"Ink & Skin" by Nicole Zelniker

1

Saturday

Jen’s head pounded in time with Amari’s playlist, some pop compilation they probably found on Spotify five minutes before the first guest showed up at their downtown apartment. She’d love a glass of water, but getting up sounded like more effort than it was worth, so Jen stayed on the couch, scrolling through Instagram photos from her cousin’s most recent trip to San Diego as her best friend’s twenty-ninth birthday party raged around her.

All of her people were otherwise occupied. Amari sat half in a plush armchair chair, half in their girlfriend’s lap, chatting animatedly with their high school friends and twisting the bleached and re-dyed red ends of their hair into circles. A handful of Jen and Amari’s college friends took shots off the time-worn coffee table.

On the other side of the room, Soledad flirted with a woman in a white crew neck Jen didn’t know, which meant she and Jen probably weren’t going home together tonight. Not that Jen particularly felt like being fucked. She and Soledad had been friends-with-benefits-ing on and off for four years, when Soledad moved to New York and Amari introduced them.

Another familiar face pushed her way from the throng of bodies and dropped onto the couch beside Jen, who amended her earlier thought. Not all her friends were occupied, then. May, the cousin of their gracious host, swept her dark bangs aside and asked, “How’s my favorite introvert doing in this crowd of thousands?”

Jen snorted and tucked her phone in her pocket. “Dozens, at best.” May didn’t drink much anymore, but her face was pleasantly flushed with a cider or two. Behind May, one of Amari’s coworkers changed the song to something lower-key. Jen silently thanked them for it. Her headache had begun to pick up and the contents of her stomach churned unpleasantly.

“Still.” May had on the navy v-neck sweater Jen had gotten her for her twenty-seventh birthday just a few months before, the one that showed off the top of her rather toned chest. The thought thrilled Jen more than it should.

“That’s because you don’t know any other introverts,” Jen asked. Soledad might be, but May had never cared for Soledad. Amari, who was now taking tequila shots with their roommate, was definitely an extrovert. Amari and Jen had met in undergrad when Amari, a sophomore to Jen’s freshman, TAed Jen’s psych 101 class before she decided to never again take a psych class. And then, of course, Jen ended up dating their cousin.

“You’d be my favorite anyway,” May teased, and Jen couldn’t help but smile. It had taken the two of them a long time to get to this place, where they could tease and even flirt a little at a party. Jen liked this place. It wasn’t dating, but they were better like this. Dating hadn't gone well for them.

“I’m alright,” she said. “You must be thriving here.”

May laughed. The usually pleasant sound reverberated around Jen’s tender head and she took a deep breath. “I’m wonderful,” May said with a playful grin. “Thank you so much for asking.”

Jen swallowed hard. “How’s midterm grading coming along?” When did her mouth become so dry?

May rolled her eyes in a suspiciously Amari-esque fashion. “Almost done, thank God. Spring break is only really spring break for the co-eds. Co-eds who seem to retain nothing I teach them, for that matter.”

Jen’s head gave a particularly nasty throb and she wondered if she was on her way to a migraine. “Are you going to be at Columbia Monday? I have to be uptown at eleven, if you want to get lunch after.” Deep breath in, deep breath out.

“What’s uptown?”

“Just an appointment.” She hadn’t had the chance to tell any of them what was happening, nor did she plan on doing so tonight. Amari’s birthday was decidedly not a good time.

“I’d love to,” May said. “I don’t have anything after my morning class. Will you be free by one?” May had spent most of her fourth semester as a PhD student alternating between teaching and procrastinating her thesis. A fact that, should one of their friends called her out on it, she had become an expert at avoiding.

Jen nodded and winced as the movement sent another jolt of pain through her head. She stood. “I’m getting water,” she muttered. That’s what her doctor told her to do anyway, when the pain got bad. Water and the drugs Jen now carried in her backpack. She wondered how stealthily she could be collecting the pills from said backpack on Amari’s roommate’s bed.

May stood as well. Her mouth moved, but Jen could barely hear her. The whole room spun as Jen stumbled past May and straight into a pair of partygoers who gave her scathing looks. May caught her by the arm. “Jen?”

Jen lost her footing and the room turned upside down and she was somehow on the ceiling. She thought she might have shouted as her head pulsed violently and the last thing Jen felt before her world went black was falling, falling, and then May's arms under hers, keeping her upright.

She woke to find herself on the furry white carpet on the living room floor in Amari’s apartment. Her eyes fluttered open and May's blurry face came into focus. Jen put a hand to her head. “What … Ugh.” She shut her eyes. An anvil hammered away at the center of her skull and she wondered if it wouldn’t be easier to just die. She inhaled sharply.

“Stay down, Jen. You passed out.” May squeezed her arm. “Oh, thank you.” Jen cracked her eyes open again and saw Amari’s roommate hand May a glass of water. Behind May, several party guests stared and whispered to their neighbors, thinking themselves subtle with their mouths hidden behind their hands. They probably thought Jen’d had too many tequila shots. She wished she could disappear.

“Here,” May said to her. “Drink.” She helped Jen turn slowly to the side and put the water to her lips. Jen swallowed and tried not to gag.

Beside May, Amari bent forward. “You can lie down in my room if you can stand,” they said. Their face, a twin of May’s for all they claimed they didn’t look alike (“We’re cousins,” they would say. “Not twins!”), was pinched with anxiety and Jen hated herself for doing that to them.

“Alright,” she said. She felt off, fuzzy, but she managed to lean on May as they traversed the hallway back to Amari’s bedroom. There, Jen collapsed against Amari’s mountain of pillows and pressed her hands to her eyes. Her headache was less, but still hovered behind her forehead, delivering a steady thrum of pain.

The mattress dipped as May sat down. “You scared me out there,” she said softly.

“Yeah.” Jen removed her hands and gazed up at May, who was studying Jen’s face in concern. “Sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry,” May said, emphasizing the word as though it were a vulgar swear. “Do you know how many times you’ve picked me up off the floor?” Three years ago, May had finally agreed to go to rehab, then NA. Before that, many times. Jen shrugged and May said, “You didn’t have anything to drink, did you?” Jen didn’t answer and May said, “What’s going on? What aren’t you telling me?”

Jen glanced at May before turning her gaze to her hands in her lap. “No one else knows,” she said quietly.

May shifted her hand closer to Jen’s but didn’t take it. “Are you sick?” May asked.

“Ish,” Jen said. “There’s a … mass.”

“In your brain.”

“Yes.”

May inhaled sharply and guilt wrapped itself around Jen’s chest, making it nearly impossible to breathe. It was Amari’s birthday. They were twenty-nine today. Meanwhile, Jen was sitting in their room, telling their cousin about how she might be dying. “Are they doing surgery?” May asked.

“They would need to shrink it first,” Jen said. “It’s not in a good place, obviously. I’ve been getting these … migraines.” And dizzy spells, and vertigo. This is the first time she straight up fainted.

“With chemotherapy?”

“Maybe,” Jen said.

“What do you mean, maybe?”

“I don’t know, May.” Jen massaged her forehead with her palms. “I’m meeting my neurologist on Monday.”

“So this is recent.”

“This week,” Jen admitted. She didn’t tell May she’d only gotten the official diagnosis yesterday and then came out to a party tonight. That wouldn’t go over well.

May frowned. “Don’t they have pills for that now?”

“If you can afford them. I’m already going to have to figure out what to do … I won’t be able to work as much.” Whether she decided to go with the treatment or not. She loved working at the tattoo parlor, loved working with her clients. Jen specialized in coverups, anything from cigarette burns to surgery and self-harm scars. May herself had a rather large floral tattoo of Jen’s design along her spine and two more, smaller, on May’s chest along her top surgery scars. Both closely resembled Jen’s own sleeve of poisonous plants. May’s back tattoo covered the scar tissue from a nearly fatal car accident five or so years ago, a year after May and Jen’s breakup.

“How much are the pills?” May asked.

Jen narrowed her eyes. “May.”

“I’m just asking.”

