Be My Forever

xii | trapped in the supply closet of torture.

I have absolutely no idea where I'm going. All I know is that I want to get away.

Rachel had no right to say what she said. I can't really blame her, though, I had been just as mean back to her. The problem is that what she said is true. Or at least, part of the truth.

We're still paying off the medical bills. Insurance only covers so much and I know Mom and Dad fought about it a lot there at the beginning.

I force myself to stop, I'm in a hallway somewhere, and I realize that what I want most is to be alone. Next to me is a door that is slightly open. Hoping it's not a room, I slide through the door. It's some sort of supply closet, with shelves of cleaning supplies, a wall covered in mops and brooms, and another shelf with folded, white towels. I lean against the shelf, closing my eyes.

I take deep breaths, trying to stop the stubborn tears, telling myself it isn't worth getting so worked up. Rachel has no idea. She spoke out of ignorance and pettiness.

A few more deep breaths and the anger is gone, replaced by guilt. I started that little cat fight. So I need to be the one to apologize.

Something about seeing her simper over Warren got me worked up.

Just admit you were jealous and move on, girl.

I really hate my own common sense sometimes. Because it had been jealousy.

"That was out of line, little bug."

I groan. Think of the devil and he shall appear. Warren is the last person I want to talk to.

"Go away, Warren," I mutter halfheartedly, "I don't want to deal with you right now."

I open one eye. He's inside the closet, taking up the little space that's left and crossing his arms in a mock pose to mine.

"Now hold on," He says, "Rachel was out of line too. She should not have said that stuff about your mom."

I release a breath and his next words surprise me, "How did she... uh..."

I look at him, "Pass away?" I can't look at him while I say, "It was brain cancer. Dad thought she was having a stroke, but when we got to the hospital, they told us she had a malignant brain tumor. They removed the tumor, but the chances of it growing back were very high. It started growing again six weeks later. They told us that if we were lucky, she'd live for two years. She died almost exactly eight months after she was diagnosed."

The memories, still so fresh, wash over me. The personality change in my mom, her loosing hair from chemo, how thin she became. How dependent she became on Dad. The wariness of taking care of her. On her better days, when she was more aware, she worried about Dad and I. And then there in the end, Dad couldn't take care of her anymore. We had to put her in a hospice care facility.

"Saying goodbye was the hardest thing I've ever had to do." My voice cracks. It's been three years, but pain doesn't fade easily.

I jump a little when I feel the rough pad of a finger swipe across my cheek, brushing away the dampness there, "I can't imagine."

The vulnerability in his face is enough to take my breath away. For a moment, I want to bury my face in his chest, let myself cry. But in that same moment, his hand is gone from my face and I see him shut down again.

I breathe in deeply, drag my palms across my cheeks, and say, "Anyways. I try not to think about it." I cross my arms to give myself any kind of distance from him, "Hang on, why did you come after me in the first place?"

He shrugs, leaning back against his area of shelf, "Mom was worried you might get lost, so she told me to go after you."

Of course Charlotte would be worried. I smile at the thought. She really is the nicest lady I've ever met.