24. Huckslee

Huckslee

T he hospital PA system crackles to life, causing me to stiffen and hold my breath.

Logically, I know they wouldn't announce anything about my dad's surgery over their intercom. Still, it doesn't stop the pulse from quickening in my veins whenever some disembodied voice ripples through the speakers.

When all I hear is a call for some doctor to dial line three, I relax where I'm sitting in the waiting room. Dad's already been in surgery for three hours now, but they're removing his entire bladder, so I suppose that takes time. Even though the longer I wait, the more nervous I get. Maisie is across from me, nose buried in one of her magazines, while Joel and Logan are out grabbing us some food.

My body aches from the last three hours spent hunched over my sketchbook and the couch at Logan and Salem's. It's the most uncomfortable couch I've ever slept on, adding to the insomnia rearing its ugly head .

Arching my back into a stretch, I scowl at my drawing of Dad standing next to the Nova in the garage. It's still good, but nowhere near the level it should have been. I've hardly drawn so much as a stick figure in four years.

It's crazy how I fled to California for the freedom to be myself, yet I left so much of who I was behind—drawing, motocross, swimming. Don't get me wrong; I still swam in the ocean every chance I got, but pools were strictly a no-go.

As my pencil glides across the paper, I can't help but wonder if I left all of those things back here on purpose. Like parts of myself that no longer fit who I needed to become, which is wild because I fell back into football the minute I got into Berkeley. The one part of my life here that I never really had a passion for, yet I made it my whole world out there. Why?

Because it's easy , a voice inside my head states, one that sounds strangely like my therapist. And it's absolutely right.

Football is easy. It's the ruse around myself I'd created in high school, and even though I've been openly gay in college, making my life all about football meant that I didn't have to confront these other parts of myself that I never really gave space for. And where has that gotten me? Nearly a college graduate in a field I'm not really interested in, and a whole steaming pile of missed calls from my coach at Berkeley about the NFL draft in April. Which I'm also not looking forward to.

Yeah, that feeling of every day being a waste? After seeing how passionate Taylor and Christian are about what they choose to do for a living, I can't help but feel like I've wasted the last four years of my life.

Taking another glance at my sketchbook, I toss it onto the seat next to me in disgust just as Logan and Joel appear in the doorway with bags of fast food. There's a noticeable tension between them, from Joel's expression and how Logan's shoulders are hunched. Likely arguing about Salem again.

"Any news?" Joel sits beside Maisie, fishing a sandwich out of the bag to hand to her, while Logan picks up my sketchbook and sits beside me.

"None yet," I shake my head, taking a burger from Logan before devouring it. Dad's surgery was scheduled at the butt-crack of dawn this morning, so we barely had a chance to grab pop-tarts before we were out the door.

"No news is good news." Maisie gives me a small smile, but I can see the strain in her features. The battle won't end for her and Dad today. If all goes well, recovery from a radical cystectomy takes a while–

Not if . When. When it all goes well.

"This is really good," Logan says softly. For a minute, I think he's talking about the food until I catch him gazing down at my sketch.

Reaching out to take it from him, I shrug self-consciously. "Used to be better. But I haven't practiced in four years, and my proportions are all cartoonish."

"Let's see." Joel leans forward, gesturing for the book, which I reluctantly pass over.

He and Maisie study it quietly.

"Wow." Joel glances up at me with twinkling eyes. "Impressive, son."

Maisie nods, "I didn't know you drew, Huckslee. This is very beautiful. He's going to love it."

My throat closes as they hand it back to me. "Thank you. "

I should have kept up on it. Should have kept up on a lot of things.

Rubbing my eyes, I stuff the sketchbook into my backpack before pulling out the homework I've neglected. My body is too big to really ‘curl up' in a chair, so I use the backpack as a makeshift desk, losing myself in the nuances of American Government to take my mind off everything. Logan seems to have the same idea, pulling out his laptop while Joel and Maisie chitchat.

