Windmill Spring 2018

“He thinks I can avoid chemo.” My gut reaction is to comfort Cole, always. Even now. “I’m getting these shots once a month, and they’re hoping the tumors––” he winces at the word, “––will shrink enough to remove through surgery.”

The skin between his eyebrows pinches with concern. He unzips his jacket but doesn’t remove it as he makes his way toward the island. I remain fixed behind the slab of granite, forcing him to decide our proximity. He leans his elbows against the adjacent corner, closer than he would have been across the island but not directly beside me.

“When will you know?”

“I have another MRI in about eight weeks.”

His jaw tightens. “What does your mother say? Will she be with you?”

I lean my elbows onto the island, mimicking his pose.

“She…” I can already see his teeth clenching.

“It’s over an hour drive, and you know how she––” “You’re her daughter, for god’s sake.” He straightens up, one hand running back through his mess of hair. His eyes sweep the room as though she’s there, and this rant is directed at her. “She’s in perfect health. You’re not. She can make the damn drive.” When his gaze finds mine again, he finishes with, “You shouldn’t bother telling her how it goes.

If she wants to know, she can come.”

I stare into his narrow black pupils, watch the way his chest rises and falls behind his plaid button-up. I can’t help but chuckle. “You always get so worked up when she’s like this.”

He lets out a shaky laugh and it sounds like an exhale.

You always. I love how the phrase tastes on my tongue. Like a memory with eternal life. Like something permanent between us. There isn’t much permanent between us, anymore. I hold on to two simple words as though they’re pinkies locked together in a promise.

His stance shrinks back down, as though he’s a cobra coiling back in on himself after a strike. His teeth catch his lower lip and his gaze flicks between me and the door before he murmurs a soft, “Hey,” and gestures for me to come closer.

Windmill 65