Chandler was at radiation every single morning for six weeks. It took me until Valentine’s Day to find out what it cost him.
The first morning, his Jeep was already there. Foothills Radiation Oncology was a low tan building off the highway with a covered drop-off lane and a parking lot that never got plowed all the way to the edges. Dad pulled the Suburban under the overhang at 7:24 on Monday, January fifth.
I spotted Chandler’s forest-green Wrangler in the far row. He was leaning against the hood in his canvas work jacket, hands shoved into his pockets, his breath making little white clouds. By the time Dad came around to get my wheelchair from the back, Chandler was halfway across the parking lot.
“Morning,” Chandler said, like meeting me outside a radiation clinic before eight was perfectly normal.
“You look cold.”
“I’m freezing.”
“Then why are you standing out here?”
He shrugged. “Saw you pull in.”
“You could’ve waited inside.”
“Yeah, probably.”
I shook my head, but he was already grinning as he reached for my bag. Dad helped me into my wheelchair, making sure my left leg was supported on its footrest, and Chandler walked beside us toward the entrance. He just held the door and followed us inside.
In the waiting room, he dropped into the chair beside mine and started complaining about Stetson’s latest attempt to control the soccer team’s playlist. I pretended to listen while Dad checked me in, though I caught myself watching Chandler’s hands as he talked. They were still pink from the cold.
It was easier having him there. I wasn’t going to tell him that before eight in the morning, though. He’d be unbearable.
Radiation was boring. Nobody tells you that.
Every morning went the same way. Dad checked me in with Maren, who had a different holiday sweater for every month. I waited in a cold vinyl chair in a room that smelled like burnt coffee and plug-in lavender. There was a man in the corner chair every single morning, maybe seventy, in a brown corduroy jacket, reading the same section of the Denver Post folded into quarters. I never once saw him turn the page.
Then Griffin came to get me. Griffin was my radiation therapist. He was maybe twenty-five, wore sneakers in a shade of orange I’d only ever seen on traffic cones, and asked what music I wanted every day even though I said “I don’t care” the first four times.
On the fifth morning, he stopped beside my chair with his tablet. “All right, seriously. You have to pick something.”
“Why?” I asked, pulling the blanket off my knees.
“Because I’ve been listening to the same playlist since November.”
“Sounds like a you problem.”
Griffin looked at Dad. “Is she always like this?”
“Worse when she’s feeling better,” Dad said, earning himself a glare while Griffin laughed.
I finally picked a song from Emory’s playlist, mostly because I knew it would annoy Griffin.
I changed into a gown. With the therapists’ help, I transferred onto a hard table without putting weight on my left leg. They settled it into the blue vacuum mold made during my planning session. There were three tiny tattooed dots on my leg, smaller than freckles, that Griffin used to line me up with the treatment plan.
Then everyone left the room and closed a door that looked about a foot thick. The machine hummed and turned around me, slow and steady. I didn’t feel anything. I just lay there, completely still, and looked at the ceiling, where somebody had stuck a poster of a mountain lake with a quote about strength on it.
Twelve minutes, start to finish. Then I got dressed, and I went home, and I slept until Mrs. Beckem showed up at the kitchen table at one with my Algebra II packet and a thermos of tea she never drank.
Every weekday. Six weeks.
I liked that it was the same every day because I could see the whole morning before it happened. I hated that it was the same every day because the morning was my whole life now, and it fit into twelve minutes and a waiting room.
Toward the end of week two, the skin on my inner thigh started turning pink. By week three, it was red and tender. Pops kept the approved skin cream on my nightstand with a sticky note that said don’t skip. I put it on as instructed, looking at the ceiling and pretending it belonged to someone else.
By week four, I was so tired that even transferring from the Suburban into my wheelchair felt like a project. Some mornings I needed Dad to steady me while I got settled.
Chandler was there every morning. Every one. Snow, ice, the morning it was four degrees and the Suburban’s door handle froze. He still went to school afterward, still worked his Walmart shifts and helped with Dashiell when he could.
When I asked how he managed the mornings, he said Coach Hartman knew he had family stuff going on and that he was keeping up with soccer. I took that to mean the arrangement was working. I wanted it to mean that.
One morning in week four, I was having trouble transferring into the wheelchair. My arms felt like wet noodles, and I’d already snapped at Dad for asking if I needed help. Chandler appeared beside us and looked at me.
“You gonna let somebody help, or are we doing this all morning?”
I glared at him. “Good morning to you too.”
He held out his arm. I stared at it for a second, then took it. Between him and Dad, I got settled without putting weight on my left leg.
“See?” Chandler said, handing me my bag. “Took, like, ten seconds.”
“You’re so annoying.”
“Yeah, you’ve mentioned that.”
More than once, I almost texted him to go back to his normal life. First period, hallways, morning training, a girlfriend who could walk to the Jeep by herself. He was still going to class, he told me. I didn’t ask about the rest.
I never sent it. Instead, I let him carry my bag, and he pretended not to notice when I needed a minute to catch my breath.
On Friday, February thirteenth, I rang the bell.
