it was, her entire face lit up.

"Zack!" she screamed, excitedly. She was on her feet in less than a second, running across the tarred playground with a grin that revealed a missing front tooth.

"What the heck were you doing over there?" the eight-year-old inquired.

"Looking for bugs."

"Oh." Zack resumed bouncing. "Did you find any?"

"No." Faye shrugged, sadly.

"That sucks. Do you want to play basketball with us?"

A chorus of groans erupted behind Zack. He turned. "Hey, shut up!" he defended.

"Dude! This game is boys only!" a kid standing under the basketball net called. Zack rolled his eyes and shook his head simultaneously, turning his attention back to Faye.

"So, you in?"

Faye peered around the taller boy to the group of scowling third-graders behind him. "Uh no, that's okay. Me and Charlotte were about to go on the swings anyway," she replied, suddenly intimidated.

Zack shrugged. "Okay, see ya later."

Before Faye could reply, a figure approaching behind Zack caught her attention. Her eyes widened when she realized it was Greg. Zack's hazel eyes resized to match her brown ones, recognizing her fright. He quickly turned to face his bully.

"Hey Fagrosiers, hope you don't mind if we crash your game." Greg nodded to the boy next to him, his best friend Jacob. The mischievous smirk on his face only lengthened when he realized they were surrounded by a group of boys in their class. Besides his towering height, Greg didn't look like a bully. He was thin with floppy blonde hair and pale blue eyes. Not the typical image of a harassment enforcer.

Greg stepped forward swiftly, snatching the basketball away from Zack, who fell back somewhat from the suddenness of the action. Faye tried her best to stand completely still hoping to remain unnoticed, although her hands were shaking. After all, she'd had her fair share of pushing and shoving from Greg and Jacob. Greg chuckled.

"By the way, I wanted to congratulate you on reaching a new level of retarded. Not only can you not read but apparently you can't even follow along long enough to know where we are in the book. No one's born that stupid. Your mom definitely dropped you on your head...a lot." A few boys snickered as Greg and Jacob pounded fists. "Time to up the dose on your 'dumbass pills.'"

Zack dropped his chin, trying to hide how much their teasing had upset him. He hated when they reminded him just how stupid he was.

"And now you're trying to play basketball with a girl. What's next?" Jacob added. Greg laughed.

"He's gonna come into school tomorrow with a dress on."

"Why doesn't that surprise me?" Jacob replied through a taunting laugh. Each insult stung. Just as Zack was about to shrivel up and crumble, he felt a dull prod in his back. He knew it was Faye. It was her signal—his cue.

She's right. What am I doing?

He took a deep breath and tilted his head up.

"Fuck off, assholes," he snarled through gritted teeth. Greg stopped laughing, but the smirk never left his face. He passed the ball off to Jacob and took a few slow steps toward Zack. Zack swallowed hard but stood his ground.

"What did you just say to me?" Greg challenged.

Oh no, I shouldn't have said anything, Zack thought fearfully. His heart was speeding. Faye eyed the terrifying form looming above Zack. She held her breath, waiting for Zack to respond. The bully's grin suddenly disappeared from his face, replaced by a scowl.

"Hey," Greg called solidly. He reached forward a demanding paw, grabbing a fistful of Zack's sweatshirt just below the collar. Zack was hoisted up onto the tips of his toes. Greg pulled the small startled boy closer to him. His knuckles pressed uncomfortably into Zack's windpipe. "I asked you a question," he spat in a low voice, emphasizing each word.

"I told you to fuck off," Zack mumbled quickly, ensuring his field of vision remained averted from Greg's. Greg's grip was unwavering as he eyed him for what felt like an eternity to both Zack and Faye. Jacob and the other boys watched on intently, waiting for Greg to decide the punishment for Zack's insolence. Because no one talked to Greg Astern like that—no one. Greg wouldn't tolerate talk like that. Hell, he wouldn't even tolerate a funny look in his direction.

In reality, only a few seconds had passed before the sickening grin was back. Faye felt her stomach flip.

"All right Zack, I'll fuck off." Greg set down his prey and allowed some space to form between them. Zack brushed his sweatshirt down quickly, keeping his eye on Greg. He knew it wasn't over. Greg turned and made a move to walk away.

"Oh, but one quick thing first." In a single fluid motion, Greg spun around and hooked Zack powerfully in the cheekbone. Zack was on the ground for about a second before the sharp pain set in. His vision was too blurred, and his ears were ringing too loud for him to hear Faye's shriek. Greg stood above him and shook his fist out once. He looked around hurriedly for a teacher, but no one had seen. Their vision was blocked by too many kids running around the playground. Greg had mastered the ability of sucker punching Zack under the radar. Jacob and he disappeared as a crowd of third grade boys hovered a few feet away from Zack, looking down at him in awe. Small specks of black and silver clouded the periphery of Zack's vision. He could barely make out Faye rushing to his side.

"Zack! Are you okay?!" He propped himself up on his elbow and gave a short nod. Well, of course he was okay. Greg hadn't punched him in the jaw. That could have been a disaster. It was still healing from his last beating.

Faye took a deep breath. She knew the routine. She carefully tugged the hood of Zack's sweatshirt over his head, taking care to cover the swelling red mass on his cheek. As she helped him to his feet, the playground began to spin.

"Can you walk?"

Zack gave another short nod. The two then began walking toward the school, with Zack stepping disjointedly off to the side of and slightly behind Faye. With his head spinning so violently, it was nearly impossible to appear as a normal student that hadn't just been punched in the face to the teacher standing in front of the school doors. He knew he had to pull himself together. He couldn't mess everything up now. Not after all he'd been through.

Under the guise of a bathroom break, the two entered the school and hurried down the hall past a set of double doors.

"They can't see us now," Faye announced once the double doors had closed. Zack stumbled over to the closest wall he could find and leaned against it, dropping his head as the sharp pain kicked in, spreading through his head and the rest of his face. He could feel an intense heat emerging from his battered cheekbone and leaking out of his skin. His fresh tears stung the raw skin, already turning purple as an objection to Greg's punch.

"You can't cry! The cover-up won't stay on!"

Zack looked up slowly to avoid exacerbating his headache. Faye had already grabbed the icepack from her lunch box and was standing directly in front of him. Zack took it from her held-out hand and gradually pressed the freezing object against his cheek. He knew the time to bring down his swelling was limited. They only had a few minutes before a teacher would come looking for them. They had to work fast.

He'd gotten a minute to ice his punch before the two sat on the bench lining the classroom closest to the double doors. Faye had her eyes and ears peeled for the first sign of another person. She whipped a small bottle of cover-up out of her zippered coat pocket and twisted the cap off. It wasn't like her mom knew it was missing. She never used this stuff.

Zack's eyes watered as she began rubbing the fair-skinned pigmented liquid into his skin. She removed his hood and swept a few of the dirty blonde curls making up his mop of hair away to get a better look at the discoloration on his face. She dabbed a bit of the cover-up over the deep purple forming under his eye and covered his whole nose just to be on the safe side.

"I wish I wasn't such a stupid idiot," Zack spilled all of a sudden.

"But you asked your mom a few times, and she said she never dropped you on your head."

Zack looked right up at Faye, slightly offended and unmoved by her attempt to comfort him. "She's obviously just saying that, so I won't think I'm stupid."

"I thought ADD was different than stupid."

"It's just a fancy word for it. I don't think doctors can tell you that you're a moron."

"But even if you are dumb, you can do other stuff. You're really good at basketball, and you can play like, every instrument—and sing!"

"But I can never get anything better than a C on my homework or tests. Even Mademoiselle Samson thinks I'm dumb. Greg's right. I need stronger pills. Mine aren't working." Faye pressed the make-up into the corner of Zack's eye. He yelled, and Faye pulled her hand away. She looked around just to be sure no one heard.

"You should just tell the teacher on Greg. Then he'll stop hitting you and making fun of you."

"I already told you," he began, slightly exasperated. "He saw me and Louis putting dog crap in Monsieur Babineaux's desk. My life will be over. I'll be grounded forever and then have to switch schools. Plus, he said he'd kill me 'in my sleep' if I ever told anyone...and his dad has guns."

"Yeah. That would suck. I wonder if they'd believe him though. Does he even know where you live?" Faye noticed the old and dull green-colored bruise erupting through the make-up on Zack's jaw. He could never do a thorough job on his own in the morning. She smeared some extra cover-up over it.

"Yeah, he lives down the street from me. Our moms are friends, for Christ's sake."

"Oh. Yeah," Faye stammered.

She muddled over their conversation as she applied the finishing touches to Zack's slightly swollen face, her eyebrows tensed in thought. "You know who's stupid?! Jeremy. He eats his boogers. I even saw him lick a glue stick! Now, that's stupid!"

"Yeah, I guess." He paused. "Am I done? We should go." His leg bounced rapidly on the balls of his foot, impatiently. Faye stood.

"Yeah, we better hurry before recess ends."

~~

It was June of 2003, and I was twenty-two years old. So far, my vacation to Brazil with my cousin Asia was off to a fabulous start. The month before, we'd both graduated from our undergraduate programs, and I was well on my way to living out my once far away dream. After a long and tortuous four years of college, I found out I'd been accepted into veterinary school. The free-spirited Asia refused to believe a small graduation party involving mostly family members was enough of a celebration. She also swore that by the end of the summer, I'd know how to order a drink in a bar.

As the end of June neared, I found myself suffocating in skin-tight dresses choking back the foulest drinks to exist. At my age, it should have been my specialty, but all I'd mastered in the last few years was the art of staying awake when exhaustion was picking my eyes out with dental instruments. Despite my slight awkwardness in heels and my hesitance to take a shot, I was having an incredible time. Asia and I spent our days on beaches, at shops, and in expensive restaurants. By night, we explored clubs and bars, where Asia leapt at the chance to dance and drink with strangers.

"Malorie, he is so gorgeous, and I really connected with him. I can't believe we have to leave in two days! There're just no guys this sweet in America!" Asia spewed as we walked down a bustling street corner one evening. Asia didn't just speak with her hands; she spoke with her arms. The countless shopping bags she'd racked up clattered. I rolled my eyes.

"Asia, you met him in the club while you were drunk—"

"Tipsy!"

"Whatever. The point is, you're a tall, tan...and blonde, and you can do better than some greasy guy who wears rings! I mean, who does that?"

"Yeah, that was a little creepy," Asia admitted. Something caught her eye, and she stopped and looked up. "Hey, we haven't been here yet!"

I followed her gaze. It was a bar. Asia's goal was to hit every bar or club she spotted. I checked my phone and groaned.

"It's hardly past four, and I'm tired," I said. "Can't we head back to the room for a little while?"

She ignored me completely and grabbed my wrist. I was whisked inside the bar, which turned out to be incredibly busy.

"Aw, come on! We'll never find a spot! Look at that huge crowd!" I got a better look around and realized there were plenty of spaces at the bar. The crowd, consisting mostly of scantily-clad young women, was more toward the back near some small tables.

"I'm confused," I stated as I saw Asia's eyebrows furrowing. A girl looking about our age emerged from the crowd, racing for the door clenching a napkin between her fingers. Her grin was so large, I thought her face was going to break, and she seemed to be hyperventilating. Asia gently tapped her arm as she passed.

"Hey, what's going on over there?" she asked.

"Oh, my God!" the girl shrieked. "Simple Plan just came in, and they're signing autographs! I can't believe it!" She ran out, leaving Asia and I stunned. Could it be true? Asia slowly turned to me.

"Don't you know them?" she asked in disbelief, as if sure she was wrong.

"Well...." I started. "Sort of. I mean, I really only know Seb, but I haven't spoken to him much over the last four years, and I haven't seen him since I graduated high school and moved back to America. I'll bet he doesn't even remember me."

Shocked, Asia and I quickly grabbed a seat at the bar and waited for the crowd to disperse. I looked over and scanned the immediate area. Sure enough, I spotted the dirty-blonde spiked hair of Simple Plan's guitarist, Sebastien. He was talking to a group of girls and taking pictures with them.

"I don't believe it," I muttered to Asia. "That's him!"

"Malorie, you should go talk to him! He must remember you...or else he's a complete douche!"