This is the worst part of it all. The waiting, the not knowing, the hoping and praying that everything goes well and life returns to normal. Even though I know there will never be a ‘normal' anymore. At least, not an old one. But a new normal. He'll be alive, though, and that's all that matters. Because I can't lose another parent.

Eventually, when the thoughts get too loud, I give up on homework and scroll through my phone, answering texts from friends back in Cali and browsing socials. Somehow, I end up on Taylor's Instagram with my body turned away from Logan, and his newest post catches my eye. It's a photo of him in the middle of a backflip on his bike, his feet on the seat, and his knees pulled up to his chest. Must be an older picture because there's no snow in the background, and the caption reads:

Guess who's going to the qualifier for Nitro Fuel Games in April?! This motherfucker, baby! Life is good.

Hashtag blessed, blah fucking blah. Thousands of likes. Resentment coils in my chest .

As usual, Taylor's living his best life while mine slowly unravels. It's not fair. But just to mock him, I pull up a photo my roommate Shawn took of me sitting on a surfboard shirtless and post it to my own IG with the caption:

Who's ready for the NFL draft in April?! This motherfucker, baby! Life is good.

My pettiness knows no bounds, apparently. And not even three seconds later, Taylor hearts my post and comments on it with the hands raised emoji.

It doesn't feel good being this way. I know I should be the bigger person, but he drives me fucking crazy. Seriously, he brings out the absolute worst in me.

Footfalls against the tile draw my attention, and my heart jumps into my throat when I glance up to see a nurse coming forward. We all straighten in our seats as she stops before us, and the smile on her face has relief coursing through me.

"Mr. Davis is out of surgery and doing well," the nurse says, looking tired, "he's still under anesthesia right now, but the immediate family may see him. Would you like me to take you?"

"Yes, please." Maisie stands, tears in her eyes, as Joel hugs her and Logan claps me on the back.

"Give him our best," he says, smiling, "text me when you're ready, and I'll come get you."

"It's fine, I'll just call an Uber. Go do what you gotta do, Loge. "

He and Salem are spending the weekend in the mountains at his dad's cabin, so I get the apartment to myself for a few days.

Taking Maisie's arm, I squeeze it as we're led through a hallway to Dad's room, but I freeze just beyond the doorway at the sight of him in his hospital bed. He looks so...small. Frail.

A memory replays in my head of my mother dying of cancer, lying in a similar bed with all kinds of tubes hooked to her body. My last image of her. It's too similar.

Maisie steps up to his side, running a hand through his hair, and I just stand there with my throat working like a lunatic because I can't. I can't go in there. My legs won't move. I'm sure the nurse begins to speak, saying something about his condition, but the blood rushing to my ears drowns it out.

Shit, shit, shit.

"I..."

Maisie looks over at me, her brows pulling together in concern, and I flounder for something to say. The room pitches, a tremble in my fingers warning me of the oncoming anxiety attack, chest heaving.

"I'm sorry, Maisie." Backing out of the room, I spin to make a break for it. "I can't. I can't."

She calls after me, but I'm already speed-walking away down the hall, pressing my phone to my ear while bile rises in my throat.

Logan answers immediately. "Huck? What's wrong?"

"Have you left yet?" My voice breaks, the tears that were welling finally spilling onto my lashes.

He pauses. "I'm still in the parking lot. Why? Did something happen? "

"D-don't leave yet." Nausea churns my stomach as I make my way to the stairs, unable to stand the thought of the elevator. "I'm coming out. I can't...Logan, I think I'm dying."

"Hey, hey, it'll be alright. I'll meet you at the front entrance, ok? Just hold on, Huck. Breathe."

The stairs spin as I race down them, my hand clutching my chest as if to keep the organ inside from thundering to a stop. Shame and guilt war with the panic gripping my lungs.

Just hold on, Huck. Just hold on.

Breathe. Hold on. Breathe.

Breathe, breathe, breathe, breathe –