“Sure.” They thought about finances a lot when they were together. May was a trust fund kid, Jen a foster kid by age twelve. It wasn’t that May ever made her feel bad about it on purpose, but there were only so many times May could pick up the check or offer to pay the missing part of Jen’s rent without a blow to Jen’s ego.

“As for general finances,” May continued, “could you sublet your studio? Noelle is looking for a place. Amari’s sister.”

It took a moment for Jen to remember Noelle. The last time Jen saw her, six-ish years ago, she’d been fourteen, long-limbed and gangly, uncomfortable in her own teenage skin. She must be twenty now. “And live where?” she asked.

“I have an extra room.”

It was true that Jen probably shouldn’t live alone the next few weeks, at least. Probably months. “I can’t afford your place,” she hedged. She didn’t actually know what the rent was on May’s apartment, but a two bedroom, two bath in lower Manhattan? With in-unit laundry? Too much.

“Consider it payment for all the times you had to clean my vomit off the floor,” May said.

Jen couldn’t help but smile. “You were sick, May.”

“Is that the pot calling the kettle black?”

“Fine,” Jen said. “I’ll think about the apartment. But I’m not letting you pay for pills.”

“We’ll see about that,” May said. “Seriously, whatever you need, alright? I’m happy to tell our friends or shave my head if you need someone to do that.”

“You?” Jen snorted. “With your vanity?”

“I’d do it for you,” May said. She was so earnest it hurt to look at her.

“I know,” Jen said. “I know you would.”

“At least come back to my place tonight,” May said. “I don’t want you going all the way back to Brooklyn.”

Jen fought a grin. “Are you propositioning me, madam?”

May swatted gently at Jen’s arm. “You’re an ass.”

“Mmhmm.” Jen closed her eyes again. “Fine. But if you’re going to take care of me, can you get the painkillers out of my bag in the other room?” Her headache had picked up again. It took far too much effort just to focus on this conversation.

“So bossy,” May chided, but she went. Jen shut her eyes and massaged the center of her forehead. She had to start telling the rest of her friends soon, hopefully not until she had more of her shit under control. They would all offer to help, she was sure, but the idea of being a burden on them, of being to them what her mother once was to her, hurt more than the headache.

The door creaked open on hinges Amari refused to fix and Jen’s eyes snapped open. May appeared in the doorway and frowned. “Alright?” she asked. “You’re very pale.”

“Just tired.” Jen took the pill May handed her and murmured, “Thanks.” She knocked it back with the water and said, “I’ll be fine in a few minutes. You can go out and enjoy the rest of the party.”

“Yes, I’m sure I’ll have a great time out there thinking about how you’re languishing away in here.”

“Alright, Ms. PhD, I’m not languishing.”

May sat at the edge of the bed. “Amari will throw another party next month,” she said. “I’d rather be here with you.”

Was she blushing? Jen hoped to god she wasn’t blushing. “You’re just saying that.”

“I’m really not. Is it alright if I stay?” Jen nodded and May crawled into bed beside her, putting her arm around Jen and pulling her close.

2

Sunday

Jen woke Sunday morning before May. She always woke before May, or every day May didn’t have to get up for classes, in the two years they were together. Sometimes she would even delay her morning run just to watch May sleep, to watch her breathe. May would call her creepy with a sleepy smile on her face and Jen would kiss her quiet.

She probably shouldn’t think about that in May's guest room.

Jen sat up slowly, still unsteady after the previous night’s events. The guest room was fairly plain but for a photo of twenty-year-old Amari, eighteen-year-old May, and their parents on the dresser at a Seolnal festival somewhere in South Korea. Another photo, facing the first, depicted Jen, May, and Amari at the beach last summer with some of May and Amari’s childhood friends, May’s arms thrown around Jen on one side and Amari on the other.

At last, Jen rubbed her eyes and got up to grab her clothes from the dryer in the hall. The night prior, May had lent her an old Jones Beach-branded sweatshirt and joggers. She threw her jeans on (if she also kept May’s sweatshirt because it smelled like her, so what?) and headed into the kitchen to make breakfast.

May made her appearance just as Jen finished setting omelets on two plates.“You have this uncanny ability to sense exactly when breakfast is ready,” Jen deadpanned. Probably she imagined the once-over.

“Call it a gift,” May said, lacing her hands behind her back and stretching. “Did you sleep well?” Jen jerked her head noncommittally and May changed the subject. “This smells great.”

“It’s just eggs,” Jen said. “You need to stock up your fridge.”

May grabbed a plate. “I clearly had enough for you to work with.”

Jen joined May at the table. “Barely. Most of your current inventory is made up of Lindor chocolates and Spearmint. I’m amazed any vegetables found their way into your home at all.”

“So,” May said, pointing her fork in Jen’s direction, “have you thought at all about if you’d like to stay? If the bed wasn’t comfortable enough, you can always bring your own.”

Jen took a bite of her eggs. Chewed. Swallowed. “I don’t know.” She used her fork to toy with a stray bit of egg. “Honestly? I don’t think it’s fair for me to move into your apartment just so you can watch me die.”

May twisted her face like Jen had forced her to taste something sour. “You won’t die, Jen.”

May didn’t know that, but now wasn’t the time to correct her. “I haven’t even decided if I’m going to do the treatment.”

May froze, her eggs halfway to her mouth. She set her fork down again. “I’m sorry, you haven’t decided if you’re going to do a life-saving treatment? I thought the debate was infusion versus pills, not death or life.”

“There's a forty percent chance it’s going to work at all,” Jen explained. “I don’t want to spend my last few weeks vomiting into a bucket at the hospital and losing all my hair.”

“Really? Well, who’s vain now?” May pinched the bridge of her nose and sighed. “What about the pills?” she asked. “You would have to spend less time in the hospital, at least.”

“I already told you –”

“It seems silly of you to prioritize your pride over your life.”

“That’s easy for you to say when you’re not dying.”

“After my car accident,” May said loudly, “I couldn’t do anything by myself. The nurses had to help me do everything. Going to the bathroom, that was the worst. Washing myself was a close second. It was humiliating and I hated every minute of it. There was more than once I wished I were dead, as you know. So yeah, I think I get it.”

Jen picked at her breakfast with her fork. “I’m sorry. I didn’t think …” She sighed and tried not to think too hard about the accident, about May lying in the hospital after the surgery, her whole face and her arms all black and blue and a tube shoved down her throat. “I’ll talk about it with my doctor tomorrow. That’s the most I can promise right now. And I’ll stay with you … for a while.”

“Ok. Should I ask Noelle if she’s still looking for a place?”

Jen nodded. “I’ll have to get my things.”

“You’ll need movers,” May said. “I won’t be able to help you much, I’m afraid.” She put a hand to her lower back subconsciously, where the worst of her injury was after her accident, where she could still get chronic and brutal pain.

“I don’t have much,” Jen said. “Noelle can have my bed and drawers for now.” She cut a piece of egg and didn’t eat it.

“At least let our friends help,” May said.

“No.”

“Soledad, at least. Aren’t you two dating?” May’s mouth turned down as she said it.

“Soledad isn’t my girlfriend,” Jen muttered. “We’re just friends who fuck on occasion.”

“Really, they’d all be happy to help. I know Amari would.”

“I’ll do it myself.” She didn’t want her friends to know until she decided what she was going to do. Hell, she hadn’t wanted May to know. She just happened to have an incredibly nosy and perceptive ex.

“Fine,” May sighed. “You know, you’re an ass.”

Jen nodded and cut another slice of omelet she wouldn’t eat. “I know,” she said. “I’m your ass, though.” May prodded Jen’s leg gently under the table. Jen forced herself to eat a single bite.

It took all day, mostly because Jen’s studio was all the way in Bay Ridge, but by the time the sun set over lower Manhattan, she was on the train with the last of her things. The subway rose onto the bridge and Jen gazed out over the darkness in the hope that she could see the view, but mostly she saw only her own reflection. She was breaking out and she had heavy bags under her eyes. She looked away before she could see any more.

Jen set her things up in the guest room, minus what she left behind for Noelle, who had shot May a text saying she wanted the sublet. Truly, May’s bed was more comfortable than Jen’s own. Besides, Jen was far from sentimental.

