Worth the Wait

chapter three

NOAH

My mind remains blank as I stand under the shower. The water splashes down, the droplets sliding down my rigid back and chest. My muscles taut around my arms. My hair is plastered to my forehead, its ends falling into my eyes.

I haven't been to one of Liv's chemo sessions in weeks. Since she didn't need chemo when she was first diagnosed with stage 1 breast cancer, I didn't know what to expect.

Her treatment regimen included therapies of radiation and chemo sequentially. But we all underestimated the effects of chemotherapy. Not just physically but also the mental strain.

Liv was enthusiastic about her treatment the first time she went in. The curiosity of her 16-year-old mind kept her open-minded about the entire situation despite learning that the survival rate for stage 3B lung cancer is 26 percent.

She insisted on wearing an ice cap to protect herself from hair loss; she was all smiles with a light airy expression. But eventually, with each session, dark circles grew under her eyes, and her smiles became duller and duller—until they were nonexistent—she started shivering and shaking and ditched the ice cap entirely.

Eventually, clumps of her hair started falling out. That moment, the first time she pulled out a few strands, is still ingrained and singed into my mind.

She was in her bathroom by herself. Addison was knocking, more like pounding on the door, worried since she's been in there for some time. I walked by, hearing Addison's cries for Liv to open the door. From the panicked look, I knew she feared the worst.

The doctors were optimistic about her treatment, but it was the big C to come back for the second time, so it still triggered all of us and had us skittish and on our toes.

I kicked the door in to find her sitting on the floor. Her reddish-brown hair was messy and clumped around her. Her shaky knees pulled up to her chest. Tears streamed down her hollowed face, and a few strands of her frail hair were in her small, fragile hand.

She glanced up at me. A sob ripped through her. She looked utterly defeated, and I nearly lost it. Her cries vibrated through the house. Penny—my youngest sister by nine years—and my parents charged into the room at her shriek.

My heart shattered in my chest that day, watching my baby sister break down on the tiled floor of her bathroom over something she couldn't control.

I've been avoiding her and the situation ever since.

I gulp down the knot in my throat as I tug a hoodie over my head, placing a baseball cap backwards to cover my long hair. My nose twitches, my throat thick. I can't watch her break down like that, but this isn't about me.

If I need to resolve myself to support her, I will, no matter how much watching her struggle breaks my heart.

"Took you long enough," Addison rolls her eyes and swiftly slams the doors open to exit out of the community centre. Even in the dead of winter, with the harshest winds sweeping across the parking lot, Addison is dressed to impress.

Her long dark hair pin-straight down her back, wearing a leather jacket over a fitted hoodie and ripped black jeans, she walks around like someone's always watching.

She raps her slim fingers against the roof of my silver A5, impatiently waiting for my ass to unlock the door. She has too much pride to admit that she's cold as fuck and will stand outside to prove a point.

"How did you even get here?" I ask, tossing my duffel, skates, and hockey stick into the trunk as she slides into the passenger seat.

Seeing as my dad's still out of town for work and my mom must have dropped Liv off before going to a client meeting, she couldn't reschedule; I don't know how Addison got around.