Without warning, his conversation with the girls ended, and he began walking toward the front of the bar, near Asia and me. As he was walking past, I hopped off the stool.

"Seb!" I called. I reached out for his arm. He turned around.

"Hi, you probably don't remember me. We—"

"Holy shit! Malorie fucking Patterson!" With a large grin on his face, Seb grabbed me and pulled me into a tight hug. I was so stunned, I couldn't even move. I quickly recovered in time to react normally when the hug ended.

"What are you doing here?!" he pressed. I laughed.

"I—I'm on vacation!" I said, stuttering slightly. "What are you doing here?!"

"Dude, this is one of Simple Plan's tour stops! We're here until tomorrow!"

"Seb, that's incredible! Congratulations!" I laughed nervously.

"Thanks, Malorie." He smiled. "Are you here alone?"

"No, I'm actually here with my cousin Asia." I motioned for Asia to join us. "We both just graduated college, so Brazil is just a little celebration."

"No shit?! Fucking college?!"

"Asia, this is my best friend from high school, Sebastien."

"Call me Seb." He smiled warmly, ignored her held out hand, and brought her in for a tight squeeze. Miraculously, he hadn't changed a damn bit.

"This is fucking insane! The guys need to see you!"

Before Asia or I could process what was happening, Seb was guiding us over to a series of small tables in the back where Chuck was sitting with some friends. Seb hooked his arm around my neck and loudly announced his discovery of me to Chuck and also to David, their bassist who I had never met before. Like he'd known us since we were born, David pulled us both in for a hug. I was shocked yet again when Chuck recognized me and stood to hug me. It felt like Asia and I were long lost children. As if on cue, Jeff popped out of the men's room.

"Jeff!" Seb called. He practically tackled Jeff as he pointed me out and began introducing Asia. "And dude, where the fuck is Pierre?"

"Malorie, you look great!" Jeff remarked. Anticipating my fourth hug of the day, I went in first. With my cheek pressed against the famous guitarist's ear, I didn't think things could get any stranger. I was quickly proven wrong. As my eyes scanned the room, they landed on a familiar face. Pierre, the band's lead singer, was seated at another table, chatting with a D-cup brunette. His tight muscle shirt was baby blue, and I only remember because it accented his sun-kissed skin and black hair. At hearing his name, he glanced over toward Seb, but I seemed to catch his eye first. He did a double take and froze. Our eyes had strangely locked. I wasn't sure how, and for some reason, I wasn't able to look away.

The split seconds were passing, but his mocha-colored eyes refused to even submit to a blink. My knees suddenly protested my weight, and I felt a slow blush moving to my cheeks. Pierre quickly recovered from his frozen state, and a half-smile crept onto his lips. I returned the smile just before the brunette touched Pierre's hand in an attempt to regain his attention.

He turned to her as he stood and spoke a few quick words that I couldn't hear over the lively bar. I swung my attention back to Jeff.

"So, when are you guys heading home?" I asked, turning my head back and forth between Jeff and Seb.

"I don't believe it." The singer's cool voice interrupted Jeff's response. I felt a small tingle in my spine as I turned to face Pierre. He seemed taller. The devious smile in his eyes matched the one on his lips.

And shit, because here I am with melted mascara and faded lipstick, I'm sure. I reek to high Heaven of sunscreen. And everyone in this bar is about to lose their eyesight permanently from the sheen of my pale skin.

"I see you finally learned how to put eyeliner on the right way." He gave a good head nod in my direction. "You looked like a fucking raccoon in high school."

I crossed my arms over my chest. "Real original, Bouvier. Like I've never heard that one before. I see you figured out what a gym was. You looked like a pre-pubescent girl in high school." Jeff and Seb burst out laughing.

"Dude, you kinda did though," Jeff added. Pierre turned to him.

"This, coming from the fucking caveman. You looked like Osama Bin Laden in high school."

"Dude, you're gonna talk about my hair? Looked like you hit a fucking skunk with your car and put it on top of your head...all four years!"

"My hair was light brown. Skunks are black and white, moron."

"Enough," I managed through laughter. "Pierre, this is my cousin Asia." Just like that, the smile was back, and he pulled her in for a hug.

"You too, raccoon." My arms could barely fit around his shoulders. His smile was dripping with a piercing charisma, a characteristic he didn't have in high school. It was hard to look away from his face.

"This sucks that we're leaving tomorrow!" Seb exclaimed, as I slowly dropped my hands from Pierre's shoulders. "When are you guys leaving?"

"We've got two more days here." The words had barely left my mouth before a group of girls that couldn't have been older than fourteen rushed over to the band, squealing. Asia was quite amused by the scene. She and I stood back as the band signed the cover of their CD booklet and took a quick picture.

Just over four years ago, these guys lived for band practice after school and spent their weekends hunting down producers. Now, they had fans drooling all over them, and it looked like a conversation in public probably wasn't possible. My best high school buddy had transformed into a pop punk sensation, and I couldn't get the crazy grin off my face.

The second the girls walked away, Seb was motioning for me to follow him to the bar.

"Are you still in the States, or did you move back to Canada yet?" Seb immediately jumped back into the conversation as we grabbed two seats.

"No, I'm still in America because of school," I explained. "I haven't really thought about where I'm going to live after, but we'll see." Seb's enormous blue eyes widened.

"Wait, more school?"

I nodded as I opened my mouth to explain, but he cut me off.

"That's crazy! You never told me this! I didn't even know you graduated college!" He feigned offense as he took a swig of some kind of draft beer.

I looked at him, incredulously. "Never mind me, dumbass!" Being me, I decided to skip over that unspoken grace period for calling names when two friends reunited. "You're fucking famous. Let's talk about that instead. I know we've kept in touch a bit but not enough for me to know your whole story! When did you guys leave the garage?!"

Seb sighed with a soft smile. "Not long after you moved, but holy shit, it wasn't easy."

He hadn't gotten to tell me much past their first few shows as an opening act when we were approached by the singer, beer in hand. I looked over at him, expectantly; Seb didn't pay much attention.

"Seb." His voice was hushed.

"What?"

"David wants you."

"Why?"

"I don't know." Pierre shrugged. "But he asked for you."

Seb looked at Pierre doubtfully. "Whatever. I'm in the middle of a conversation. I can talk to him later." He turned his attention back to me.

"Seb, come on."

"David can wait."

"He says it's really important." The quietness of Pierre's voice and the solemn look on his face caused Seb's eyebrows to furrow with concern. He looked over at David and then back to me.

Seb sighed exasperatedly. "Everyone in this band is insane. Do you mind, Malorie?"

"No, it's fine." Seb stood and walked back over to the group. Pierre watched him walk toward David, making sure the two met up before taking Seb's seat beside me, with his back facing the bar. When I realized that my eyes had been unconsciously crawling all over his body, I snapped myself out of it. I should be concerned for David right now.

"I hope David's okay," I said, awkwardly. Seb may have been a celebrity, but he was also a close friend of mine. Pierre, on the other hand, had been the grade above me in high school, and I hadn't known him very well. It was uncomfortable to try to talk to him with such a scarce background between us, but it certainly didn't help that he was a celebrity—or that he was incredibly attractive.

Pierre flipped his stool toward me, with a huge grin on his face. "He's totally fine; don't worry about it." He swung the old stool the rest of the way to the bar and finished his beer. His eye contact with me was brief; he seemed to be avoiding it.

"Are you sure?" I asked, confused by his sudden change of confidence in David.

"Positive." He looked at me with his eyes cast downward and shrugged sheepishly. "We needed to get rid of Seb somehow."

"We?" I asked, stunned as I raised my eyebrows.

"What are you drinking?" he asked, ignoring my shock and nodding toward my nearly empty glass. What an arrogant, cheeky bastard. And wait, was he blushing?

"Hold on, so you made all that up about David?"

"Not necessarily." He was finally looking at me. It was easy to see now—his cheeks were pink. "David's a little diva. He usually needs someone to vent to anyway." We both looked over at David simultaneously. He had a wild look in his eyes with the hand gestures to match. He was yelling about something to both Jeff and Seb at the same time. Pierre and I burst out laughing.

By the time our drinks came, we'd settled into each other's company. His huge brown eyes never left my face, but I didn't mind—I couldn't keep my eyes off him either. Their fixation was so radiant and focused. The few times I looked away from his face, it surprised me to see how vastly his eyes contradicted the rest of his body—jittery legs, clumsy feet, animated hands.

"It sucks for sure, I'll give you that." I licked mylips and shrugged. "But it's what I've always loved, so I never really had achoice," I explained after Pierre questioned how in the world I could still be in school. It was hard for him to imagine. Without the band's support, he would have dropped out the second he turned sixteen.

He laughed; that sparkle in his eyes never faded. "Wow," he managed without moving his stare. "That's what you always wanted. It's really amazing you followed through."

"There was literally nothing else I wanted to do." I smiled, taking a sip of my drink. "And I'm not the only one." I eyed him, implying our similarity.

He grinned when he realized I was talking about him. "Yeah," he agreed. "I'd still be playing in my basement right at this moment if I never got a record deal." I giggled. I giggled? Yeah. I giggled.

"So, what's the next step for the band?" I asked, composing myself.

"Well, we've got a handful of cities left to tour. It's been incredible so far. We're gonna head back to Montreal after this and start the process for the next album. I already started writing some new material too. We won't know if it's useful until we actually get into the studio though." He laughed.

"When will that be?"

"August." He paused. "You should—" He cast his eyes downward. "You should come by the studio sometime. I'd love to show you around." His eyes were back on me.

My eyebrows almost bounced into my hairline. "I wish I could," I started, "but I'll probably be moving to school by the time you guys start." I snorted a soft laugh. "Plus, I won't be in the country."

He frowned and bit his lip, his eyebrows furrowed in thought as he took a drink. His lips slowly extended into a playful half-smile.

"You're in this country. Now."

I narrowed my eyes. "And just what are you getting at?"

"We have a show tonight."

"...Okay," I pressed.

"You're coming." His forwardness was stunning, but I recovered before my tongue could tie.

"I'd love to." I had never seen them play before, and I certainly hadn't been expecting an invite. I couldn't say I was excited that the singer had invited me to the band's show, although I'm sure that would thrill anyone. It had more to do with the fact that Pierre asked me to hang out with him, albeit in a strange and nontraditional way.

For the hour more that the band remained in that stuffy little bar, Pierre and I never rejoined our friends. In fact, I'd kind of forgotten all about them. No one—not Seb or Asia—ever came back over to the bar. Maybe they could tell that the awkwardly confident skater boy sitting next to me had me completely absorbed. Or maybe the band looked over and saw that for once, their singer was completely enamored by and not just attracted to someone, as Pierre would admit to me later. It wasn't until Chuck began mumbling something about sound check that everyone pulled out their phones to check the time, rapidly ending their conversations. Pierre didn't seem too rushed.

"What's your number?" he asked shyly, taking hold of the opportunity now that he had his phone out. "I'll give you a call when we're all set up, so you can come backstage." He was blushing again. I felt my cheeks heating at the sight.

I'd hardly gotten the numbers out of my mouth before Chuck bustled over to collect Pierre. By the way the drummer rolled his eyes at him, I got the feeling he had to do it often. The entire band was out the door rapidly, with Pierre in tow sputtering an awkward goodbye.

Chapter Text

When Asia and I set foot at the venue, I felt at home immediately. I wasn't in Brazil anymore. I was a seventeen-year-old girl just down the street from my house at a show. The crowd was vibrant, and the opening act was actually pretty good. As the music and crowd filled Asia and me, I could feel the flow of adrenaline begin to pump. It might have been seven o'clock, but the sun was still blinding to anyone looking toward the stage.

"Come on!" I said eventually, not wanting to walk away from the show. "We have to go meet Pat by the merch stand!"

Asia and I took off, searching for the stand amongst people walking toward the stage or going to buy food. We were charged with too much adrenaline to walk. "There!" Asia shouted, taking off without me. I could hardly keep up with her long legs. I immediately spotted Patrick, trying to flirt with the girl selling the merchandise.

"Patrick!" I shouted, coming to a stop just outside the stand. He turned to look at us, obviously startled by the two crazy girls running toward him. He had the same goofy expression and floppy dirty blonde hair he'd had in high school. It took him a second to realize who Asia and I were as we stood there, expectantly.

