Beside

6 - panic

"Fox, what do you want to be when you grow up?"

"Not scared. That's all."

"I want to be your friend. That's all."

"Deal. But only if we can have a dog."

"Yes. I love dogs."

ｃｈｒｉｓ

Fox is Fox. Fox is Fox. Fox is Fox.

"Whitney, please!" I shuffle after her. Hallowed Grounds is busy but my pulse is pounding in my ears like a frantic little drummer with a smirk who hates me. "Whitney!"

Fox is Fox.

I can't even find the words to describe what's happening in my chest. It's all knotted up, twisted into shapes I didn't know it could make, and the butterflies—oh god, the butterflies have turned into hawks, their wings slapping against my ribs, cawing at me, nipping at the tubes of my bronchi.

"Whit," I hiss, grabbing her sleeve as she passes a paper cup to a girl who's way too cheery for this early in the morning. "Whitney! It's him! The guy from the bar!"

"Uh-huh," she mutters, "One sec." She swivels to her left, calling out in that sing-song voice, "Grande latte for Steve!"

I clutch at my own arms, trying to keep myself from exploding. I swear, if I breathe wrong, I'm going to turn into a helium balloon and drift up to the ceiling. "How is this happening?! He's my roommate! How is that even possible?!"

Steve walks up, winks at Whitney, and takes his drink. Ugh.

Whitney turns to me, sliding her fingers into her apron pockets. "Chris, what's the problem? The guy from the bar was hot! You've got yourself one sexy roommate. Lean into it."

Then she's shuffling around the counter to the tables.

I follow her, hands on my head. "Lean into it? Whitney! It's Fox! Fox is Fox! My Fox!"

She freezes mid-step. I smack into her back, my nose squishing into her head. She smells good, like peppery iris. But that's not the point!

Whitney turns around slowly, her big hazel eyes wide. "Oh," she breathes out. The word floats on the air, turning into mist that curls around us. "Ohhh."

"Yes oh!" I whisper-yell, grabbing her face. "He's my Fox."

Whitney smacks my hands off her face. I grab her again. She flicks me in the forehead. "Ow," I whimper, holding my head.

"Chris... does he—does he know it's you?"

The world wobbles around me, the walls of the café bending inward like a funhouse mirror. "No. He has no idea. He didn't even recognize me! How can he not remember me?" I feel the tears gather, thick and heavy.

Whitney's shoulders slump. "Oh, Chris."

"What do I do? Do I tell him? Do I just walk up to him and say, Hey, remember me? Your best friend, the one who watched shooting stars with you and told you that flowers were just fancy weeds then got cancer and abandoned you? What if he never remembers? What if he thinks I'm just that random girl from the bar, and I'm over here acting like we're still nine years old, scraping our knees and eating ice cream off the curb?" I take a deep, shuddering breath. "Literally off the curb, Whitney! It had dirt and pebbles and everything!"

Whitney's eyes widen, and she raises her hands, trying to shush me.

"I ate dirt for him! Do you have any idea what that's like? Is that why I got cancer?!"