“Nah. That’s okay. I’ll leave you to …” I lean forward to read the title of the book in her lap and give a scoff when I make out the words.

“Don’t you dare insult Jane Eyre.” Mom waves a scolding finger at me, and Dad chuckles as he returns to his papers.

My hands rise in surrender as I back out of the room. “Of course not. Charlotte Brontë can do no wrong.”

“That’s right. Don’t you forget it.”

From the shadows of the hallway, I spy on them a bit longer, not ready to leave the peacefulness of their presence for the cold hum of a machine.

Dad lets his hand rest on one of the bare feet cradled in his lap and gives a gentle squeeze.

“Benjamin Gerhard.” Mom always refers to my dad as Benjamin, so I know she isn’t calling me back.

“What?” His shoulders rise and fall, but I catch the sneaky curl of his lip.

“Just know that my foot is in a very precarious position if you decide to try anything.”

Dad grins, but he retracts his hand. “Yes, dear.”

Like stepping from the warmth of a bonfire into a frigid winter night, I descend the stairs.

Once I’m plugged in, I try watching a movie. Maybe Die Hard will do the trick. But, every time I start to get absorbed, my arm throbs, and I’m pulled right back out. A groan of frustration leaks from my throat. Luckily, my parents are still a floor away and don’t hear me.

If only Holly were here. Treatments seem even harder now that I know what it’s like with her next to me. Holly didn’t pity me or look at me like I was less of a person. The needles grossed her out, but she put that on her fears and issues. Not me.

Around her, I forget the discomfort.

Not giving myself time to reconsider, I lean to the side, so I can slide my phone out from my back pocket.

Over the past week, we’ve exchanged a few texts. Just the basics, like me telling her I got home safe after the bar and her asking how Sammy’s hangover was treating him. I’ve wanted to see her again, but if I show up outside of her class, I’ll feel like I’ve crossed over from friendly acquaintance to stalker. Just because I can’t stop thinking about her doesn’t mean she wants to spend time with me.

But texting her isn’t a big deal. Friends do it all the time.

Ben: How do you feel about Die Hard?

There’s no guarantee I’ll hear back anytime soon.

I wonder where Holly Foster is on a Monday night. Class? Studying? Working? Or maybe she’s hanging out with her boyfriend. It seems unlikely that someone as kind and sexy as her would be single. Selfishly, I want that to be the case. I almost asked her at the bar but held off for two reasons. First, I reasoned she might get uncomfortable if she thought I was hitting on her. Second, I was afraid of her answer.