"Oh! Malorie! And...Asia, right?!"

"Duh!" I shouted. "Do you not recognize me?!" Asia laughed.

"Come on. The guys are going on soon." He motioned to another guy behind the booth that he was leaving. Asia and I walked past the stand and onto a pathway behind it, leading toward the stage. We quickly caught up with Pat, and I made sure to properly introduce him to my cousin, who he wouldn't stop eyeing. Typical Pat. I felt my phone vibrate in my shorts pocket and smiled when I saw the caller ID.

"Hello?"

"Hey, where are you?" The hint of worry in his voice actually made my stomach flip.

I smiled. "We're here, Pierre. Pat's leading us toward the stage now. When do you guys go on?"

"Ten minutes." He paused. "Seb says hi."

"Tell him I say hi. I'll see you in a few."

As I hung up the phone, Pat handed Asia and me backstage passes on lanyards. The large grin she flashed me was a mirror image of mine.

Pat went on to tell us that the guys paid him to manage the merch and help co-manage the band. From what I recalled, he was always their biggest supporter in high school. And really, he had to be—because he didn't have any musical talent. That didn't matter to Pat though. He considered himself a fully-functioning band member. And the fans loved him, apparently.

I expected backstage to be loud, busy, and hectic, but it was eerily quiet when we walked inside. The only thing we could hear was the muffled sounds of a band and the screaming crowd.

"The stage is up this way." Pat pointed forward and led us down a narrow hall lined by dozens of identical doors. The venue was maze-like and confusing. How did drunk rockstars get around? More importantly, how did a simpleton like Pat know his way around here?

"Tracking with a GPS there, Pat?" I joked. He turned to stick his tongue at me and quickly denied.

As we reached the end of the hall, Pat began to gradually slow his pace, eventually coming to a stop as he peered down the connecting hallway. He reached a hand up to rub his chin.

"Umm, so, this should be immediately...backstage." Asia followed his gaze down the corridor.

"Doesn't look like it."

"Fuck!"

"Really, Pat?" I taunted. "You got us lost in a giant maze?"

"No! I'm just a little confused." He walked quickly past Asia and I in the opposite direction, checking down each hallway for some kind of clue. The screaming fans were no help either—their cheering surrounded us by three hundred sixty degrees. I checked the time.

"They're going on in a few minutes," I said, leaning toward Asia. "We might miss them."

Before Asia could respond, Pat yelled for us to follow him because he was sure he'd found the way now.

We jogged over. I was skeptical of his certainty at first, but as we neared him, I could hear other people. They were talking loud and quick.

The further we walked, the louder everything got—the guitars, the drums, the screaming, and the scrambling staff. Suddenly, David emerged from a door in front of us, bass wrapped around his body and anxiety scribbled across his face. He turned and walked fast, not even noticing us behind him. He was babbling on in French over the phone.

"David. Five minutes," a short woman spoke firmly as she walked past him. He barely acknowledged her and continued walking.

"David!" Pat called. David's screeching hair spun around even before he did, phone never leaving his ear. He waved at us, then turned and kept walking.

Pat rolled his eyes. "Every single time there's a big crowd..." he muttered.

I spotted a head of barbed hair guzzling a water bottle up ahead of David. Without wasting a second, I ran past Pat and David, yelling out to the guitarist.

"Hey, what took you guys?" he asked with an inquiring look on his face as he screwed the top back on the bottle.

"Pat got us lost."

"Oh yeah...he does that." He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and nodded his head forward.

"Follow me. We're on soon."

Sebastien and I walked for barely a minute before we were immediately backstage. The crowd was lit up, impatiently waiting for Simple Plan to take the stage. My hand reflexively pressed up against the ear closest to the crowd.

"Here. You're gonna want these." Seb nudged his closed fist forward and dropped two earplugs into my open palm. "You'll thank me later when you're not deaf."

A skinny boisterous guy wearing a head-set thrust a guitar over Seb's shoulders. Just as I screwed in the plugs, Seb broke into a catchy riff. His fingers glided across the neck of the guitar. His shoulders loosened, and his feet slid apart until his legs formed a V. He had settled into his guitarist zone and blocked out everything around him. Nothing could remove him from his rocker trance now.

I snapped my head around when I felt a tug on my wrist. Asia was standing beside me. Her mouth was moving, but I couldn't hear a thing. When I pointed to my ear plugs, she scoffed and grabbed me, nodding toward the towering stage lights and the dozens of guitars and amps, nearly surrounding us all by 360 degrees. And sure, my eyes followed hers and brushed over the landmarks, but I became uninterested quickly.

I pretended to admire Seb's last-minute sound check and to look around at the crew, rushing to get the band all together. I faked interest in the gear backstage. I pretended to twirl myself around, absorbing the atmosphere. My eyes were wide with curiosity—but not for the novelty. All I really wanted to find was Pierre. But I didn't see a sign of him anywhere.

The lights went low on stage—a signal to the zealous mass to deafen anything with ears in a hundred mile radius. Asia and I—being the rookies that we were—began to walk toward the stage. However, the horde of groupies that had been quietly flirting with the opening band behind us took it as their cue as well.

I'd just had the wind knocked out of me by a handful of one hundred pound girls. Not my finest moment. To make matters worse, they were all at least five-ten. It was like Pat had snuck into a modeling convention, kidnapped the dumbest models, and unleashed them onto the unknowing. I couldn't see above the shoulders of any of them. By the time I'd shoved my way through them—brushing up against belly rings and nipples along the way—I was just in time to see Seb sashay onto the stage.

FUCK. Pierre's always the first on stage. I missed him. And now I probably have herpes.

I felt a grip on my elbow. When I swiveled around, I was met with Pierre's chocolate eyes. His hand lingered on my elbow.

Stunned, I barfed out a small "hi," before realizing he couldn't hear me.

He smirked, his closed lip stretching up into his left cheek. He said something.

"What?" I yelled.

He took a step forward and leaned close to me. I was waiting for him to repeat what he said. At the same time, getting anxious because hundreds of people, along with the band, were questioning where in the hell he was.

But he didn't speak. His lips slowly and gently pressed against my cheek. When he exhaled, I felt the warm, robust energy in his breath against my skin. Then, just like that, he released my elbow and sprinted on stage, receiving a loud welcome.

My eyes wide, I let out a soft laugh.

What the hell just happened?

~~

And here I was. Twelve years later. Wondering the exact same thing: what the hell had just happened? Only I wasn't smiling. In fact, I had a headache.

My 'affair,' as I'd been calling it to myself, had been burning a hole through my brain for the last week. I couldn't and wouldn't tell a soul. I could just hear Jordan right now.

'Are you fucking kidding me? How stupid are you? I bet he had a line of hookers waiting outside the door after you left!'

And everyone else would expect some sort of reconciliation of the marriage. Seb would be gushing, 'You came to him in his time of need! You really do love him!'

God, he's a moron. I cringed at the thought of their reactions. The ringing phone forced me to get up from the kitchen island.

"Hello?"

"Hi." Alexa's voice sounded forced.

"Hey," I said. "What's going on?"

"Nothing really." The line was silent for a few seconds.

"Okay," I pressed.

"I just heard about Pierre," she blurted.

"Oh," I said as I inhaled a deep breath. "Yeah." I exhaled.

"Have you talked to him?" she asked.

"Not really," I lied. "But he told me."

"David's taking it pretty hard," she said in a low—as in sad and quiet—voice. I didn't know what to say, so we both stayed quiet for a moment.

"What about the guys?" I asked.

"They're all devastated." I nodded. "And Pierre got into a fight with Chuck."

"What? About what?"

"Chuck wanted to cancel everything—the writing, the recording, the press. Pierre went ballistic."

That headache was getting worse.

"Why do they always have to find something to fight about?" I was annoyed.

"You know Pierre," Alexa said. "He's so hard-headed. He doesn't want anything to change. Meanwhile, Chuck doesn't think someone that can't go five minutes without puking should be on stage. And I agree. Pierre should be in the hospital or something."

I scoffed. "Nothing keeps him away from his music." I was comfortable enough to sit back down at my island now. Ragging on Pierre was always comforting to me.

Alexa's eyebrows furrowed as a thought occurred to her. "How long have you known?"

"Uh." What do I say? "A couple days."

"You're taking it well."

I shrugged. "I guess. I'm not really sure what to do about it."

"Yeah." She sighed. "It's a weird position to be in."

"It is," I agreed, more fervently than I meant to as I jolted forward. "He's a pig of an ex-husband, but he's Faye's dad. It's like, I really should care."

"He hasn't been piggish for a while," Alexa added, thoughtfully. "Him and that smoking hot blondie—Chantal, Channelle, whatever—broke up some time ago. Months ago."

"Lachelle," I corrected immediately, then bit my lips. I wasn't supposed to know because I wasn't supposed to keep up.

"Yeah. That." I crossed my legs, tightly because I accidentally imagined them together.

"Whatever. He's still gross. And how do you know all this?"

She laughed. "David's a gossip queen."

"Oh. Yeah. He is."

I heard Alexa's front door open.

"Don't go upstairs; we need to talk." She had removed the receiver from her mouth.

"I gotta go. Zack just got home from school," she said.

"All right. Talk to you later."

Chapter Text

David was spurred from a despondent state of mind when he heard his son's backpack hit the floor of the parlor downstairs. It was the first time his eyes had moved from the blinding white of his computer screen since he'd gotten back from a meeting with the band. He honestly didn't even know why he'd turned it on. It wasn't like he could just forget he found out one of his best friends had a really aggressive cancer.

"David," Alexa called from the bottom of the stairs.

He took a deep inhale just to make sure his lungs still worked and cleared his throat.

"Be right down," he replied in a voice too low to be heard by her.

When he looked back at his computer screen, he realized there were several tabs open about adult leukemia. He'd almost forgotten this is how he'd spent the last couple hours.

The bassist had decided that being a bassist was now his second job. He was a self-proclaimed oncologist with no medical degree. He left no leukemia search untouched. He knew all about bone marrow biopsies (and how painful they were!), the symptoms (no wonder he was so tired), all the causes (I'm going to kill him for that brief time he smoked when I first met him), and hematopoietic stem cells (hem-a-toe-po-ee-etic? I can't be saying that right).

David's heart skipped a beat when he remembered the reason he'd gotten into a staring contest with his computer in the first place: the survival rate for five years was only 40%. He shook his head and took a few deep breaths before shutting off his computer.

Zack really wasn't in the mood for this crap today. He'd actually had a good day at school. He didn't know why his mom looked so unpleasant, making him sit down at the kitchen table and calling Dad down.

He kicked his shoes off and strolled into the kitchen. Her intimidation wouldn't work on him. He was practically a man now. With a scowl on his face, he plopped down on the hardwood chair. Mom sat across from him, pulling a chair out for Dad as he walked in.

Zack's heart immediately began to gallop. His dad looked incredibly pissed off—eyes hard and bulging, stiff shoulders, a sour facial expression. Zack's confidence died rapidly as his chest filled with bees.

Look, Mom was a sweet, empathetic, quiet woman. But she was also Italian. Dad was French-Canadian, for God's sake. When Zack needed to either get yelled at or smacked across the face, that was all Alexa. Zack had to have done something really fucked up for David to look this furious. For instance, the last time Dad looked this outraged, it was over the summer the day Zack and his friend Lucas were having a water balloon fight in the front yard and decided to relentlessly attack Bob Rock with water balloon grenades. That night, Zack had a glowing scarlet face and a bruised ass. Just thinking about it made him cringe. He wracked his brain for answers:

I did all my chores. I'm not failing anything. Then a terrible thought occurred to him.

They know! They know I purposely didn't give them the note Mademoiselle Renaud gave me about my black eye. Oh my God. Dad's going to kill me.

As he prepared an explanation in his head, Alexa spoke:

"How was school today?" Her voice was quiet, her tone laced with sarcasm. Her lips were in a tight, straight line, and she was doing that weird Mom-type-thing with her eyebrows, where one was raised just a little above the level of the other as if to say 'I've just laid a trap for you, but you don't really know how or why.'

"Uhhh...great!" Zack tried hard to be convincing, but it was almost impossible when he had to keep one eye on Dad at all times.

