Staring at the door for a moment, I drew in a deep breath and let it out slowly. I had to every time I saw Charlie. It was the only way to get the messy ball of emotion—­all that disappointment, anger, and sadness—­out of me before I walked into the room. I never wanted Charlie to see that. Sometimes I failed, but I always tried.

Only when I thought I could smile without looking slightly crazed, I opened the door, and like every Friday for the last six years, seeing Charlie was like taking a throat punch.

He was sitting in a chair in front of the large floor-­to-­ceiling window—­in his chair. It was one of those papasan chairs with a vibrant blue cushion. He’d had it since he was sixteen, got it for his birthday just a few months before everything changed for him.

Charlie didn’t look up when I stepped into the room and closed the door behind me. He never did.

The room wasn’t bad at all, rather spacious with a full-­sized bed neatly made by one of the nurses, a desk I knew he never used, and a TV that I’d never, in the six years, seen turned on.

Sitting in that chair, looking out the window, he was so thin, beyond willowy. Nurse Venter told me that they had trouble getting him to eat three square meals a day, and when they tried to change it to five smaller meals, that hadn’t worked either. A year ago, it had gotten so bad they had to do a feeding tube, and I could still taste that fear, because I thought I’d lose him then.

His blond hair had been washed this morning, but it wasn’t styled and was much shorter than how he used to wear it. Charlie had favored that artfully messy look and he had rocked it. Today, he was wearing a white shirt and gray sweat pants, not even the cool kind. No, these had those elastic bands at the ankle, and God, he would’ve thrown a fit if he knew he’d be wearing them now—­rightfully so, because Charlie . . . well, he had style and taste and so much.

Walking toward the second papasan chair with a matching blue cushion I’d bought three years ago, I cleared my throat. “Hey, Charlie.”

He didn’t look.

There was no disappointment. I mean, it was there, that “this isn’t fair” feeling, but there wasn’t a new wave of the breath-­stealing dismay, because this was how it always was.

Sitting down, I placed the tote beside my legs. Up close, he looked older than twenty-­two—­years older. Face gaunt, skin washed out, and deep, unforgiving shadows under once lively green eyes.

I drew in another deep breath. “It’s ridiculously hot out there today, so don’t make fun of my cut-­off shorts.” Back in the day, he would’ve made me change out of them before even daring to step out into public. “The weather ­people are saying the temps are going to be record breaking by the weekend.”