Love Never Wanted Me

6

"You alright?" I ask, holding him close, "what's going on, Patrick?"

"I'm sorry," he sighs, resting his forehead onto my shoulder, "I know I shouldn't be here."

"No, no, it's fine," I reply, "It's okay. You're okay."

"I'm not, Delilah," Patrick breathes out between his tears, "I'm really not."

I furrow my brow and hold him a bit tighter. He continues to sob for a while, and I don't ask questions. I'd be lying if I said that I wasn't happy to see him at my door, but I didn't expect this. He just hugged me as if I were a lifeline, and I instinctively held him back. It just feels like the right thing to do; it's what a friend would do. True, we're practically strangers, but he clearly felt the same thing I did in the hospital. There's something between us...isn't there?

"My life is fucked up," he breathes out between tears.

"Yeah, well, join the club," I reply, rubbing my hands up and down his back, "Do you want to come in?" I ask

Patrick pulls back and looks me in the eyes: "You mean it," he says, more as a statement and not a question.

"Well, yeah," I reply, "unless you want to just keep crying at my doorstep."

We smile at each other and then break apart. I step to the side and motion for him to come in. He does so, looking a little embarrassed. He shouldn't feel that way; I mean, friends are supposed to be there for each other. If that means he feels comfortable with coming to my door, then okay.

"Have a seat," I say, closing the door behind us, "I just made a pot of coffee. Do you take milk or anything?"

"No, um, no thanks," he says, sitting down on the couch, "Just black is fine."

I pour us each a cup then join him on the couch; "So," I say, plopping down on the couch and crossing my legs, "talk."

"Talk?" Patrick asks, taking his cup from me.

"Yeah," I go on, "I mean, unless you usually just fall crying into somebody's arms without explanation."

Patrick lets out a breathy chuckle and shakes his head: "I'm sorry," he says, "I know that we're practically strangers, but I feel like I can, well, I can trust you."

"You can, that's what friends are for," I reply without hesitation, "and that's what I mean by 'talk'. You can tell me whatever you want."

"Anything?"

"Anything."

Patrick lets out a heavy sigh and runs his finger over the edge of his cup; "I, um, I have a brain tumor." He says, rather nonchalantly.

I choke on my coffee, nearly spitting it out: "Oh," I say, clearing my throat, "Is that why- "

"I got as sick as I did. Yeah," he replies, staring ahead, "I'm fucked."

"Is it..."

"Cancerous? I don't know," he sighs, "There are a few more tests to run, but I...I think it might be. I don't know. I just don't fucking know about anything anymore." He closes his eyes and runs a hand over his face.

"Wow," I breathe out, "Patrick, that's..."

"Fucked up," he says, "completely fucked up."

"Unexpected was the word I was going for," I reply, "But yeah, that works too. God, Patrick, that's...I'm so sorry and I know that's not the best thing to say right now."

"No, no, it's okay," he says, tearing up again, "I'm sorry to just drop all of this on you." He then leans to the side, closing any space between us. I set my cup down on the floor and wrap my arms around him in an embrace. His shoulders start to shake, and I hear him begin to cry again. I just hold him even tighter.