"Really?" David cut in. Zack flipped his attention fully onto his father. His eyes were narrow. He could smell the bullshit on Zack. "Your mother and I happen to know that you got an F on your book report."

An...an F? This is about grades? Oh thank you, God!

Alexa sighed and deserted her 'stern, angry mom' persona. "I know it's hard to pay attention in class and even when you read books sometimes because of the ADHD, but if you're having trouble understanding a concept, you have to let us or your teacher know."

"Uhhh..." Zack looked back and forth between his parents, still unsure whether or not he was in the clear about his teacher's note. "Yeah. Yeah, well I think we need to up the dose on my meds."

"Zack." David's voice was stern. "Let's be clear about something. You take that medication to help you concentrate. It's not magical. You still have to put in time and effort to do your work, just like everybody else."

"What happened with the book report?" Alexa chimed in. Her eyes were like lasers. Zack shrugged.

"I want an answer."

"Mom, I don't know," Zack whined insistently. "I tried, but it was boring—"

"These books aren't meant to be fun. They're not video games or basketball. It's called work for a reason," David added. It was silent for a minute. Zack looked over at a Batman magnet on the refrigerator to avoid his mother's drilling glare.

"You need to spend more time studying," David continued.

"Fine."

"So until your grades improve, no more video games. You can go to basketball practice, but no playing at the house. You're going to study when you come back from school," Alexa informed.

"What?" Zack was standing now. "That's not fair! When am I supposed to relax?!"

"You can relax when your homework is done," David said, sternly. Zack rolled his eyes and stormed upstairs. This was always the routine with them. It didn't seem fair to him that having ADHD meant he couldn't have any fun after school. First, his parents hated him for doing badly in school thanks to his ADHD. Secondly, he got picked on relentlessly by the normal kids for having ADHD. And just about everything he enjoyed pissed at least one person off.

For the record, if he had the choice, he'd do Water Balloon Day over a million times again.

~~

Pierre rolled over lazily to check the time. It was already after three o'clock. He tossed off the sheets and stood slowly. He felt like he'd been dipped in acid, even though he'd just slept for about twenty hours. His bladder was about to explode.

Pierre shuffled to the bathroom. His eyes might have been half-lidded with sleep, but that didn't stop the singer from realizing he really needed to clean his toilet: piss on the rim and streaks of vomit down the side. It finally occurred to him that that might be why no one ever used his bathroom.

He reluctantly looked in the mirror. His eyes were sunken in, making the dark bags look even bigger. He hesitantly ran a hand through his hair and remained terrified the entire time that little clumps of it would fall into the sink. He'd been doing it every day for almost a week since his first chemotherapy treatment.

So I look like a zombie. But I still have my hair.

He dragged himself into the living room, where he spotted his phone laying on the table—mostly missed calls and voice messages from his mom and Chuck and even more text messages from both of them.

Fuck Chuck. It was Chuck's fault Pierre hadn't showered in two days. They were supposed to be doing meetings for the new record, but Chuck had canceled all of them.

Before he could finish scrolling through the 'I'm so sorry' and 'Your health means more to me than any CD we'd ever make' messages, new messages were already popping up. The oldest ones were from last night after Pierre fell asleep. The only thing Pierre regretted about these texts was that it was only official that he was ignoring Chuck now. Before this, they were just unanswered because he'd been sleeping. Without even seeing the rest of them, he shut off his phone and tossed it into the kitchen.

He wanted to be angrier. Simple Plan was everything to him. Chuck had a wife, a home, a sense of security outside the band. And even his health. Pierre had none of those things. His whole world was the music he wrote and played. His relationships were with his fans. And now it looked like his best friend in the world, the one person he trusted more than anyone, was going to be the one to take that all away from him.

He knew Chuck was right. Chuck was always right. He was the most level-headed person Pierre knew. Pierre didn't even give a shit about his own health. Chuck always kept things in check and let Pierre know, straight-up, when he was being a stubborn moron. If Pierre knew any better, he'd be touched and maybe even write a song inspired by his friendship with Chuck. But he really just hated him right now.

His apartment was dirty and smelly. He hadn't eaten a meal in days because he didn't want to throw-up anymore (he also had only one piece of bread left). He missed his daughter. And instead of recording an album, he was just staring up at the ceiling thinking about his odds of dying and thinking about how much he wanted to be in the arms of the woman he loved again.

He hadn't initiated conversation with her since their night together. He tried not to get too excited when she texted him to see how his chemotherapy went because: it was hard to be happy when you could only stay awake long enough to vomit and also because he knew she was only asking out of civility. He refused to call her. She hated him, and he deserved it. He was in enough drama with his health and career. He really didn't need to rehash the pain of his divorce again.

~~

"Seb?" Jordan called as she walked in the front door. His car was in the garage, which was sort of strange. He was usually never home when she got back if the band was in the middle of recording an album. He was supposed to be in the city working late.

The door to their home studio was shut, but there was no talking. There was no music. There was no sound at all. With her eyebrows furrowed in confusion and concern growing, she opened the door. The lights were on.

"Seb?" she called again.

"Yeah," his voice answered back weakly.

"What's going on?" she asked, walking down the stairs over to her husband. He was sitting with his forehead propped up against his fist.

"What's wrong? Are you okay?" She gripped his shoulder. When he didn't answer immediately, her heart started pounding even faster than it already was. He shook his head.

"I got some terrible news." He was finally looking up at her. His eyelids were brimming with tears. When those words left his mouth, Jordan froze. Seb had paused, but she couldn't even move her lips to demand an answer.

"Pierre has leukemia." The tears finally escaped his lids and ran down his cheeks. He looked back down at the desk in front of him. Jordan released his shoulder and pulled up a chair.

"We found out yesterday." He kept his jaw tight, fighting fiercely against the way his face was trying to droop downward. He swallowed hard and finally looked up at Jordan. His eyes were blood shot.

Whenever he cried, his deep blue eyes turned sea foam green. Not that Jordan really had a clue as to what to say after hearing that news, but now it was impossible to talk. Even on a normal day, a glimpse into his eyes really screwed up her ability to process information and form coherent sentences for a couple milliseconds.

"Seb," she started. "I don't know what to say."

"I should have told you yesterday, but it didn't really hit me until today." He squeezed the tears out of each of his eyes with his thumb and middle finger and rubbed the residue off his cheeks.

"Is it...really serious?" No shit, Jordan!

Seb nodded. "I don't know if he's gonna be okay," he confessed just above a whisper. She quickly pulled him into a hug. He eagerly dove into her chest and squeezed her so tightly, she lost some breathing capacity. He exhaled a very deep, shaky breath over her shoulder before burying his forehead into her neck.

It was hard for Jordan to empathize with Sebastien right now. She'd never gotten along with Pierre. He was arrogant, and everything was his way or the highway. Seb had come back from practices or meetings many times all stressed out with kinks in his back just from dealing with the drama all day. Of course, it was her pleasure to work those knots out of him, but that wasn't the point. She tolerated him for Seb's sake. Things only got worse when he cheated on Malorie. Jordan let everyone know how she felt at that point, donning him 'The Piece of Shit,' refusing to use his real name for months on end.

It's not like Pierre ever gave her any reason to like him either. They were naturally like fire and water or snake and mongoose. She had to grind Malorie so hard to get it out but was eventually told, "Fine! He thinks you're spoiled and immature!"

And yes, Jordan was upset right now. Pierre was still a part of her life, and this was still disastrous news. She felt some sadness and pity for him, but mostly it was for her husband, who was having a mental breakdown in her arms. She squeezed him tighter.

Sebastien felt a little better already. He'd been home almost all day, eating himself alive with fear. The guys were no help because they were all in the same boat. He really just couldn't wait for his wife to come home, even if she did smell like formaldehyde. He'd honestly come to love that smell.

Seb released their embrace and took a deep breath, finally a little more composed.

"So at the very least, we're postponing everything Simple Plan-related." Jordan nodded, having already assumed that was the case.

"This is just really out-of-nowhere," Seb added after a few seconds. "He's young and healthy." Another pause. "I just don't know what to do."

Against her own wishes, she had to think of Pierre. "You guys need to help him get himself together. I think postponing the record is a great idea. No one knows him better than you guys." Seb agreed. "Yeah, I think I'm gonna stop by tomorrow. Maybe introduce him to real food again."

"And hey, if that doesn't work, guilt him into taking care of himself by using Faye. Make him really feel like shit for his daughter's sake. That always works."

Finally, a smile! "I was waiting for you to say something like that." She'd almost gotten him to laugh.

Of course, Seb absolutely hated when Pierre and her fought. It made him incredibly stressed out (cue the chest pains). But he couldn't lie: Jordan's brutal honesty and ability to offend at the drop of a dime were great examples of why he'd fallen in love with her in the first place.

Jordan stood up and glanced down at the array of 25-cent chip bags littering the desk. "Speaking of food, how about we have some dinner? Looks like you could use a real meal yourself."

It took Sebastien a second to realize what she meant. "God yes, I'm starving."

Jordan settled onto Seb's lap, and he reflexively sat back, so she could get comfortable. She took his face into her hands, and then slid them onto the back of his neck. The muscles were so tense, she could almost feel the pain in her own neck. She looked up at his eyes, and the sea foam lakes were staring right back at her. Before she could lean in to kiss those sad lips, he'd tilted forward to kiss her. He wrapped his arms around her waist and tugged her closer to him as her hands spread out onto his shoulders. The muscle actually felt like bone. Seb groaned into their kiss.

"Ow, my back is killing me."

"Have you been bent over this desk all day?"

"No!" Seb insisted. "Maybe like, three-fourths of the day..."

She laughed and shook her head. "I'm gonna go make us dinner." She began walking up the stairs.

"Wait!" Seb called. "Will you massage my shoulders?" he asked sheepishly.

Jordan rolled her eyes. "Fine," she said and walked back over to him. "But you owe me!"

"I like the sound of that," Seb replied with a small smile.

Chapter Text

The next day, Pierre actually felt a bit energetic. It had taken him almost a full week to recover from one chemotherapy treatment, which sucked since he had another treatment tomorrow.

Because he could finally stay awake for more than an hour at a time, he decided to shower and drive over to Chuck's house. He'd been ignoring Chuck for two days straight. He owed him something.

"Pierre! It's so good to see you. Come in!" Jackie stood aside to welcome Pierre into the house and held her arms out to him.

"Hey, Jackie." Pierre gave her a quick hug, noting that her and her long, thick black hair smelled like roses and...candy? Like rose-flavored candy, if that even existed.

"How are you feeling?"

"All right, I guess. Is Chuck around?"

Before she could answer, they both swung around toward the back of the house. The backdoor had opened and closed, and the silence filling their home was replaced with Chuck's rapid speech. He was speaking French, which he could always speak in faster than English. His voice got closer and closer until—

"Je sais." Pause. "Je sais, Maman." He looked exasperated.

"Je vous ferai sav—" He pulled the phone away from his ear and stared at Pierre, shocked to see him.

"Allo? Allo? Allo?!" His mother's nagging pulled him back to the phone.

"Maman, Je vous telephonerai des que je pourrai." He clicked out of the phone call without hearing her response and looked up at his best friend. Pierre had jammed him hands into his jeans pockets, suddenly nervous. Jackie grew uncomfortable as the two stared at each other in complete silence.

"I'm gonna go upstairs while you two kiss and makeup." As she walked past Chuck, she gave him a kiss on the cheek and patted his chest. She was gone before they spoke.

"Hey," Chuck stammered.

"Hey," Pierre replied sheepishly. He cleared his throat. "I'm sorry."

"No, I'm sorry. I was just so freaked out; I didn't know what to do. It seemed like the only logical thing to do when you told us."

"You were right though." Pierre looked down. "I don't really think," he began, speaking slowly, "that I have the physical strength to get through the singing and talking and touring and shooting..." His voice died out as he rolled his outstretched hand repeatedly to indicate even more activities he couldn't do. It was so hard for him to admit. "Ya know...you always know things before I do."

Chuck sighed. "You need some rest, dude." He paused. "I just wanted to make sure we gave you the opportunity to do that." Pierre remained quiet, embarrassed at revealing his newfound weakness.

