Cadaverous Love

Chapter Fifty-Eight

Dallas •

I guess I keep hoping everything will change—that I'll blink and it'll all go back to the way it was. But life doesn't work like that. I know that. I just wish it did.

I close my eyes and splash cold water onto my face. Staring down at the sink, I watch the droplets drip off of my nose. They collect at the bottom in little wading pools. I think about swimming at the lake with Emily.

I walk to the kitchen to find Ponyboy, Johnny, and Morgan bent over a recipe on the table. Sugar, salt, cinnamon, flour, and measuring cups are strewn about.

"Well, what I don't get is how we double two-thirds of a teaspoon," Johnny says, "Do people even use two-thirds of a teaspoon as a way to measure things?"

"I think we just have to eyeball it." Ponyboy says, scooping salt out of its tin. "Does that look about right?" He holds it at Morgan's level.

"Yeah- I think so," she pauses, "You're guess is as good as mine."

"What the hell are you guys making?" I ask, sticking my hand into the bag of sugar.

"What the hell are you doing, Dallas?" Morgan smacks my wrist, "don't stick your nasty hands in the sugar."

I glare at her and pull my hand away, "whatever, I just wanted to eat some."

"Weirdo," she says lightly, shaking her head, "I'd prefer it if you didn't eat the ingredients."

"What're you making anyways?"

"It's a surprise for tonight," she responds.

"What's happening tonight?" I rub my forehead with the back of my hand.

"It's Thanksgiving." Ponyboy says, stopping in his tracks. His eyebrows furrow as if he is trying to make sense out of me. His eyes flicker to mine for a split second before darting back to the spoon in his hand. Think I scare him.

"Oh," I nod, "yeah, yeah. I knew that." I didn't. "See ya idiots later."

--

The ten minute drive to the hospital is long and painful. The sky is stuck in a perpetual state of grey, and the smell of rain hangs around like a sneeze you can't get out of your nose. It lingers there, teasing you, but never produces anything.

I shuffle to Emily's room, my head locked straight forward. I try not to look in the rooms where other people lay. Probably all dying.

As I approach, I can hear the sound of a man's voice coming from her room. I stop outside to see if I can hear any updates on her.

"Well, it didn't take me too much time to decide," the man's voice—not the doctor's voice— sounds out, "I think I can help."

My face flashes white-hot as I slink into the room and see the back of a brown head of hair and a tan sweater.

"Dallas," Emily smiles at me, "Good morning."

I don't respond to her. I set my hand on the guy's shoulder. He flinches and looks up at me. It's Mr. Artie. I let out a long breath.

"Mr. Artie," I glance between him and Emily, "what're you doing here?"

"Emily called my house a few days ago and I thought it would be better to talk things out in person." He responds. "Happy Thanksgiving by the way."

"Yeah, you too. And what are you guys talking about?"

"Mio, Dal," Emily chimes in. "He could adopt him."

I sit on the edge of her bed, not breaking eye contact with her. "You know that's not how adoption works, right? You can't just steal a kid, give him away, and call it a day."