Cancer.
It's a curse.
It turns people's lives upside down and ruins their relationships.
Brynne Foster is a perfect example.
After being diagnosed with leukemia at age 17, Brynne's family struggles to accept her decision of refusing chemotherapy...
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I invited Blake into my house.
Why. Why. Why.
Now Blake Wright is in my house. I am staring at Blake Wright from across my counter.
He picks up the glass of water and downs it with one gulp.
He must be thirsty.
Water droplets run down his neck.
Stop looking, Brynne.
I offer him some more water and something to eat, but he politely refuses. I can tell he's uncomfortable. He's probably afraid that Grant is going to walk in and see him here, talking to me.
"Grant is not here," I tell him.
"I'm not worried about that," He grumbles.
Yeah, right.
He scratches the back of his neck. He does that a lot. Is it because he's nervous? He seems tough on the outside, but I wonder if he's scared of Grant.
How am I going to keep this boy out of trouble?
I rack my brain for a good excuse that'll keep him busy for a while. Something that will get him off the streets and away from that "friend group". Then something hits me;
The list.
Would he help me complete it? Probably, he's desperate. I would have to keep it strictly platonic. I just need someone to help me plan out the day and make sure everything goes as smoothly and quickly as possible. It would work out perfectly, and after the day is done we will go our separate ways. I just have to ask him.
I look up to him, and he quickly looks away.
Was he watching me think?
"So, you said you needed a favor from me," He asks while looking around my kitchen.
He's being careful with his words. He doesn't want my dad to get suspicious.
"Yes, I need help with a project for school," I respond hastily.
It's the best I could come up with.
"Really Brynne, a project?" He whispers.
"Yes, it's a really important project," I whisper back.
He slightly smirks. There's that smile I know. That smile that gets all the girls.
The smile that gets me.
"What class is this project for?" He asks with interest.
"Psychology," I say, "We have to create our ideal perfect day and document ourselves throughout it."
"It has to do with endorphins and adrenaline," I add.
This seems to satisfy him because he becomes less tense and, his large shoulders drop. I notice that he still has the stained dress shirt from last night.