"Want a beer—eh—water? Or like, a glass of milk?"

Pierre laughed. "Dude, just 'cause I have cancer doesn't mean I'm suddenly five." He followed Chuck into the kitchen.

"But I'm good. I don't want anything," he said as he sat at the kitchen table. He had a feeling his stomach would interpret beer as bleach.

Chuck cracked open a beer and sat across from him.

"You look exhausted."

Chuck threw his head back. "I have been on the phone with every single person on this planet in the last two days. Mostly producers. Oh, and my insane mother. She won't stop calling."

"I'm surprised she isn't calling now."

"That's because I shut my God damned phone off."

"What is it with moms? They're incapable of giving their kids space."

Chuck shook his head. "I guess they still see us as flunking-out, car-crashing, vandalizing teenagers that don't want to graduate and want to play music in garages."

Pierre raised an eyebrow suggestively and shrugged with a small smile. "Well, we turned out fine."

Chuck opened his mouth to speak but cut himself off. He was dying to ask Pierre if he'd gotten around to figuring out Chuck's drum solo for a song that was, so far, untitled. But he didn't even know why he was questioning it. Of course Pierre had figured it out. This is the guy who had relentlessly stalked David to get him to join Simple Plan (there were binoculars involved). Nothing was capable of getting past him.

"Uh, you okay? You look...constipated."

Chuck laughed it off. "I was just gonna say, I'm glad you came by. I've been designated the 'Talk-To-Pierre' translator of the group again, so—"

"Jesus Christ." Pierre let his head fall forward until his chin was almost hitting his chest. "You're always nominated for that role."

"Apparently I'm the only one that speaks your language."

Pierre looked back up at Chuck, disinterested. "What's the deal, then?"

Chuck rolled his eyes at Pierre's impatience. "The deal is: we're going to torture you by forcing you to take time away from Simple Plan in favor of yourself." Pierre groaned. "Everyone's cool with our process being post-poned. We'll figure out our new music down the road." Chuck took a swig of his beer.

Pierre scoffed. "What am I supposed to focus on then?"

"Your health?" Chuck mocked. Pierre rolled his eyes.

"It's not like I can will the cancer away."

"You know what I mean. Stop working so much, and take a vacation."

"Technically, I'm not supposed to travel."

"Well then, just hang out here with us. In the suburbs. You'll be like a seventeen-year-old, thirty-five-year-old."

"Sounds enchanting," Pierre replied flatly.

Chuck shrugged. "Then fucking sleep. Unbelievable. You're complaining about relaxation. Only you, Bouvier, only you."

Pierre collapsed back into the hard chair and exhaled. "You have a point."

Chuck took the natural pause in their conversation as a free second to pull his phone out of his pocket.

"You're turning your phone back on?"

"I'm just thinking about all the calls I'm missing right now."

"That's the point." It hadn't even been off for five minutes, and Pierre could hear the sudden bombardment of what he assumed to be text and voice messages buzzing Chuck's phone. Chuck let out a very long exhale and chugged the rest of his beer.

"And you say I don't know how to relax."

~~

"Okay, are you gonna tell me what the hell your problem is, or am I gonna have to pry you?"

Crap, I was waiting for that.

I dropped the magazine I was reading into my lap and looked over at Jordan.

"Why do you always suspect something?"

"You're so oblivious." She laughed. "I usually can't get you to shut up for five seconds, especially when we get pedicures. But you're actually sitting there reading that magazine from 1999. You can't possibly be enjoying that."

I picked it back up and continued scanning through it. "It's pretty good. And it's from 2012," I mumbled.

"I think I know why you're upset. And if I'm thinking right, then I hate you right now."

I threw it back down and groaned.

"Seb is right, isn't he?"

"Is this about Pierre?"

"I don't know. You tell me."

"Am I not allowed to be upset?"

"No. You're not. Get a backbone."

"You're fucking insane." At this point, the two Vietnamese women rubbing lotion on our legs were giving both us and each other weird looks.

"He doesn't deserve your sympathy."

"He didn't deserve it for being depressed, but this is a little different."

"No, it's not. He gets to be miserable now. You should be gloating. Stop being a dumb bitch."

"I feel awful."

"Why? You have no reason. It's not like you gave him the cancer."

I paused and sucked my lips in between my teeth. "I care about him," I said, sincerely.

Jordan's face somehow got smaller. "Gross!" she yelled, like I just told her I had cooties. She turned to the manicurist, who was in the middle of putting disposable flip-flops on her.

"Aimee (her French name), do you believe this shit?"

I rolled my eyes. "Really, Jordan?"

She turned to me with her hand in my face. "Shut up. You're not allowed to talk." Then she leaned forward toward Aimee.

"Okay, so. She was married to this douchebag. And I called it, by the way. Then, he cheats on her, so she divorces him. But! She's stuck taking care of his daughter, while he travels the world partying and fucking hot young girls constantly. She's been miserable the whole time." She's pointing at me and referencing me like I'm not even there. I roll my eyes the entire time.

"So we just found out he's got cancer and is now forced to stay here instead of being a traveling slut all the time. Shouldn't she be so relieved that justice has finally been served?"

"Cancer!" Aimee shook her head sadly.

"Yeah, see, Jordan? No one deserves cancer."

"I didn't say he deserved it. I just think you should be proud of how circumstances turned out. Things are finally in your favor."

Julie finished painting the toes on my right foot before joining the conversation.

"Husband should never cheat on wife! That's karma."

"Ha! See?"

Aimee added after some thought, "Cancer is terrible disease, but he doesn't deserve your time."

"All the women are backing you up! Lexi agrees with me too."

"Lexi would never agree with you. She's too sane."

"Behind your back, she agrees with me. She just doesn't want to make you feel bad. Fortunately, I'll always make you feel like shit when you're being a dumbass. Kinda like how you're being now!" She was smiling at me so innocently.

"You a good friend, Jordan," Aimee said.

"You want design?" Julie asked. "You need new boyfriend!"

This wasn't right. My friends weren't supposed to see my life in black and white. What was Jordan expecting? That someone lost all feelings after a divorce? She knew I had never been okay after finding out about Pierre cheating. But maybe I'd taken it too far trying to convince her, Lexi, and everyone else that I had no feelings left for Pierre.

Not that I'd misled a single one of them on purpose. None of them looked at me and realized a mother had to fake happiness for a daughter? Not even Alexa? And now they were going to judge me for just testing the waters with them? I bit my tongue gently, jaw tightening.

Or maybe it was me. It was like I had no self-respect. I just had sex with a guy who promised to devote himself to me forever and then ruined that promise by sleeping with – God, do I even wanna know how many people? I should have just let Lexi make me that Match.com profile or gone out partying with Jordan.

I sighed. If this is how they reacted to me just caring about him, there was no way I'd ever tell anyone about the sex. It officially had to stay a secret.

"No design."

~~

"Dad!" I heard Faye yell eagerly from downstairs as I was applying the finishing touches on my eyeliner the next morning. I hurriedly exited the bathroom and made my way down the stairs. Pierre was late picking her up, and now I was going to be late for work.

"Faye, put on your hat and scarf," I blurted, robotically. "Hi, Pierre," I added as I dashed into the kitchen. And fuck, I have surgeries today. There was the spay, the mass removal on that pitbull, and how many neuters again?

"Can I talk to you for a second?" He had followed me into the kitchen.

"I'm kind of in a rush," I said, glancing at him as I poured my coffee into a mug and simultaneously slipped on my shoes.

"It's quick."

"Okay, what is it?" I said, looking up at him briefly. I accidentally followed-up with a poorly concealed double take. If someone was ever able to embody the characteristic green color of a sick cartoon character, it was Pierre. His lips were paled and cracked. It looked like he'd materialized from a TV with bad color reception.

"Faye, go wait in the car," he said when we realized she was staring at us from the door. "And don't touch the transmission," he added as she opened the door. I waited for him to speak.

"I wanted to talk about our arrangement with Faye."

"What about it?"

"I'm not working right now or even expecting to go out-of-town for at least a few months. I would really like to see her for more than just the weekends while I have the opportunity."

"Yeah," I agreed, almost warmly. "What are you suggesting?"

"I want to pick her up after school every day from here. Or at least most days." He paused. "And ya know, just have some quality time."

"She would love that," I replied, trying to keep my smile modest and generic.

"Great. I didn't want to say anything to her until we talked."

"Yeah, we'll figure it out when I pick her up tonight." He nodded and smiled awkwardly. I returned a very uncomfortable smile. For the last few years, our conversations had been short and sometimes even angry. All of a sudden, they were sticky and bumbling.

"Um, okay. I'll see you tonight then." He began walking away.

"Oh, wait." He turned back around. "Uh, one more thing." I cleared my throat. "I was just wondering. You didn't tell anyone about..." My voice faded out.

"No."

"Really?" I breathed a sigh of relief. "Okay, good." He kept looking at me like he was waiting for an explanation, so I continued slowly and carefully. "I just think our friends or, uh, family would misunderstand our actions. They might think certain things about us and have certain expectations that we can't, uh, fulfill."

He was staring back at me with flat eyebrows. "Yeah, like wondering what was wrong with you for ever being attracted to me?" Wait, he was offended?

"That's not what I meant. And I'm not trying to start a fight. I just don't want people to know." As he nodded, his eyes shot downward.

"No one knows. See you tonight." He walked out.

Chapter Text

"Monsieur and Madame Desrosiers, please. Have a seat." Mademoiselle Renaud held her hand out to the two student desks she'd moved out of the rows to sit in front of her desk. Alexa and David walked into the room, closing the door behind them and sat, trying to squeeze themselves into the hard, uncomfortable seats.

"Thank you both for coming in today," she said leaning her back against the front of her desk.

"We're happy to do it," David began.

"Is Zack in some kind of trouble?" Alexa cut in.

"Well," Mlle Renaud began, crossing her arms, "it's a bit of a personal matter with Zack."

"His ADHD," David stated knowingly. "We're very hesitant on increasing his medication dosage. We'd rather have him work out his problems without that dependency." Alexa nodded in agreement.

"Yes, we saw the F he got on his report. We've already set up some punishments."

"No, it's not his ADHD." Alexa and David looked at her, expectantly.

"I sent a note home about a week ago, concerning his black eye—"

"Whoa, what black eye?" Alexa interrupted, turning her attention back and forth between David and Mlle Renaud. David's eyebrows were furrowed.

"He never came home with a black eye," he stated.

"Euh, some of the other teachers had expressed concern to me because they saw him with a large black bruise around his eye." Her French accent was very thick, but she always avoided French around the Desrosiers because Alexa couldn't speak it.

"You're talking about Zack Desrosiers? Dirty blonde hair? ADHD? Basketball Zack?" Alexa ensured.

"Oui," Mlle Renaud nodded. Alexa and David looked at each other, very confused.

"You never saw his bruises?" she asked. Alexa slowly turned to her with her eyes narrowed slightly.

"What's all this about, anyway?"

"We think he is being bullied. But we have never actually seen him in a confrontation with another student. Does he talk about these problems at home?"

"No, he's never mentioned them to us. And our son has never come home with bruises in his life," David said, agitation clearly developing as he spoke.

"Perhaps he is not getting these bruises at school," Mlle Renaud began.

"Excuse me?!" Alexa cut in. "Just what are you trying to say?"

"I am only saying that he may be getting them at the park ou at practice ou from bullies outside of school." She was getting flustered under the Alexa's angry glare.

"My child doesn't have any bruises!" Alexa yelled. David quickly put a hand over her forearm, hopefully a gentle reminder to calm down. He sucked his perfectly centered lip ring into his mouth, which didn't go unnoticed by Mlle Renaud.

A father with a lip ring, she thought bitterly.

"Look, I don't know what this is about. Neither of us have seen Zack with this bruise you're talking about. Maybe he was playing around with some friends at recess and got hurt, but if there was a problem with bullies, he would tell us."

"This is not the first time his teachers have seen him with bruises. They are sometimes on his face," Mlle Renaud stated firmly, almost enjoying throwing it into their faces. As a homeroom teacher, it was nearly always her job to have meetings with parents. Sometimes they were tough, but they rarely got as stressful as this.