“Anything I can help you with?” May asked. She sat on the bed as Jen folded her clothes and set them in a drawer.

Jen shook her head. “You’ve done plenty.”

“I’ve done the bare minimum,” May said.

“You invited your dying ex-girlfriend to live in your apartment,” Jen said. “I don’t think that’s minimum.”

“You’re not dying,” May mumbled for the millionth time that day. She watched Jen put the last of her shirts away and said, “Do you want to get takeout? On me.”

“Of course it is.” Jen sighed. “Fine, let’s do it.” Her headaches were always worse at night. She had no desire to put a meal together right now.

“Are you ok?” May asked, also for the millionth time.

“Fine,” Jen said again. “Tired.” She wondered how many times she could use that excuse before May called her out on it.

“Come on. You can lie on the couch.” She put a gentle hand on Jen’s arm as she rose and followed close behind. Jen flopped onto May's couch and May tapped on the top of her head. Jen shifted down and May settled in beside her, setting Jen’s head on her thigh.

May ran her fingers through Jen’s hair and Jen closed her eyes, humming contentedly, as May ordered from their favorite Chinese place on her phone. “Get me dumplings,” Jen said.

“I know. Chicken, fried. You want your rice?”

“Mmhmm.” May continued to stroke Jen’s hair in silence as she texted or scrolled or did something on her phone Jen couldn’t see. Jen reveled in her touch, the only comfort in the uncertainty that had become her life. So much so that by the time the delivery arrived at the door, Jen didn’t want May to move, even for fried chicken dumplings.

3

Monday

Really, Jen shouldn’t have been surprised when May hurried into the quiet waiting room in NYU Langone’s oncology wing the following day. “What are you doing?” Jen asked. “It’s noon.”

May sat beside her. “And?”

“We said one for lunch.”

“I thought you might like some company,” May said. “My class let out early.” She pulled a book from her bag.

“You mean you let your class out early.” Truthfully, although she’d never admit it out loud, Jen was glad May came. She was a welcome distraction from the all-too-familiar hospital smell, too much antiseptic that still didn’t quite cover the scent of the sick and dying. May’s presence filled the room and made Jen feel safe, whatever the doctor had to say this time.

“Hmm.” May failed to conceal a small smile. She opened the book and began flipping through the pages until she stopped at a bent corner about a third of the way through.

“You know, this would be incredibly annoying from anyone else.”

“Good thing I’m not anyone else,” May said. “Do you want me to join you when you meet with your doctor?”

“What are you, my mother?”

“It can be very overwhelming,” May said, her eyes still on the pages. “There were several times when I was in rehab that Amari sat in on meetings with me because I had a hard time keeping track of everything.”

May’s calm when discussing her addiction unnerved Jen to no end. “Fine,” Jen sighed. She tried to remember if her mom had anyone join her in the doctor’s office when she was sick, besides Jen herself of course. She was pretty sure she hadn’t. Jen was the only one who ever seemed to know what was going on.

Jen looked down at May’s book. “Are you actually reading that, or is it a prop?”

May laughed. “It’s for class,” she said. “I thought I’d re-read some of the passages before I made the students read it.”

Dr. Byrne appeared in the doorway, a clipboard tucked under his arm. Flyaway hairs hung around his freckled face. He smiled in their direction. “Jen?”

Jen stood. “Coming?” she asked May.

May nodded and closed the book. She followed Jen and the doctor down the hall and into his office. He sat behind the desk and gestured to the seats in front of him. “Who’s this?” he asked.

“May,” May introduced herself, hand extended. “Just a friend.”

Jen’s stomach did a backflip at that, but what had she expected May to say? Dr. Byrne didn’t need to know their whole sordid, eight-year long history. Even “ex-turned-friend-turned-roommate” was probably TMI.

Dr. Byrne took May's hand. “It’s wonderful to meet you, May. I’m sure Jen has caught you up on her diagnosis.”

“She has. I’m just here in case she needs an extra set of ears.”

“Of course. A lot of my patients bring friends or loved ones.”

May looked rather smug at that. Jen glared at her and turned back to her doctor. “Ignore her. She thinks she’s cute.”

Dr. Byrne laughed. “No problem. Now I know last time you said you weren’t sure if you wanted to pursue treatment, but I’d really advise you to reconsider.”

“Is there a treatment she could do at home?” May asked. “Chemo pills or the like?”

“Yes, but her insurance won’t cover that, unfortunately.”

“I can cover it,” May said. “Would that be a course of treatment you’d advise?” Jen glared at her. May pretended not to notice.

Dr. Byrne handed May a pamphlet and started on the possible benefits and drawbacks of doing chemo treatment at home. Jen let her eyes wander over the various posters in his office, the flyers advertising support groups and drug trials. She wondered if they actually recruited anyone from those flyers.

“Jen?”

She looked back at Dr. Byrne. “Sorry, what?”

Dr. Byrne didn’t look particularly perturbed. “Would you like to take the pills instead?”

Jen glanced at May, who was watching her in turn. She looked away. To Dr. Byrne she asked, “How long can I take to decide?”

“At most, a week,” Dr. Byrne said. “If you don’t make a decision by next week, the tumor will become a lot harder to treat.”

May practically radiated her disappointment. Jen kept her eyes on Dr. Byrne. “Should I just email you?”

“You can do that. Honestly, though, I’d suggest getting started as soon as possible.”

Jen risked a glance at May, whose mouth had thinned into a straight line and whose eyes shone with unshed tears. She turned back to Dr. Byrne. “I won’t take more than a week,” she promised.

Lunch was a subdued affair. For the first five minutes or so, they only spoke with the hostess at May's go-to diner uptown. When at last they set aside their menus, May spoke first. “Why won’t you just do it?”

Jen ran a hand through her hair. “I’m thinking about it.”

“I know, but what is there to think about?”

“Can we just drop it for now?”

May scoffed and crossed her arms. “It’s your life, I suppose.”

“One week,” Jen said. “That’s all I’m asking for.” May pursed her lips and toyed with her knife on the table. “Oh come on, May.”

“I’m not saying it will be easy. I’m just saying it’s better than the alternative.”

“I said I would think about it,” Jen said, perhaps too loudly. A couple dining a few feet to her left looked over at them with wide eyes. Jen took a breath.

“What can I say to make you change your mind?”

“I haven’t made up my mind yet,” Jen said. Her head throbbed. She took a long drink of water and wondered how much of her meal she could force down before claiming she just wasn’t that hungry and not worrying May. Again.

After lunch, Jen went back to the apartment and May went back up to Columbia to meet a student. Jen had been back nearly an hour, doodling new tattoo ideas in the sketchbook May got her for the holidays last year, when the door swung open and Amari walked into May’s living room holding a thin, black coat. They spotted Jen and dropped their bag on the floor. The two of them stared at each other for a moment before Amari asked, “What the hell are you doing here?”

“Hello to you too.” Jen shut her sketchbook. “What are you doing here?”

“May left her jacket at my place.” They set said jacket on the back of the couch. “And now you?”

“It’s … a long story.”

Amari sat on the arm chair beside the couch, their legs flung over the side. “Are you two sleeping together?”

“What? No. That’s a horrible idea.”

“It’s the middle of a weekday. I happen to know my sister and I are the only ones with extra keys to May's apartment, which means she gave you her key to come in here.”

Jen made a mental note to ask May for a fourth key. “I might be staying here for a while,” she admitted.

Amari’s eyes narrowed. “Is everything ok?”

“No? I mean, not really?” Jen forced herself to look her best friend in the eye. “This isn’t how I wanted you to find out.”

“Are you dying or something?” Amari said it with a half-smirk, like it was a joke. When Jen didn’t answer, their face fell. “Holy shit, Jen, are you dying?”

“I don’t know.”

Amari crossed their arms and leaned back in their chair. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It depends on if I take the treatment and how well it works.”

Amari’s gaze softened and Jen had to stop herself from crying. “What is it?” Amari asked.