Alexa didn't know whether to be angry that her son had had these mysterious "bruises" on multiple occasions without the teachers letting her know or that this teacher was a complete lunatic for seeing multiple bruises that didn't really exist.

She laughed scornfully. "Why weren't we informed about these alleged 'bruises?'" she asked using finger quotes, after forcing herself not to lash out with curses. She kept the sarcastic grin on her face as she stared back at Mlle Renaud.

"Many boys get into fights at school. We don't call the parents every time. We like to talk to the child first."

David was getting a migraine. "Okay, hold on," he said, gripping his temples. "Have you actually talked to Zack?"

"Oui," she began. This prompted Alexa to lose the mockery in her features.

"He told me that he fell at home." Mlle Renaud walked back to her desk and sat down behind it. "I don't believe that. He said he fell down the stairs the last time I saw a bruise on his cheek."

"This is absolutely ridiculous," Alexa said.

"What are you defining as 'bruise?'" David asked. "My wife and I would have noticed if our son came home with an eye that was black or a face that had been punched in. We look at his face, you know."

"I just wanted to make you both aware of the situation," she stated. She obviously wasn't going to get anywhere with these parents. She began straightening up her desk. "I want you to know that we will speak with him again and keep a closer eye on his situation. I will also be talking to Principal Marcott—"

"No," David said, standing. "We'll handle this at home."

"Please, you've done enough," Alexa said, following her husband. "Stay out of this."

~~

"ZACHARY PHILIPPE DESROSIERS!"

Zack felt his trachea collapse when he tried to gasp. His mother screamed again from downstairs. She knew damn well the neighbors who had just babysat could hear her from outside, but she didn't care.

"Get your ass downstairs right now!" He was up in seconds, still unable to breath.

"Mom, why are you yelling?" he asked timidly when he reached the bottom of the stairs. His fingers were trembling. He knew why.

"Your father and I just got back from a meeting with Mademoiselle Renaud!" She hadn't removed her coat, shoes, or scarf. She was just standing in the middle of the house, with messy hair and wild eyes.

"Where the hell is the note she gave you about a black eye?!" she continued.

"And what black eye is she talking about?!" David added, walking up next to Alexa. Their four eyes were boring holes through him.

He was unable to speak for a second. "It was nothing! Lucas kicked a ball into my face!"

Without warning, Alexa bolted toward her son and grabbed his jaw. She inspected his face, flipping it side-to-side. He was afraid she was going to snap his neck. Her breathing sounded like a bull that was getting ready to charge.

"I don't see anything. What the fuck are your teachers talking about?!"

"You told your teacher you fell down the stairs. Why did you tell her that?" David came closer and bent over toward Zack's face, investigating it for signs of a bruise. Zack's heart was pounding.

"I didn't want Lucas to get in trouble," he lied. Alexa was finally shedding her coat and accessories and tossing them on the couch. Zack took a step away from his dad, his body finally coming out of shock long enough for him to realize he had to regain his personal space.

"Why do you have multiple bruises, and why don't we ever see them?" she continued.

Zack shrugged. "I don't have any right now. They're not really that bad. And I actually did fall down the stairs once." He bit his lip, wondering if that last lie would make it too obvious he was lying.

David looked over at Alexa. "I think it's just teachers overreacting again," he stated. He was already reclaiming his composure, realizing this was all a misunderstanding. Alexa was still fuming, pacing around the living room grunting.

"Why didn't you tell us any of this in the first place?" She walked back over to Zack with her hands on her hips.

"Mom, it wasn't a big deal," he insisted. "I get hit with sh—stuff all the time! There wasn't anything to tell." Damn, he was a great liar. And yeah, he'd been planning the story out in his head for weeks now because he knew this would happen eventually, but still. If everything went according to plan, neither his parents nor his teachers would find out about Greg or Jacob, and he never had to worry about getting expelled for the dog shit.

David walked up behind Alexa and gripped her shoulders. "Calm down." He shook her gently.

"So let me get this straight." He walked back over to his son. "Lucas hits you with a ball. You lie to your teachers. Your teacher gives you a note. Then, you avoid giving it to us and never tell us about any of these problems."

Was he getting set up? He gulped. "Yes," Zack replied weakly.

"Because they weren't a big deal to you," David continued.

"Yes."

"If your teacher gives you a note about it, then it's a big deal. She practically accused your mother and me of smacking you around. What were you thinking?" Zack's eyes widened. David exhaled deeply and ran a hand through his shaggy black hair.

"Let us know the next time this happens," Alexa said firmly, after she had calmed down. "So help me God, if I get another note or phone call or have to go to another meeting about this crap, I'll kill you and Ms. Shops-At-Old-Navy-And-Wears-Her-Hair-In-A-Friggin-Braid."

"Yes, Ma'am," Zack replied in a small voice. Alexa sighed.

"Did you finish your homework?"

"Yes."

"Bring it down." Zack turned and ran upstairs, so thankful to remove himself from that encounter. He really had to remember to thank Faye for teaching him how to blend cover-up so incredibly well.

~~

Ms. Kate Cacal was overly concerned about a pus-draining nodule on her nervous Pepper's toe. The little Italian Greyhound seemed to be more upset about being at the veterinarian. Her tail was tucked, her head was down, and she was trembling. Ms. Kate had an expression on her face that I thought was only reserved for a first-time mother bringing her one-month-old infant to the doctor with its first cold.

"Are you going to have to amputate her toe?" she asked me anxiously as I walked back into the room. She was clutching Pepper close to her chest.

My eyes widened for a moment, not expecting the question. "No!" I assured, shaking my head. I closed the door behind me. "Her toe is going to be perfectly fine." I reached out, handing her a small box of antibiotic ointment. She took it from me slowly and examined it. My fingers were immediately pressed back against my temple as I steadied myself against the edge of the exam room's counter.

"What is this?" She looked at me with furrowed brows.

"It's an antibiotic. She has an infection, that's all. Use it twice a day for fourteen days."

"But only dirty dogs can get infections. I clean her paws after every walk. She goes to the groomer's every month. This is impossible. It must be something else."

I sighed. "It has nothing to do with being clean or dirty. There could be a number of underlying conditions causing it, including skin allergies or a food allergy, but I don't think it's necessary to run her through all those tests just yet. They're expensive."

"Can the infection spread to Salt?" She nodded toward Pepper's sister, sitting in the corner giving me the whale-eye.

"No, it won't spread." She took a steady deep inhale before looking right back at me.

"Run every test you have."

~~

Dr. Green was laughing at me. I mean the type of laugh that went all the way up to his eyebrows. One vet's loony client is another vet's entertainment.

"Did you find that osteosarcoma?" he snickered after Ms. Cacal finally checked out.

I slumped over on a foot stool outside the surgery suite like I'd just been shot.

"Oh, she would have liked that," I grumbled. As soon as I sat down, I knew it was a mistake. I was never going to be able to stand up again.

"What'd she say?"

"She was upset that her dog was healthy, so I referred her to the dermatologist. I'm not dealing with this today." My attention was redirected to the buzzing phone in my bag. I shoved my lunch aside disinterestedly and peered at the screen to see a series of strange text messages from Alexa and Jordan.

Alexa: Zack's teacher is a fucking cunt. I'm so angry, I'm shaking.

Jordan: That's hilarious. I'm in the middle of working on a guy who died from crack. His eyes are about to pop out of his skull. I don't know how I'm gonna keep his eyelids closed.

Alexa: We just got back from meeting with her. She tried to accuse me and David of child abuse because she's seen bruises on Zack at school lately. I've never heard of anything so fucking dumb in my entire life.

Alexa: And by the way, she's the ONLY one who's seen them.

Alexa: Jordan...why are you texting when you're touching dead people?

Jordan: I can do whatever the hell I want down here. I'm blasting Clay Aiken.

Jordan: Sounds like something David would do. He's a well-known wife beater and pedophile.

Alexa: Stop harvesting crack from this guy's body, and do your job.

Jordan: For your information, I'm right on schedule. He's already pumped up with drugs (formalin, not crack).

Jordan: Also, that sounds really sketchy. I bet she's the one abusing him. Is he okay? Are you and David okay?

The question prompted a rant on Alexa's part. As my screen began to fill with paragraph after paragraph, I felt a growing feeling of nausea.

Only two more patients today. I can do this.

...Fuck. There's a recheck on that labradoodle that tries to jump in your lap. There's no way I won't puke.

"Are you okay, Dr. P?"

My head shot up. It was Rachel, the kennel attendant from upstairs.

"Yeah," I breathed out. "Just taking a short break."

Chapter Text

"Lily!" I beamed in a high-pitched baby voice as Carissa walked the old pitbull over to me. She was shyly wagging her tail back and forth past her ankles. As soon as she was pulled from the kennel, she shook once and promptly sneezed, blowing out several inches of her nasogastric tube. The sensation of its movement reminded her of its presence and rekindled her urge to tear it out. She reached a front paw up attempting to remove the slender yellow tube from her nose, only to be met by the plastic of her E-collar. Carissa bent down quickly, readjusting the tube and smoothing out the kink.

"Don't worry about it," I said, waving a hand dismissively as I looked over the latest scribbles in Lily's chart. "Looks like she doesn't have any reflux left. I'm gonna pull it."

Re-assessing the old pitty was my last task of the day. I plugged my stethoscope into my ears and crouched down next to the wriggling pup. After my bout of nausea at lunch, I'd caught a second wind and powered through the rest of the appointments. Naturally, this was the worst time to get a stomach bug. In less than a week, Faye and I were flying to the States for Thanksgiving. At least last year, the damn virus had waited until after Thanksgiving.

When I pulled into the driveway, I had one goal and only one goal in my mind: a hot shower and a nap – or just bed in general. I groaned to myself when I realized that wasn't even an option: Faye's homework, Faye's dinner, Faye's bath, getting Faye to bed.

Sorry self, don't think there's any time for you.

"Hi, Mom!"

When I opened my front door, I found my nanny Helen in a deep sleep on the couch—mouth slightly open and limbs twisted under her body. Faye was eating St-Hubert's and watching some annoying cartoon with her dolls strewn all over the floor.

The fast food smell had saturated the entire downstairs – living room, kitchen, laundry room. I couldn't get to the bathroom fast enough. I threw open the toilet lid and puked up nothing but liquid. Naturally, the poignant fried chicken scent was lingering in the bathroom too. I looked over to see I had an audience: Faye and Crash.

"What's wrong?" Faye asked as I flushed the toilet. She was peering around the door frame, afraid to step into the bathroom. Her mouth was in a straight line, her large eyes staring down at me in concern. Crash walked in and tried to lick my face.

"I have the stomach flu. Get her out of here." When I mustered enough strength to stand, I went into the kitchen and began opening every window. Faye followed behind me.

"Mom, are we still going to Boston for Thanksgiving?" she asked, tentatively.

"Yes." Faye's grin lit up her eyes. It was almost enough to get me to smile, knowing how much she loved visiting our family there. Almost.

"Why are you opening the windows? It's really cold."

"That smell is disgusting," I said, trying to hide the anger in my voice. "Are you finished eating? Throw that stuff in the outside trash." I don't know why I asked the question; I didn't even let her answer. I grabbed the bags and garbage and threw the contents in the can at the end of the driveway. I leaned against the garbage can, staring down at the fried chicken. The walk in the cold had been quite an excursion, and I was feeling light-headed. I took several deep breaths, allowing the fresh air to dissipate the nausea.

Why the fuck do I bother hiring a nanny if she just falls asleep?

~~

According to Simple Plan's producers, my hair was about fifty percent of my career. It was just as important as having a six pack and dressing like a twenty-year-old pretty boy. Some argued it was more important than my voice because it gave me "stage presence" (cough, Chuck). There was an entire page in my contract talking about my hair, including the specific waxes and glues I was and wasn't allowed to buy. I was only permitted to dye it certain colors (black, dark brown, and blonde because of my skin tone), and I absolutely had to style it for shows, photo shoots, and music videos (always spiked, if possible).

So any intelligent person would reason that when I found a small clump of black hairs amidst the shampoo in the palm of my hand, I would have been unquestionably petrified over how it would affect my career. But initially, it took me a minute to figure out what it was.

What the—is that dirt?