Tears welled up in Jen’s eyes and she looked away. “Brain cancer,” she said. She hadn’t actually said the words aloud before.

“Fuck,” Amari whispered. “And May knows?”

“We talked about it after I passed out at your party,” Jen admitted. “I didn’t want anyone to know until I decide what I’m going to do, but …” She trailed off and bit her lip.

“That’s why you’re staying with May?” Jen nodded and Amari asked, “What can I do?”

Jen shrugged. “There’s nothing to do, I guess. I have to decide about the treatment within a week.”

“If you want to make a pro-con list, that’s more May's area of expertise, but I’m here if you want to talk it out anyway.”

“May wouldn’t make a pro-con list for this. She’s pretty sure I’m suicidal for even considering not doing chemo.”

“Well, it’s not May's brain,” Amari said.

Jen quickly wiped a stray tear from her cheek and shook her head. “Sorry. I don’t know why I’m crying.”

Amari snorted and moved over to the couch. “Come here,” they said, and wrapped their arms around Jen. Jen leaned into Amari’s shoulder and focused on the red, scale-patterned tattoo around Amari’s wrist, one of Jen’s own design. Amari kissed the top of her head. “We’re right here,” they whispered. “Me and May and our friends whenever you decide to tell them, alright?”

The door swung open and Jen lifted her head from Amari’s shoulder. May slipped her shoes off. “Hey.” She looked back and forth between Jen and Amari. “What’s going on?”

“Well, I came to drop off your jacket and learned my best friend has brain cancer. What’s new with you?” Jen couldn’t help the laugh that escaped her lips.

Even May's mouth twitched into a small smile. “Really, Amari.”

They squeezed Jen’s hand. “Obviously I’d love it if you didn’t die, but if May gets annoying about the treatment, let me know and I’ll kick her ass.” They stood and grabbed their bag. “Call me if you need anything. If you need me to tell our friends, whatever.”

Jen nodded. “Thank you,” she said softly. Amari gave her a quick hug, then May, and then they were gone.

May took her place on the couch. “I’m so sorry. I should have remembered they like to stop by at random times without calling ahead.”

“I should have assumed. I know Amari.” Jen sniffed and wiped her welling eyes again. “Shit. I’m sorry.”

“You don’t have to apologize for feeling a human emotion,” May said. “You’re not a robot, however much you like to pretend.” She put a hand on Jen’s shoulder. “What do you need right now?”

Right now. She could do right now. “I need … Do you still have Scrabble?”

“I … Yes?”

“Let’s play,” Jen said. She sat up straighter. “I need a game.” She needed, for five minutes, to pretend everything was normal, that her world wasn’t falling apart.

May gave her an odd, searching look. “Alright,” she said at last. “You need your ass kicked I guess.”

Jen forced a grin. “Bring it on,” she said. “And no, you can’t use those fancy Latin words you like to play.” May laughed and left the room. As soon as she was gone, Jen pulled the pills from her backpack, popped one in her mouth, and swallowed it dry before May came back.

4

Tuesday

On Tuesday, Jen woke to a note from May in the kitchen. Class until 11:30 today. Text or call if you need anything. Much love, May.

Jen ran a finger over the sendoff. “Love” because they were friends. She knew that, and yet sometimes, it felt like they still had the potential to be more.

Stop. Thinking. Those. Thoughts.

Besides, it wasn’t all good when they were together. They fought constantly, and not just about money. About Jen’s possessiveness, her jealousy. It wasn’t May's fault she was so fucking gorgeous, but how was Jen supposed to react when a stranger made an overt come on in the middle of a bar, a street fair, or even a goddamn a book store? May refused to admit she was just as bad, even when Jen called her out on it. They couldn’t even be in the same room with each other immediately following the breakup. It wasn’t until eight months had gone by that Amari sat them down and told them they were both being stupid. Good timing too, because a little over a year post-split, May had been in a vertebrae-and-life-shattering car accident.

Jen turned the note over and checked the clock on the wall. It was already eleven, the latest she’d slept in possibly years. Probably from the cancer. God, none of her thoughts were safe this morning.

She ate a granola bar and lay on the couch, suddenly exhausted. She should check her work email, do some sketching. She hadn’t gotten anything done yesterday after Amari’s visit, and yet the mere idea of opening her laptop and seeing anything that required her attention drained her. Instead, she grabbed her phone and checked her personal email.

Spam. Spam. More spam. Jen made another mental note to unsubscribe to any and all lists she might have found herself on over the last few years (the thought that they’d send these emails even when she died depressed her to no end) when she came across one sent at nine o’clock this morning: Hey Jen, I’m finally settled in and would love to see you soon! Attaching photographs of the new apartment and one picture of me and Daisy out front. Xo, Nathalie.

She’d completely forgotten, in the drama of the last few days, that her childhood best friend and her daughter had moved to Brooklyn for a job. Before they made the leap, Jen had helped find good school options for Daisy, helped them find an apartment within their budget. She opened the last picture, the one of Nathalie and Daisy, and grinned at their smiling faces. Daisy was seven now. Jen hadn’t seen her since she was five years old, when she visited her and Nat in California. Daisy had bangs now and was missing at least two teeth.

She hit the reply button, then hesitated, her finger hovering over the keys. Besides May and Amari, Nathalie was absolutely someone she could talk to about this, and Jen didn’t think she could lie to her face. Then again, Amari and May had both taken it ok, minus May's need to control everything, and she had to tell Nathalie eventually. Nathalie knew what it was like. She had been there with Jen’s mom that summer …

Jen exited out of the Gmail app and called Nat’s number.

Daisy barreled into Jen as soon as she crossed the threshold. “Auntie Jen! Do you like our new house?”

Jen held Daisy at arm’s length. Her missing teeth were even more prominent in person and Jen felt her heart swell with her love for her basically-niece. “I love it,” she said. “I would love to see more of it after I talk to your mom for a little bit.”

“Ok.” Daisy ran off down the hall and Nathalie laughed. “She adores you,” Nathalie said, and kissed Jen swiftly on the cheek. “You wanted to talk?”

“Yes, I … Could I have some water?” Her throat felt like sandpaper all of a sudden. She wasn’t sure if that was a cancer thing or a telling-all-the-people-I-love-that-I’m-dying thing. Probably both.

“Of course.” Nathalie dashed off to the kitchen and Jen made herself at home. She settled on Nat’s new cream couch and looked around at the walls. Loads of pictures dotted the space beside the window and above the TV. Most of Daisy over the years, from their arrival in New York this week to a photo of a blanket-bundled infant, but plenty of friends and family too. Jen counted herself in exactly three. One from her last trip to California two years ago. One from Nathalie’s Bat Mitzvah in Tijuana. Both of them were dressed up and beaming at the camera. It was the first time Jen could remember being happy the year after her mother’s death. A final photo of Jen and Nathalie, age five, Jen’s mom – Jen’s stomach lurched – smiling widely in the background.

Nathalie came back in with two glasses of water and set them on the coffee table. She followed Jen’s gaze. “That was the only photo of the three of us I could find,” Nathalie said.

“It’s a good photo.” Jen took her glass and ran a finger around the rim. “I’m dying,” she said.

Nathalie turned her gaze back to her. “What do you mean?”

“I have a mass in my brain,” Jen said, willing her voice not to waiver. “It’s making me sick.”

Tears filled Nathalie’s eyes and Jen looked away. She knew it wouldn’t be easy. She knew that. But damn, it shouldn’t be this hard. “Can they treat it?” Nathalie asked.

“I’m not sure if I want the treatment,” Jen said slowly. “I’m still deciding.”

“Jen, what the hell?”

“I know. I know.” She took a long, slow drink, and set her glass aside. “I need to decide if it’s worth it.”

“Of course it’s worth it,” Nathalie said. “You’re not even thirty. You’re not an old woman.”

She inhaled sharply. “I know. God, you sound just like May.”

“I always liked her,” Nathalie mumbled.

“I don’t know what the right choice is. I’m not suicidal. I just don’t want to spend the last of my days like …” She sighed. “I shouldn’t have said anything yet.”

A thin tear slipped down Nathalie’s cheek. She didn’t bother wiping it away. “How long do you have without the treatment?”

“Six months,” Jen said. “Maybe less.”

“Shit,” Nat muttered. “How long do you have to decide?”

“I have the week,” Jen said. “May … she offered to pay for pills, so I don’t have to go to chemo. That wouldn’t change the side effects, but it would make my life easier.” And probably avoid triggering traumatic hospital-related flashbacks. “I just don’t know if I can accept that much. She’s already letting me live in her guest room rent free.”

“Are you two back together?”

“No. Definitely not.”

“Really? Because you’re living in her apartment and you’ve brought her up twice now since you’ve been here.”

“She’s the only one who knows,” Jen protested. “Her and Amari.”

“Funny,” Nathalie said. “I haven’t heard Amari’s name once.”

Jen shoved Nat’s shoulder gently. “We’re not together,” she said, fighting an obscene smile.

Nathalie took her hand in both of hers. “You can’t just give up,” she said. When Jen didn’t respond, Nathalie added, “Know though that none of us want to lose you, okay?”

“I know,” Jen said again. She squeezed Nat’s hand. “I’m going to think about it. I promise.”

“Auntie Jeeeee-en!” Daisy called from the other room. “Can I show you around now?”

“Be right there,” Jen called back. Nathalie quickly wiped her eyes and Jen kissed the back of her hand. “I know you all mean well,” she said. “I just need some time, alright?”

Nathalie nodded and gave her a small, watery smile. Jen gave her hand one last gentle squeeze and went to get Daisy’s tour.

Jen stayed until late, checking her phone only to text May that no, she hadn’t died and yes, she would be home for dinner. Daisy played in her room while Jen and Nathalie talked about the cancer, the treatment, May. Jen tried more than once to ask her about the move, but Nathalie seemed determined not to talk about anything that wasn’t obscenely painful. “Are you thinking about her a lot?” she asked. “Your mom?”

Jen glanced at the photo. Her mom twenty-three years ago, smile bright, no hint of the heartache to come. “Of course I am.”

“You don’t think she’d want you to get the treatment?”

“God, Nat.” She rested her head in her hands. “Treatment didn’t save her.”

“You’re not her,” Nathalie said. “They caught it earlier for you. We’ve come so far in the last fifteen years.”

“Sixteen,” Jen said automatically. Sixteen years. She remembered every moment.

When Jen came home (she already thought of it as such), May was standing in the kitchen, scrolling through her phone. She looked up when Jen entered. “I ordered pizza. Mushrooms for you.”

Jen’s favorite. Her stomach clenched quickly in protest and she breathed through it. “Sounds great.”

May set her phone aside. “How are Nathalie and Daisy?” she asked. “I’d love to see their new place.” May had met Nathalie twice in person, Daisy once, but while Jen and May were dating, May would join in on Jen and Nathalie’s video calls all the time.

“Nat would certainly love to see you,” Jen said. “She’s convinced we’re secretly back together.”

The words were out of her mouth before she could reconsider them, but she didn’t regret them. They acknowledged their strange history. They flirted. Still, she couldn’t help the knot in her stomach as May answered, “So sorry to disappoint,” and she tried not to let it hurt that May didn’t have more of a reaction.

“I told her I’m sick,” Jen said instead. “That was … hard.”

May's face twisted in empathy. “I’m so sorry,” she said. “Did you tell her about the treatment?”

“She’s Team May, no surprise.” Jen ran a hand through her hair. “She cried a lot.”

“I know it’s hard for you,” May said. “It’s hardest for you, of course, but it’s also hard for the people who love you. I had to learn that when I was struggling.”

It had been hard, back then. Jen remembered the hysteria in Amari’s voice when they called the night of May's accident, how Jen couldn’t get a coherent sentence out of them for several minutes, how she couldn’t lock the door behind her on her way to the hospital because her hands shook so badly. The agonizing wait with Amari and a handful of friends while May went through long hours of surgery. Begging the doctors to tell them something, anything. Jen leaving their vigil only to throw up in the bathroom. The far-away look in May's bruise-rimmed eyes in the weeks to come, how Jen wanted to scream at her to snap out of it.

She remembered May sobbing in her arms after a particularly brutal physical therapy session and after, when May struggled against the restraints of opiate addiction and Jen found May passed out and cross-faded in a gutter (what a cliché) after someone called (Jen had long forgotten who) and said they couldn’t find her. The shaking and the screaming throughout rehab. The one time May admitted she just wanted to die.

She remembered her mom. A diagnosis. Tears. Three months of agony, of prolonged hospital stays. Jen cleaned her up when she could no longer do it herself and she insisted on dying in her own home, thank you very much. It was harder for Jen to see that time in her life clearly. Not because it was fuzzy, but because it was too much.

“I get it,” Jen said. “I remember.”

The doorbell rang and May ran to get it. Jen met her in the dining room with a set of plates stacked in one hand and two glasses of water held precariously in the other. “Smells good,” Jen said. She willed the nausea away.

“Dig in.” May slid a slice onto her plate and Jen did the same. They sat across from each other. Jen took a bite and chewed slowly.

May took a bite of her own slice and swallowed it. “You know,” she said. “You would think spring break would’ve revitalized my students, but they just seem like they’ve given up. I can’t remember being like that in undergrad.”

Jen swallowed at last. “Weather’s too nice,” she said. “It couldn’t be your teaching.” She liked mushrooms. If only her stomach could remember that.

“Hush up,” May said with a grin. Jen forced herself to take another bite and May said, “I imagine you’re right though. That, and they’re overloaded. So many of them are taking on too much, and honestly … Are you ok?”

Jen swallowed her second bite and barely stopped herself from gagging. She held a hand to her mouth and took a deep breath. Slowly, when she was sure nothing was going to come up, she dropped her hand. “Just … Not so hungry.”

“Is your stomach alright?”

“I hate it when you read my mind like that.”

“It’s all over your face,” May said. “Go lie down. I’ll put all this away.”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re green, Jen. Go lie down and we can put on a movie or something. You can pick.”

Jen had to admit, if she spent five more minutes with the pizza smell, she was going to throw up. “You finish,” she said. “I’ll meet you in the living room.”

“Deal.” May sent her off with a small, fragile smile and Jen lay on the couch in the living room taking slow, measured breaths. She checked her phone on the coffee table and found a single message from Nathalie: Let me know if you need anything. I love you so much.

Jen sighed and pressed her phone to her chest. These conversations wouldn’t get easier.

Fuck.

May came in after fifteen minutes or so. Jen had distracted himself in the meantime with one of the books on May's coffee table, a worn-out copy of The Vanishing Half, but looked up as May came in. “Hey.”

“Hey. How’s the nausea?”

“Better.” May pinned her with her gaze and Jen admitted, “Not gone, but better. And no, I don’t need anything.”

“Alright, alright. Any thoughts on what you want to watch?”

Jen shrugged. May joined her on the couch and Jen resumed her Sunday night spot with her head on May's thigh. May grabbed the remote and flipped through Netflix as Jen closed her eyes, leaning into the feeling of May's fingers through her hair.

5

Wednesday

Overall, Jen enjoyed living at May's place. An in-unit washer/dryer, multiple rooms, and engaging company. On Wednesday, she was particularly glad that not only was May's apartment conveniently located by two affordable grocery stores, a CVS, and an indie bookstore, but also Jen’s job.

“You don’t have to go in,” May said. “Deanna won’t care.” Deanna had been Jen’s boss since Jen was nineteen. She’d seen Deanna give people extra time off for doctor’s appointments or mental health days without docking them pay, but this?

Jen shrugged. “I like going in,” she said. She might need to sit down more often, sure, and eventually she would need to take off, whether for treatment or for dying, but she’d love the normalcy of the tattoo parlor, the quiet hum of the needle and the colors of the ink bleeding onto skin.