I removed myself from the shower stream and pushed the small dark filaments around in the suds, trying to feel them out. I squinted down at them for a moment.

Oh shit, are they little ants? Or spiders? My bed is infested.

Then, the panic washed over my body, starting at my failing hair roots and moving to my toes. I could almost feel my pupils enlarge with dread.

It's my hair. My hair is falling out.

I tried to breathe. I had known this was coming. Dr. Peterson warned it would start between two and three weeks of beginning the chemotherapy. I thumbed through the fragmented strands nervously as I settled into the reality that I was going bald.

In my state of hysteria, I tried my best to summon regurgitated cancer wisdom:

That just means the chemo is working.

Your hair will grow back.

It's important not to focus on how you look.

The cancer is suffering!

Without even rinsing my hand off, I was out of the shower and in front of my mirror. A puddle of soapy water was forming next to the tub, but I hardly noticed. I grabbed my towel and wiped the condensation off the mirror. It was just as I feared: strands of hair were fragmented, and I immediately found patches of thinning hair.

Well, there it goes. The last thing giving me any semblance of attractiveness. Any chance of putting out a CD in the next year or so. Any self-confidence.

...Okay, I still had self-confidence.

But the promo photos and angry producers weren't my true scare. My contract could go fuck itself. My real scare right now was my daughter. I couldn't hide this from her anymore. She had to know her daddy might not be around for her sweet sixteen.

~~

Faye watched indifferently as Zack swiveled around her rooted form on the gym's indoor basketball court. She turned stiffly to face him as he passed her, gliding toward the net. He leapt and shot the ball toward the hoop from a distance that seemed impossible for making a shot. But, of course, the ball slid gracefully through the intertwined grayed ropes of the net. His shots were such a sure thing by now that they didn't even earn a celebratory cheer from him.

He was in front of her immediately. Dribbling the basketball to the point where it seemed to be just a bright orange ghost shooting back and forth in a V form between his hands and the shining hardwood. He was hunched over, head low and eyebrows raised. He had a devious gleam in his eyes.

He gripped the ball in one palm and leaned into it, playfully dodging an attempted steal from Faye that he wished she would give him. He switched the movement to the other side, before twisting himself around, throwing his back into Faye, and then shooting the ball.

"I hate this game!" Faye yelled, exasperatedly. "You keep shoving me!"

"I'm not shoving you," Zack explained calmly, as he retrieved the ball and shot it again. Faye remained quietly angry, crossing her arms and flattening her brows.

Her silence drew his attention away from the game.

"What's with you today anyway?"

No answer.

"You said you'd help me practice. You're supposed to be defense, and you're facing the hoop." He continued intermittently bouncing the ball and shooting when he wandered close to the net.

"I don't feel like playing." Zack scowled.

"Whatever." He began walking across the court to another one of the many basketball hoops. Faye peered after him, relaxing her eyebrows and chewing at the inside of her cheek as he began to dribble again.

She wanted to be angry at him, but she'd already been avoiding conversation with him for most of the day. She dropped her arms from their crossed position and began swinging them nervously at her side before following him down the court.

"My dad says he has cancer." Zack turned to face her. His features humbled.

"Is he gonna die?"

She shrugged. "He says he's getting medicine." Her forehead hardened, and her jaw began quivering, but she tried to resist crying.

"But all his hair is gone, and he throws up all the time." She could feel stinging in her whole face as tears welled up in the corners of her eyes.

Zack averted his gaze and chewed his bottom lip. Faye almost never cried in front of him. Even if she did, it was usually over a ripped-open knee or a punishment, none of which were really serious problems. This time, Zack didn't know what to say.

"He's not gonna die," he reassured quietly and unconfidently.

"How do you know?" A tear escaped, and she wiped it off with her wrist right away.

"Because the doctor gave him medicine for it. Maybe he needs some more of it to get better all the way."

"My mom's next." Zack's head shot up.

"You can catch cancer?"

Faye looked right at him, indignantly. "No, you can't catch cancer," she said matter-of-factly. Zack looked confused.

"Then how would she get it?" he pointed out, slightly miffed.

"The divorce ruined everything. My mom's always mad, and my parents hate each other. They're always getting sick. And my dad eats a lot of junk food, and my mom says that stuff is bad for you. She's gonna get it next." A few more tears followed.

"And then they're both gonna die." It was quiet for a few seconds as Faye wiped away her tears.

"Well, you can come live at my house, and I'll even share my room with you."

"I don't wanna come live at your house! I don't want my parents to die!" Zack was speechless.

"If my dad's going to die, I don't want to be here. I want to stay in Boston." She paused, allowing the aggravation Zack had unintentionally brought upon her to articulate into words. "I just hate them both. They caused this to happen. If they weren't so stupid, they would have stayed married like normal people."

"I don't get what this has to do with cancer."

"Don't you get it? If he hadn't been so selfish, maybe he could have stayed healthy. He left me and my mom. All he does is go to Australia and France and Japan. And he never brings me." Zack stretched one edge of his lip down into a frown and began bouncing the ball he didn't realize he'd tucked up under his armpit.

"Yeah," he replied dejectedly. "My dad's always with him too."

"At least your dad comes back home after. My dad never wants to be around me or my mom."

"That can't be true."

"It is. All he cares about is his band. That's why he lives alone. He says I have my own room at his apartment, but really, it's his music room. That's what he wants." Zack couldn't dig up a single word to reply with. He just nodded. After a pause, he passed the ball off to Faye, in lieu of sympathy.

"You're not really moving to Boston, are you?"

She bounced the ball awkwardly a few times. "No," she replied, sadly. "My mom would never let me."

Their attention was redirected to the doors of the court, as a group of teenagers walked in and began warming up. Their laughs echoed throughout the entire gym. Knowing Faye, Zack turned to her.

"Want to head over to the pool?"

"No." His eyebrows nearly raised into his hairline.

"You wanna stay?" he asked, surprised.

"Let's practice."

~~

Before my mom and I even stepped out of the car with my uncle Alex, I had a game plan. It was Thanksgiving morning. I hadn't seen my crazy family since Greek Easter. I knew I was going to get attacked with lung-crushing hugs and smothering kisses. I had to escape and get to the basement, where I knew my cousins would be. I guess my mom could sense that I was planning something sneaky.

"When we get inside, I want you to say hi to everyone and give everyone a kiss. Don't just disappear into the basement." Her nails punctuated her grip against my skin, even through my heavy winter coat. I guess she was remembering Easter, when I was running after Thomas toward the basement, tripped over a lawn chair, and almost ended up in the lamb roaster. Thomas sprained his pinky. Big deal.

"Fine," I mumbled, rubbing my arm when she pulled her hand away. And okay, so maybe it was a lie. But getting squeezed and hugged by relatives was exhausting. And they always gave big wet kisses right against my ear. As soon as the front door to my cousin's house opened, I jetted inside past all the women, barely catching a scent of the turkey and gravy.

Lucky for me, the basement door was only a few feet away. My big cousin George was on the old green couch playing some basketball videogame. Thomas and TJ were wrestling on the carpet, intermittently blocking George's site to the TV.

"Thomas!" I yelled to the little brown-haired six-year-old as I hopped over the banister. He looked up at me and smiled right before the three-year-old screamed and pulled on Thomas's hair.

"Get off, TJ!" Thomas yelled, bracing his arms against the tyke's chest and launching him headfirst into the wooden legs of the chair. My eyes widened as Thomas stood up, rubbing his head where TJ had pulled. A few seconds passed before TJ rolled over and began wailing, his face turning lobster red. George groaned.

"Shut up, TJ!" he yelled casually, his eyes never leaving the screen. Must be used to it.

Thomas and I ran into the dark garage attached to the basement and hid behind his mom's SUV. My heart was pounding, and I had to hold back laughter. I could hear heavy footsteps coming down the basement stairs, and TJ's mom's voice as she tried to comfort him. Thomas wouldn't stop giggling. I cupped the back of his head with one hand and slid my other palm over his mouth. He fought me immediately.

"Shh!" I hissed. "They're gonna find us!"

"Faye!" my mom yelled angrily. Her voice was a lot closer than I expected. Thomas and I gasped and immediately ran out of the open garage into the front yard. I dove with my arms extended behind a large evergreen bush beside the front porch. Thomas followed suite. The loudness of our breathing amplified behind the branches and thick leaves. They were up my nose and in my mouth, but I had to stay still, or we'd be caught. Thomas continued to fidget his way inside the bush, but immediately became still when we heard voices and footsteps on the porch behind us.

"I'm glad that idiot isn't here," I heard a stern, aggravated voice say.

"No one said they wanted him here," said another softer Greek accent.

"It doesn't matter. I still can't believe she married that moron." I immediately recognized the voices of my great aunt, Toula and my great uncle, George. I could hear them sit in the porch chairs a few feet from the bush.

"I told Malorie I'd find her someone here to marry. Instead, she moved to Canada and married that braindead fag." My breath caught in my chest. He must be talking about my dad.

"I know," Toula replied. "He never had time to spend with her before the marriage ended anyway. Now, look. He's gone completely. And never mind Malorie, he doesn't even love his daughter, for God's sake." I felt a terrible stabbing sensation in my nose right before tears began welling up in my eyes. But I had to maintain my composure, or they'd hear us.

George snorted a sarcastic laugh. "He knows if he ever showed his face around here, I'd punch it right in. He was never good enough to be in this family." Each word was emphasized with sharp fierce sentiment. I heard ice clinking against the sides of a glass.

"I didn't think he was the type of person to leave his family. He seemed like a nice person."

"How could you think that? I knew the minute I laid eyes on him he was a piece of shit. I can't believe Malorie fell for his crap."

"I found them!" a forbidding voice yelled. My heart leapt.

Georgia's voice broke through the conversation. I struggled against the branches and twigs to wipe the tears from my eyes before my mom could pull me out of the bush.

"Thomas!" Georgia's tone was unrelenting.

"Faye, get the hell out here right now!" My mom reached her arm through the vacancy Thomas left and grabbed my coat.

"I'm coming!" I yelled annoyed. My mom gasped.

"Look at the tear in your coat!" She pointed at my arm where a branch must have ripped through. She grabbed me when I made a motion to walk past her. "I just bought you this!" She bent closer to me, the surprise on her face getting replaced with a steely anger.

"I told you to stay upstairs," she said slowly and rigidly. I averted her stony eyes.

"Fine! I'll stay upstairs," I said pulling my arm away. Thankfully, my mom caught a glimpse of George and Toula and ran over to the porch before she could slap me for giving her an attitude. Not that I cared even a little bit right now.

My dad's a terrible person, I told myself. I had a feeling all along. He didn't act like a normal dad. Up until a few weeks ago, I told myself it was because of Simple Plan. But I was wrong. It was because he never loved me or my mom.

Chapter Text

"Faye." I knocked firmly on her closed bedroom door and waited. No response. "Your father's here to see you. He wants to take you to dinner." Dinner. Just hearing that word made me nauseous.

"I don't care." I turned the knob and pushed her door open. She was laying on her bed face down in her pillow. I sat down beside her and tucked her hair behind her ear, so I could see her face.

"Do you feel sick?" I bent at the waist and craned my neck to look more closely at her face and feel her forehead.

"Yes." Her voice was muffled against her pillow, but the unsteadiness broke through anyway. She turned her head toward me. "My stomach hurts. I don't want to go out."

"You don't have a fever."

"I don't want to get up. Tell Papa to leave."

"How about I make you some tea?" She was silent for a few seconds.

"Okay."

"I'll tell Papa to come back tomorrow." I closed her door behind me and headed back down the stairs. Pierre was straddling the arm of the couch facing the stairs, appearing small in a puffy red winter coat that had fit snug over his shoulders last year. He looked up when he heard me.

"She doesn't feel good," I announced as I approached him.

"What's wrong?" he asked.

"Her stomach hurts. I'm gonna make her some tea," I said as I turned and entered the kitchen.

"Do you want some?" I looked back at his inflated form on the couch with my eyebrows raised. He shook his head. No. I turned toward the counter.

"You wanted to go get dinner?"

"No. I'm not really hungry, to be honest." I opened my mouth but closed it immediately. There weren't really any appropriate responses to grim hints about his condition.