She and May met because of her work, in fact, when Amari dragged May to the studio to ask Jen if she’d give them a ring of red scales around their wrist. Jen, at the time a college junior with a double major in art and business, had been working at the studio part-time for a month. She and May had chatted for the duration of Amari’s appointment and after, when Jen was kicking herself for not getting May's number, she found an email from May in her work account. Hey Jen, it’s Amari’s cousin May. I hope this isn’t too forward, but I really enjoyed our conversation earlier and I’d love to get together for coffee sometime this week.

“Take care of yourself,” May said at present. “I’ll be around if you need anything.”

“I don’t have any clients today,” Jen said. “It’ll just be walk-ins at most.”

“Still.”

Jen made sure May saw her roll her eyes, but she did take those words to heart. She had one client near opening, at noon, a city skyline to cover up a series of self-harm scars. She sent May a quick text to let her know she hadn’t died yet, then took on a second client, who had her do two does on her upper back. By four, Jen’s boss demanded she take a break. “Lunch,” Deanna said. “I bet you haven’t eaten all day.”

Jen hadn’t, but she also wasn’t particularly hungry. If she had to pick a way to go out though, starvation-by-tumor wasn’t high on her list, so she grabbed a mayo-smothered turkey sandwich and a coffee from down the street and headed back to the tattoo parlor only to be greeted by the one and only May, sitting on the counter. “Are you stalking me?” Jen asked.

“At least I’m a friendly stalker.” May plucked Jen’s coffee from her hands and took a generous sip.

“Where’s Deanna?”

“She took a client. She says you haven’t taken your break yet and I’m to make sure you do.”

She spoke in Deanna’s clipped cadence, an admittedly excellent impression. “You’re both a pain.” Jen swiped her coffee back and hopped up on the counter with May. “It’s usually pretty slow around now. We’ve only had two walk-ins today, but it will get busy after five.”

“That just means you have to eat now.”

Jen elbowed May, who didn’t even seem to notice, and unwrapped her sandwich. They sat close, close enough that Jen couldn’t use her left arm for fear of hitting May again by accident. She ate a bite and asked, “How was class today?”

“Pretty good! Grabbed lunch with Amari and Noelle after, so I saw your new tenant. She likes the space. And then I actually ran into Dean uptown.”

“Who?”

“Sorry, Dr. Byrne. We were getting coffee at the same shop.”

The sudden bad taste in Jen’s mouth had nothing to do with her sandwich. “Oh?” She knew her oncologist’s full name, but she never thought of him as anything but a doctor.

“Yeah, so we chatted a while. He asked about you.” Sure, fine, but May's lips had curled into a smile that used to be reserved for Jen.

Jen took another bite and chewed slowly. Swallowed. “Would you prefer I get a new doctor so you can ask him out?”

May frowned. “What? No. We just ran into each other. It wasn’t a big deal.”

“No, really, it’s no problem. Maybe I can just forgo the doctor and die all the sooner?”

“What the hell is your problem?” Jen took another bite of her sandwich without really tasting it and May took advantage of the food in Jen’s mouth to add, “I’ve made it very clear where I stand on this. I want you to do the treatment. I want you to get better.”

Jen swallowed and took a long drink of her coffee. “I think you should leave,” Jen said. She stared straight ahead at the opposite wall to avoid seeing the Hurt May expression she knew so well. The wide puppy eyes. The trembling lip. So cliché.

“Jen,” May cried, and the break in her voice was enough. Jen shut her eyes. May stood and Jen mourned the sudden loss of contact. “Fine,” she said. “We’ll talk when you’re being rational again.” She stormed out, sending the little bell above the door on the fritz. Jen ate the rest of her sandwich, went to the bathroom to throw it all up, then took her third walk-in of the day, an eighteen-year-old girl who shyly showed Jen a long appendix surgery scar and asked if she could cover them up with a bouquet of her mother’s favorite flowers.

May was in the living room, fifteen or so minutes after eight, reading her class book in the armchair when Jen got back. May’s eyes stopped moving along the page. Slowly, she looked up. “Hi.”

Her bangs hung just above her eyes. Her lips parted just slightly. Had she always been this damn attractive?

Jen nodded in her direction and sat on the couch. “I’m sorry for what I said.” Then she sighed and rubbed her eyes. “This has all been so stressful, but it’s not fair to take it out on you. You were right.”

May shut her book and ran her finger over the spine. She appeared to think about it. Then, “Can I get that in writing?”

“Ha. Never.”

May cracked a small smile. “You were right, too. I did flirt with your doctor earlier today. That was … inappropriate.”

Jen’s stomach clenched again, but she forced a smile. “Well.”

“I don’t even know him. I … I guess I felt more like myself when I was … I know it’s hardest on you and I never … I’m fucking this up.” Jen shook her head and patted the cushion beside her. May moved to the couch and dropped her head onto Jen’s shoulder. “What I’m trying to say is, I’m sorry too. Also, probably just as importantly, I promise not to go out with your oncologist.”

Jen wrapped her arm around May's shoulders. “I forgive you,” she said quietly. “I imagine he is attractive to women who are into that sort of gender presentation.”

May laughed loudly, and Jen couldn’t help but smile. “Are you up for another movie tonight?” May asked her.

“I’m kind of tired,” Jen said. “Later this week. I promise.”

“We’ll have plenty of time,” May said. she squeezed Jen’s shoulder. “You’re eating dinner before you head to sleep, though.”

“Ugh. Fine.” She tried not to think about her earlier regurgitated sandwich. “Something light.”

“Your stomach alright?”

“Prime of my life, May.” May glared at her, but there was no heat in it, and Jen cursed her ex for being so difficult to stay angry with.

6

Thursday

Jen woke gasping. Her eyes flew open and she struggled against the twisted sheets for a moment before she realized where she was. May’s guest room, in lower Manhattan, at what the clock on her bedside table revealed was four in the morning.

Not in a hospital room, watching her mother die.

She detangled her hand from the sheets and rubbed her eyes. Her dreams had become more vivid in recent weeks, brighter, harder in the moment to distinguish from reality. This most recent one was already fuzzy, fading, but she remembered her mother’s face, her screams …

Jen slowly unwound the blanket from her legs and headed to the kitchen for a glass of water.

The city lights illuminated the kitchen through the uncovered window, highlighting the clean dishes in the dish rack. Jen grabbed a glass and filled it halfway before drinking from it slowly. She was no stranger to nightmares. She used to get them after her mom’s diagnosis all the time. Dark dreams about losing her, about her agony. Worse were the good dreams, where she lived, where she got better, especially after she didn’t.

May, too, was familiar with Jen’s nightmares, from when they were together. She used to sleep through them quite often, but every once in a while she’d wake up, wake Jen up, and whisper reassurances until Jen fell back asleep. The first time that happened, three weeks into their relationship, Jen had buried her face in her hands and refused to look at May until morning, when she apologized for waking her and admitted she had such dreams at least once a week. That one particular time, she dreamt of her last foster father, who put out his cigarettes on Jen’s arm, the skin now covered by Jen’s tattoo sleeve. May chided her for apologizing and insisted on making Jen chocolate chip pancakes, even though it meant May would be late for class.

They weren’t dating after the accident, but Jen was at the hospital one evening toward the end of May’s stay when May woke screaming. Jen held her as she cried and reassured her and pressed gentle kisses in her hair until May calmed down enough to admit she was glad it had been Jen there instead of one of their other friends or even Amari. “You understand,” she said, her eyes still bright and bloodshot.

Presently, Jen drained her glass and wiped her lips with the back of her hand. She missed waking up with May. The couple of times she woke Soledad with her flailing or her shouting, Soledad had stayed up with her for a while, but never seemed to know what to do. The following mornings, Jen would sneak out early.

She rinsed the glass and set it back on the dish rack. No reason to alert her recent roommate with anything out of place.

May left for a meeting with her advisor early Thursday morning, so Jen ate breakfast alone, trying not to miss her friend and trying harder not to think about how she possibly wouldn’t mind if her friend were more than just her friend …

She stabbed her egg extra hard with her fork. Now was decidedly not the time.

The door swung open just as Jen finished putting the dishes away. Amari joined her in the kitchen and Jen smirked at them. “Do you ever knock?”

“No.” Amari hopped up on the granite counter and kicked their feet. “What are you doing today?”

“Working.”

“Still?”

“I still have to make money,” Jen grumbled.

“May has money.”

“May isn’t responsible for taking care of me.”

“Oka-ay,” Amari sang. “What time do you get out?”

“Eight. Aren’t you supposed to be working as well?” Amari did child therapy with a domestic violence shelter uptown.

“Not today and everyone else is busy.”

“Yes, because it’s half past ten o’clock in the morning on a weekday.”

Amari shrugged. Then their face turned gravely serious. “Have you thought any more if you want to do the treatment?”

Jen hopped up on the counter across from them. “Yes and no.”

“Which means?”

“I have thought about it,” she said. “So yes.”

“But?”

“I still don’t know, I guess. There’s a forty percent chance it does anything at all. And that doesn’t factor in everything that can go wrong in the surgery or even getting sick from the chemo.”

Amari kicked their foot again. “Can I say something without you getting mad?”

Jen arched an eyebrow. “To be determined.”

Amari sent a glare her way. “I was going to say that maybe, just maybe, you might be a tiny bit scared?” Jen bit her lip and Amari continued, “Chemo sucks. Being sick sucks. Having to depend on people sucks and knowing you that’s probably freaking you out the most.”

“Who said you know me?”

Amari aimed a kick at her, too many feet away to make contact. “Could that mean I might’ve hit the nail on the head and be the smartest friend in the whole world?”

Jen threw a crumpled up napkin in their direction and missed by a long shot. It landed by a small stack of mail instead, the collection of bills and junk mail starkly out of place on the marbled granite. “I have to get ready for work,” she said.

“Alright, alright.” Amari hopped off the counter. “Text me later. We’re doing something this weekend.”

“Didn’t we just do the whole ‘I’m dying’ thing?”

“So we’ll see a movie or take a walk or just sit at home. I still want to spend time with you, asshole.”

Jen grinned. “Love you, Amari.” Amari blew a final kiss and left.

No one showed up for the first two hours of Jen’s shift. No one who wasn’t already prebooked with Deanna or another artist. Jen managed the front desk and doodled tattoo ideas in her sketchbook to pass the time, until Deanna came out with a customer, who had a familiar bandage on her arm where his new tattoo healed. He thanked Deanna and left, and Deanna sat in the chair beside Jen. “Those are really good,” she said, peering over Jen’s shoulder.

“Thanks.” She set her pen down over the doodle she’d done of a blue jay. She’d been thin on ideas recently. The most recent drawing besides the blue jay was a sunflower she’d sketched a week ago. “When’s your next client?”

“Not for half an hour. Do you have any booked today?”

“One at four and one at six,” Jen said. A geometric design on a client’s thigh and a crown to cover the name of an abusive ex.

“Adele can sit up front,” Deanna said, nodding at their coworker who’d just appeared from the back, a short girl with dark dreads and a permanently sunny smile. “Feel free to get food before I have to go again.”

“Sure.” Jen stood. “I’ll do that … Whoa.” The room spun and Jen sat down again. She shut her eyes and put a hand to her head. From far away, Deanna or maybe Adele called her name. “Hang on.” She breathed deeply until the world righted itself again and she risked a bleary look at her coworkers. Both of their faces were twisted in concern. “I’m ok,” Jen said. “I stood up too fast.” Her heart raced and her legs shook from what little weight she put on them leaning forward.

“Are you sure?” Deanna asked. “You’re white as a sheet.”

How many damn colors could her face turn from this disease? Green, white, gray. Jen shut her eyes again and pressed her hands to her forehead. “Could I get some water?”

“I got it,” Adele said, a moment later, she placed a plastic cup in Jen’s hand.

“Thank you.” Jen knocked it back like a shot and wiped her mouth with the back of a shaking hand. “Sorry.”

“Are you sure you’re ok?” Deanna asked.

Jen shook her head and mentally cursed himself for holding back tears. This was her boss for crying out loud. It wasn’t May or Amari or Nathalie. Why did she care so much about Deanna knowing, or Adele? Except that of course she cared. She’d known her boss for nearly ten years, owed her entire career to Deanna. “Brain cancer,” Jen said quickly, as though doing so would expel some of the toxic cells in her head, maybe make her realize he’d been having a horrible nightmare this whole time.

Adele inhaled sharply. Deanna groaned. “What are you doing here, Jen? Shouldn’t you be in a hospital?”

“No.” Jen sat up straighter. Slowly. “I haven’t … It’s a long story. But I’m not in treatment right now.”

“Jesus,” Deanna muttered. “Why don’t you take the rest of the day? I can cover your appointments.”

“I’m really ok.”

“I’ll pay you through the end of the day,” Deanna promised, a hand to her heart. “We have short-term disability here. We’ll figure it out.”

Jen’s eyes watered again and she swallowed hard. “Ok,” she whispered. “Ok.” If only to avoid breaking down in front of her coworkers. She stood up (again, slowly) and gathered her notebook, her bag. “I’m really fine,” she tried.

“Go home,” Deanna said again. Not unkindly, but Jen still wanted to throw something against the wall.

May came home before the end of Jen’s shift, around six. She frowned. “What are you doing here?” The exact question Deanna had asked her before. Seemed as though Jen didn’t belong anywhere these days. Ironic while she considered whether she wanted to live or die.

Jen flipped a page in The Vanishing Half. “Deanna sent me home because I’m dying.”

May nudged Jen’s leg with her foot and Jen shifted over. May sat and said, “Did something happen?”

“I just got dizzy at work. It’s not a big deal.” Nearly passed out. Scared the shit out of her boss. The usual.

“Isn’t it?”

Jen didn’t look up from the book. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

“But – You know what, fair enough.”

Jen snorted. “Really? You?”

“I should probably let you decide when you do or don’t want to talk about this more often.”

Jen shrugged. “I might be a little scared. Your darling cousin came over this morning to psychoanalyze me like I’m one of their clients.”

“And what did they say?”

“That I’m a bitch.”

“Fair enough.”

“They also want to hang out this weekend.”

“Of course They do. They love you.” May gave Jen a searching look. “Have you thought about –”

“I still haven’t decided,” she snapped.

“Alright. Ok.” May stood up. “I’ll order something for dinner. Do you want anything specific? Anything for your stomach?” Jen shook her head and May left the room. Of course she left, because Jen was an utter ass who always managed to push her away, somehow, however much she wanted May to stay.

7

Friday

Deanna texted Jen early Friday morning. Stay home today and tomorrow and I’ll still pay you. Let’s talk about work on Monday.

Jen set her phone aside and stared up at the ceiling. She’d had this diagnosis a week and it was already taking everything she loved. Her work. Her cordial (if pining) relationship with May. Her ability to talk to her friends without making them cry.

She rolled out of bed past noon and was surprised to see May in the kitchen. “You slept late,” May quipped.

“I was awake. Don’t you have class?”

May shook her head. “Not Fridays. Are you not going to work today?”

“Deanna says to stay home.” Jen pulled the eggs from the fridge.

“Ah.” May watched Jen pull a pan from below the sink. “I can make those for you.”

“I’m not comatose. I can make my own breakfast.”

“I know you can. I just thought –”

Jen slammed the pan down on the counter. “I just want to be able to have a conversation with my friends about something that isn’t the tumor in my head. For five fucking minutes. Can we do that?”

“Jen, I –”

“Let me guess,” Jen said loudly. “You were going to ask me about the treatment next.”

“It has been a week.”

“You’re fucking unbelievable.” Jen turned to glare at May, who glared right back. “It’s my life. If I want to throw it away, that’s my fucking decision.”

May stood. “There are so many people who love you. We don’t get to say a damn thing? We don’t get to tell you not to kill yourself?”

“I didn’t ask for this,” Jen shouted. “Do you think I want Nathalie to cry every time she looks at me? Or for Amari to have to pretend everything is fine so I can lose my shit? Or you, do you think I want to be a burden to you?”