"Do you mind if I check on Faye?" he called out into the kitchen as casually as he could. Asking permission to see his own daughter was something he would never get used to.

"Actually," I turned and pressed my back against the counter, "I wanted to talk to you." The opportunity to ask had presented itself long before I convinced myself it was the right choice. I forced my eyes to look at him to appear confident – he didn't look surprised, just skeptical. His only response was a nod.

Faye was fast asleep when I walked back into her room. She was sprawled out on top of her comforter, still wearing her striped sweatshirt and jeans. Her lower lip was squished up against the knuckles of her left hand, outstretched over the edge of her pillow. I debated whether or not to wake her up and have her brush her teeth and take a bath. Instead, I pulled a thick blanket from the top shelf of her closet and covered her before heading back downstairs.

I realized I was chewing on my thumbnail as I reached the last few steps. Maybe there were some things you weren't supposed to talk to people about. Maybe not knowing answers was better, especially when previous mention of the topic had always guaranteed a fight. I raised my head when I heard a spoon clinking against ceramic and turned into the kitchen curiously. Pierre glanced up at me from the counter and held out a steaming mug. He was holding the neck of a beer in his other hand. His eyebrows were raised at me, demeanor surprisingly calm.

"What did you want to talk about?"

~~

The basement was by far my most favorite room in the entire house. It was cozy but spacious. There was a fire place at one end next to the reclining chair and the biggest TV in the house across from the sectional sofa. It even had its own full bathroom. If it had a grocery store connected to it, I would never leave. Naturally, Faye's iPad, DVDs, and even her bike (why?) were violating what was supposed to be my sanctuary. I scooped up dirty socks and candy wrappers from the floor as Pierre cautiously made his way down the stairs. I felt my poise returning just as his began to disappear. His shoulders were tense. I saw his eyes rapidly flash toward the far corner of the room where his home studio used to be. His haven didn't even exist anymore.

I held my arm out to the couch. "Well, sit down."

He hit the couch hard and turned toward me after a few seconds. His tongue darted nervously between his lips. I sunk into the marshmallow cushion, facing him. It hadn't been my intention to make the conversation awkward, but I didn't want Faye to hear a word.

"We haven't gotten the chance to talk in a while," I said too casually leaning my elbow into the couch. Pierre's head jerked up, and he looked at me like I had snakes coming out of my nose.

"Chance to talk," he repeated bitterly. I licked my lips quickly.

"I just wanted to make sure everything was going oka—"

"Just...stop. You're not doing me any favors pretending to care about this. You don't get to ask me how dying feels, so you can clear your own fucking conscience." He stood quickly and turned toward the stairs.

Most of our conversations ended this way. Anything deeper than a casual greeting turned into one of us getting overwhelmed and walking away. It was better that way; the alternative was a fight. His jugular veins would pop out, and I'd scream so hard, I'd break out into a cold sweat. But I'd planned for this, and I wasn't letting it happen tonight.

"Pierre." My voice was calm and soft. He stopped at the stairs, his back still facing me. I watched his back muscles grapple under his sweatshirt, clearly out of surprise. The silence made every muscle in my body contract, and the background buzzing noises in the house were almost deafening.

"This isn't why I wanted to talk to you. I wanted to ask you something." I finally spoke. The composure in my voice shocked even me. He turned around. I set my mug on the carpet carefully. "It's something I've wanted to ask you for a really long time actually." He narrowed his eyes – mistrustful but curious at the same time.

"What are you talking about?"

I inhaled slowly, staring down at my twiddling thumbs. I stared for so long, my vision blurred out on the couch in front of me as my thumb ran over my moist fingertips.

"You okay?" I looked back up at him.

"Why'd you cheat on me?" I crushed my thumb in one of my fists. It was turning purple, and I couldn't even tell. I was expecting him to turn right around and walk away. It's what I always expected every time I thought about asking him over the years. I watched his every move sharply.

He sighed, rubbing his smooth chin in thought. He gradually walked forward and sat back down, facing the TV. He leaned his elbows against his knees.

"Why are you asking about this now?" He twisted his neck to look at me. I didn't have an answer for him. For a while, it felt like he didn't have an answer for me either.

"I was twenty-seven when we got married." His beer bottle was dangling in one of his hands as he drew circles in the air next to his knee.

"I didn't listen when my dad and Chuck and my brother told me to wait a few more years. Everything had been so perfect that I stupidly thought we could handle anything." He was quiet for a couple seconds. "But then, everything changed. I started to feel isolated on tour. We'd travel, and all the guys would take a new girl out every weekend. I thought I missed the hookups and all the attention at first. But it was Faye I missed. And you." He paused. "I missed you." I missed you. I quickly swallowed the small lump in my throat. "Overtime, that kinda shit just eats away at you." He took a swig and licked his lips. His eyes crawled over to the fireplace.

"I started going right back to the bus or the hotel after shows. At first, I'd call you. But then, we stopped talking. I'd sit in the room, drinking by myself." I took a minute to process.

"David and Seb were married too. What were they doing?" Pierre took another drink.

"They'd go out. It didn't bother them. It didn't bother the girls. Everyone was on the same page." He sighed through his nose and looked up at me. "They understood each other's needs – something we couldn't seem to figure out." I wanted to tell him he was wrong. That it was a bullshit excuse. He was looking back at the fire.

"We got married too young." He sounded distant. "I knew I wasn't making you happy. And it was my fault. I couldn't handle the distance."

"And you finally crashed." He nodded hesitantly.

"It was that one night." He stared ahead briefly, zoning out like he was envisioning a car accident in his head. He was quiet for a moment.

"Look." He shifted his body toward me slightly. "I didn't cheat on you because I stopped loving you. I was miserable and immature." He sucked his lips into his mouth before speaking again. "I had sex that night because I'd gone months without." He glanced away, speaking in a softer voice. "You remember," he started. "We weren't even talking anymore, even when I was home. I didn't know how to fix our marriage. I didn't think it was possible." He was staring through the carpet. "I know you'll never forgive me for what I did. But I'm sorry. Whether or not you want to hear it, I loved you." He looked over at me, shrugging slightly. "Even that night." I pursed my lips, blinking slowly.

He spoke so naturally, like he'd resigned long ago to the idea of giving me an explanation. He'd owed it to me for two years – only I'd never wanted to hear it. Beneath his composed exterior, I tasted the defeat in him. I tasted it two months ago in his bed, and I was tasting it again as he sat in front of me. He wasn't the man I remembered; his obstinance had always been layers deep, enforced with even one look into his eyes. I couldn't tell if it was guilt and loneliness or leukemia that was tearing it away. Maybe a little of both.

I took a slow breath in through my mouth, hoping to exhale some worthy response. I could only nod instead.

"Well." I let my breath out. My voice was quiet but sure. Suddenly, I laughed. Not loudly. Pierre looked at me casually. If he was surprised by my reaction, he never showed it. "I never could have accepted that a couple years ago." He took another swig. I looked down at my nails. "To be honest, I do believe you. And I can't pretend I never played a part in this. I mean, you're right. I stopped talking to you. I resented you for escaping the whole suburban life. I thought you were having all this fun, while you left me at home to keep the house clean and raise your daughter." I paused. "Which was stupid on my part. I knew exactly what I was getting into when I married you. You were going to be away for extended periods of time. I was supposed to be able to deal with that."

"So was I," Pierre added. Our eyes met briefly. There was acknowledgement. There was sympathy. I had to remove my eyes from his before my voice could keep going.

"We had so many problems," I continued. "We grew to hate each other's careers. Something we used to admire about each other. I hated your friends. You didn't even know my friends. For fuck's sake, we couldn't even agree on how to raise Faye." Pierre pursed his lips, occasionally raising his eyebrows in agreement.

"What I really needed was a man who was going to be there with me every night. Who wouldn't leave the house with one personality and come back with another a month later." Memories of Pierre talking about wanting to try Buddhism after coming back from a tour (in America, mind you) flashed through my head when he'd been steadily coming to church with Faye and me before the tour. I braved a look up at Pierre. Absorptive. Loose jaw. Dull but soft cinnamon eyes.

"And you...I was never going to be the wife you needed. You've always needed a woman to travel with that didn't establish roots, so she could support you and your career. That could never be me." I saw it. His face shriveled like he'd sucked on a lemon. Less than a second, but I saw it.

"We didn't just get married too young. We never should have been together in the first place. Hadn't you ever felt that way?" He widened his feet apart and licked his lips.

"Yeah," he admitted dejectedly after a moment. "I knew it." His eyes were back on mine. Still soft. He meant it. I shrugged, staring back at the carpet.

"Maybe we were never soulmates like we thought. We got along so much better as friends." The words were almost hard to get out of my mouth. But I knew that we both knew it. I looked over at Pierre. He was nodding.

"If we hadn't made that mistake, we both might be a lot happier right now," he added after some thought.

"I would agree one hundred percent, but we do have an amazing daughter." Pierre actually laughed, his top row of teeth peaking through his lips as he forced the soft sound.

"I can't argue with that." We were both smiling. I cleared my throat.

"Listen," I said, scooting just a few centimeters closer to him. "The reason I wanted to talk to you about this tonight – well, the reason I was finally ready to talk about it is because, I wanted to tell you that I forgive you." His head jerked back a little.

"For...what happened? With. Us?"

"Yes. I forgive you for cheating. I had to. Holding a grudge against you prevents us from moving on. And even worse, Faye can feel the anger. It's useless." His mouth was moving, but no words came out. He looked down at his bottle, tracing a finger over the brim.

"I don't deserve it."

"You don't. But, I wasn't the only one who was unhappy. It took me a long time to realize that." I watched him for several seconds before speaking again.

"Can I ask you something?" I ventured.

"Yeah," he breathed.

"I mean, it's personal, but...why did you break up with Lachelle?" He froze.

"What?" He looked at me. I was suddenly embarrassed under his stare. I reached down and picked up my tea, gulping down a large volume of the cold, sour liquid. "How do you know anything about Lachelle?"

"Some of your blabberymouth friends are my friends too." His jaw clenched instantly.

"She wasn't anything special."

"But you two were engaged." He opened his mouth to retaliate.

"People change," he finally responded softly. He guzzled down the rest of his beer. Just the thought of the putrid alcohol burning down his throat made my already unsettled stomach turn. "And I didn't break up with her. It was mutual."

"What happened?" I asked tentatively. His jaw was tightening more, knuckles whitening around the neck of his empty beer bottle. His coffee-colored irises shrunk as his pupils slightly enlarged, heartache straining across his entire face.

"We just didn't click."

"They're so annoying together." I could hear David ranting in my head. I remember seeing my reflection in his aviators as we walked down the street in the city last summer past fruit stands and overpriced T-shirt vendors. Jordan was walking along his other side.

"She's all over him; his hands are always on her. They're so disgustingly in love. I can't wait until their stupid fucking wedding is over with." She brushed her hair back after a breeze blew from behind us. "How does he not find her insufferable? She hasn't missed a single tour date in over a year, Mal. She's up his ass constantly. Oh, probably because he's a cock-sucking cuntbag."

David laughed, his lip ring twinkling in the sunlight. "I love Pierre more than any man should, and I'd have to agree. Although, they are a great couple." He knit his eyebrows together worriedly all of a sudden.

"Shit, I'm sorry. I hope this isn't bothering you," he said, turning to me.

"No," I stammered. I imagined Lachelle's French-manicured fingers running over Pierre's chest, while she laughed at one of his 'that's what she said's.' "Good for them."

The leaves had barely had time to fall off the trees by the time Seb called me about the broken engagement. Pierre had cut her off and fallen off the planet – Lachelle was devastated. He'd broken her heart out of nowhere. I couldn't tell if the pounding in my chest was empathy or memory.

"I'm sorry it didn't work out," I said, bringing myself to the present. He shook his head swiftly.

"'S fine," he muttered. He stood quickly, adjusting the beanie covering his barren scalp.

"I better go. I'll come by for Faye tomorrow?"

"Yeah." I nodded as I stood. He paused.

"Thanks for what you said earlier." I smiled warmly and found myself pulling him into an embrace. He wrapped his arms around the small of my back while mine snaked around the back of his neck. I rested my cheek against his collarbone.

I could finally move on.