“You could never be a –”

“Don’t.” She held out a hand and shut her eyes. A tear flitted down her cheek and she couldn’t bring himself to care anymore. “I’m scared. I’m fucking terrified. I know what it’s like to depend on people. I watched my mom do it for months before she died and I never, ever wanted to … to be that helpless …” She trailed off, breathing hard. May, too, had tears in her eyes. Jen turned away.

“I hadn’t even thought … I never meant to make you feel …”

Images flashed unbidden through Jen’s mind. Her mom lying prone on a hard hospital bed, all harsh angles and loose skin, tubes up her nose and gasping for air anyway. The decades-gone smell hung in her nose, sour antiseptic that couldn’t quite cover the rot. She felt her mom grip her hand with inexplicable and painful strength, heard her crying and screaming and begging for Jen to end it …

Jen slapped away her tears. “I need some air.” Jen shoved the eggs back into the fridge and didn’t even bother with the pan before she grabbed her sneakers and stormed out of the apartment. Behind her, May called her name. She didn’t turn around.

As bougie as it was, Jen had always liked Park Slope. She liked the brownstone aesthetic and she liked the little (if overpriced) shops. She hadn’t been sure where she was going until she found herself a block away from Soledad's place.

She wasn’t surprised. Soledad had been Jen’s release over the last four or so years, and Jen Soledad's. Soledad moved to New York a month after Jen’s first post-May relationship ended in dispassion and displeasure, about a week after Soledad’s breakup with a long-term partner in her home city of Austin. Jen and Soledad never dated, but they were convenient and they were sexually compatible and right now, Jen’s blood buzzed with adrenaline she desperately needed to expel.

Soledad let Jen up once she realized who it was making all that racket downstairs. Jen raced up the stairs to the second floor and ripped the unlocked door open. Soledad sat on the couch, tuning away at a scuffed up guitar. She barely spared Jen a glance. “Hey.”

“You look good,” Jen said. Jen hadn’t paid much attention to her at Amari’s party, which, she had to admit, was fair given the circumstances. Soledad's once short hair spilled over into her eyes in loose curls and her short sleeved T-shirt showed off a new tattoo, several waves up and down her arm. Deanna’s work.

Soledad set the guitar aside. “Are you hitting on me?” she asked with a smirk.

“Isn’t that what we do?”

“Usually you text first,” Soledad said. “Or I do.”

“I was in the neighborhood.”

Soledad quirked an eyebrow. “Park Slope?” Jen didn’t say anything and Soledad continued, “I don’t know how to tell you this. I probably should’ve texted.”

Oh God, Jen didn’t know how much more news she could take. Her stomach knotted and she swallowed hard. “What is it?” Someone is dead. Someone else is dying.

“I’m kind of seeing someone,” Soledad said, and Jen burst out laughing.

It took a minute to calm herself, bent double and hysterical with Soledad staring from across the room. Jen caught her breath and wiped her eyes. At last she said, “I’m sorry, that’s not funny. I thought you were going to tell me your childhood cat died or your mom was in the hospital or something.”

“The fuck? What the fuck is wrong with you?”

Jen sat on the couch. “So many things,” she said. “Soledad, I’m fucking dying.”

She told Soledad about the diagnosis. She told her about moving in with May the night of Amari’s party and the arguments they had about a possible treatment. She told Soledad about seeing Nathalie and nearly passing out at the tattoo shop and when she was finished, sitting on the couch across from Soledad, the guitar now on the floor, Soledad hadn’t said anything in nearly ten minutes. “Well?”

“Give me a minute. That’s a lot of information at once.” Soledad frowned. “So you’re not with May?”

“I … What?”

“Amari said it was only a matter of time,” Soledad said with a crooked smile.

“I just told you I have brain cancer, and you want to talk about my love life?”

“Seems easier.”

Jen groaned and leaned back against the couch. “I just came here to blow off steam, but since you’re clearly off the market, I’ll be on my way.”

“Hey, we’re still friends,” Soledad said. She picked at a nail. “How have you been feeling? Other than passing out at Amari’s and then again at work.”

“I almost passed out at work,” Jen clarified.

“Much better.”

“Not great,” Jen admitted. “I don’t want to die, I’m just … scared to live like this, I guess.”

“I get it. I mean, I don’t but I do.”

“I know.” Jen sighed and pressed a palm to her forehead. “I should apologize to May. I might’ve blown up at her before I left.”

“May is a good person,” Soledad said. “Even if she hates me.”

“She doesn’t hate you,” Jen lied.

Soledad laughed. “She does, and that’s fine.”

“I never got why,” Jen muttered. They were different, sure, but no more so than May and Jen, or even May and Amari.

Soledad laughed again. “Really? You never got why?” She picked up her guitar and strummed a still-out-of-tune-chord. “Damn girl, I thought you were smart.”

Jen got off several stops early and swung by the confectionary just outside of Chinatown. By the time she got home half an hour later, she was a little shaky and her head achy, but not so much so that she couldn’t finish her plan. She knocked gently on the door (she still needed that key) and after a moment May opened it widely. She took a step back and eyed the chocolate in Jen’s hand. “What’s this?”

Jen held out the package. “A peace offering,” she said. “Although a better one might’ve been real food considering the sorry state of your kitchen.” Jen rubbed the back of her neck with one hand and added, “I’m sorry. Again.”

May let out a breathy half-laugh. “I feel like I should apologize to you,” she said. “Again.” May moved aside so Jen could come in. She did, setting the chocolate on the coffee table. May sat on the couch and Jen followed suit. May traced her finger along an unraveled thread of her sweater and refused to look at Jen. “I have something I need to tell you,” she said. “Before I do, I just want to say, I understand if you don't want to live here anymore. I know Amari has a pull out couch and I imagine that wouldn’t be quite as comfortable, but if you wanted to –”

“Ok, what the hell are you talking about?” Jen’s chest tightened and her heart pounded. May was kicking her out. Holy shit.

May took a shaky breath. she closed her eyes. “I never really got over you, you know?”

Jen’s brain short circuited. “I’m sorry?” This wasn’t how things were between them. Jen pined, and that was fine, but May … Was this really happening?

May ignored her. “Maybe it was selfish of me to invite you to live here, knowing that, but I kept telling myself I would do it for any of our friends. I think I would, but I suppose we’ll never know. I hope we’ll never have to know.”

Jen’s heart pounded. “You absolutely would,” she said. Of course she would because she was May. She was too good for Jen by far, too good for most of their friends. She was … damn it, there were no words. She was just May. She was the woman that held Jen in the midst of nightmares and offered to house Jen when she needed a place to stay and Jen never would have thought, not in a million years …

May ignored that too. “I keep pushing you to do the chemo because thinking about living in a world without you, that hurts so much.” May's voice broke and she cleared her throat. “It isn’t fair that I’m putting that on you because you’re right, it is your life, and I remember how pissed off I was when I was recovering and people kept telling me what to do with my own body. But you never did. You were just there when I needed you and I don’t know how to do the same.”

“I don’t know what …” Jen’s face grew warm and she twisted her fingers together in her lap. “I never really got over you either.”

May finally met her gaze. “Really?”

Jen took a steadying breath. “I can’t … I can’t put you through what I’m about to do. I can’t …” She bit her lip, hard.

“If you died tomorrow,” May said slowly, “I would regret never getting the chance to be with you again. That’s all.”

Jen shook her head. “May …”

“I don’t want to push you. I know you’re going through something terrifying right now. I just wanted to let you –”

Jen leaned forward and kissed her. She kissed her gently, then harder, and raised a hand to cup May's cheek, the smooth skin under her palm making her shiver. May kissed her fiercely, rising slightly from her seat to lean over Jen, and a warm and familiar feeling grew in the pit of Jen’s stomach. May moved her lips to Jen’s neck and Jen gasped at the contact, at the relief, at the release.

Nicole Zelniker (she/they) is the author of several books, including “Until We Fall,” which was a finalist for the Forward Indie Awards in LGBTQ+ adult fiction. Her forthcoming book "From Where We Are" comes out with Signum University Press in April 2024. She’s also the founder and editor-in-chief of the literary magazine Knee Brace Press.