It hung on the wall by the exit doors, a brass ship’s bell on a wooden plaque. It had a braided red rope. Griffin had tied a white ribbon around the rope that morning with my name written on it in marker.
All the techs came out from the back. Maren came out from behind the desk in a sweater with hearts on it. The man in the corduroy jacket finally put down his newspaper.
From my wheelchair, I took the rope. The ribbon scratched against my palm, and I rang it three times.
It was so loud. Everybody clapped, and Griffin whistled through his fingers, and it was all so cheerful that for a second I didn’t understand what was happening.
Dad was crying openly, standing there with tears on his face and clapping. Pops bent down and wrapped both arms around me, careful of my left leg, and held on until I could feel him shaking.
I sat in the middle of it and felt absolutely nothing. A big, clean, empty nothing.
Lylah had rung a bell like this at eighteen. Logan had proposed the same day.
Griffin untied the ribbon and put it in my hand. “That’s it,” he said. “You’re done with radiation.”
I looked at the ribbon. “Can I put it on my college applications?”
Griffin laughed, but it came out softer than usual. “You can put whatever you want on there.”
I folded the ribbon in half and held it in my lap.
Chandler had been waiting near the back of the room, giving my family space around the bell. When I turned, he lifted both arms over his head like I’d scored the winning point at state. His grin almost got a smile out of me.
He reached me just as I lowered the ribbon and crouched beside my chair. “Hey. You did it.”
“Apparently.”
He looked at the ribbon, then at me. “I’m proud of you.”
I tried to smile. I really did. “Thanks.”
He squeezed my hand once, then stood so Dad could take another picture. I looked toward the bell while everyone rearranged themselves around my chair.
Valentine’s Day was a Saturday. Stetson was working a Saturday shift, and Dad had gone to the grocery store for ingredients to make a lasagna nobody had requested. That was how Dad handled feelings he couldn’t organize into a spreadsheet.
Chandler had been at our house since midmorning. He’d brought a paper bag of pastries and a card he’d refused to let me open until I’d eaten something. Now he sat at the other end of the couch with my good foot tucked against his leg, pretending to follow a cooking show while I pretended not to be exhausted.
I wore sweatpants, Pops’ old navy-blue hoodie, and Chandler’s beanie. Bernard slept on the rug beside us, occasionally opening one eye to make sure nobody had dropped food.
“Why does she keep adding salt?” Chandler asked as the woman on television reached for the little glass bowl again.
“Maybe she likes salt.”
“That’s the third time.”
“Are you seriously counting?”
“Yes. It’s bothering me.”
The woman sprinkled another pinch into the pan. “Maybe she’s trying to kill somebody,” I said.
Chandler laughed and shook his head. I shifted under the gray knit throw, trying to find a position that didn’t make my thigh sting. My skin was still tender from radiation.
Chandler noticed me moving around and lowered the volume. He didn’t ask if I was okay again. I loved him a little for that, which was an inconvenient thing to know while his Valentine’s card sat unopened on the coffee table.
At one, the doorbell rang. Pops came out of the kitchen, wiping his hands on a towel, and went to answer it. Cold air slipped through the front hall.
“Zack. Didn’t want to bother you. The boys put something together for her.”
Coach Hartman stood on the welcome mat in a Bighorns Soccer windbreaker, holding a gift bag and an oversized bag of foil-wrapped chocolates. He looked past Pops toward the couch.
“Deshazo. Heard you rang the bell yesterday.”
“Three times,” I told him. “Apparently once wasn’t enough.”
He laughed and handed Pops the gift bag.
Then his gaze landed on Chandler, who had sat up beside me. “Oh, hey. Didn’t know you were here.”
“Hey, Coach.”
Chandler sounded different. Not nervous, exactly, but his hand had stopped moving against my ankle.
Hartman nodded toward him. “Listen, I’ve been meaning to catch you. You got a minute?”
Chandler glanced at me, then back at his coach. “Yeah. What’s up?”
“Club season starts in March. I need to know what you’re doing.” Hartman shifted the gift bag to his other hand. “You still want to start next fall, we need to figure something out.”
I looked at Chandler. He was staring at the floor.
“What do you mean?” I asked.
Hartman hesitated. “Well, he’s missed most of our morning conditioning since January.”
I turned toward Chandler. “Wait. What?”
Hartman glanced between us. His face changed when he realized he’d said something he wasn’t supposed to.
“Sorry. I thought you knew.”
Chandler rubbed his hands together. “It’s okay, Coach.”
“No, it’s not.” I looked at him. “You’ve been missing practice?”
“Conditioning,” he said. “Not regular practice.”
“Since January?”
He nodded. I looked back at Hartman, who was already taking a step toward the door.
“Look, you two should talk. Chandler, come see me next week, all right? We’ll figure out what we can.”
Chandler nodded. Pops walked Hartman to the door. On the television, the woman was still salting whatever she was making.
I picked up the remote and turned it off. “You told me you were keeping up with soccer.”
“I am. Mostly.”
“Mostly?”
“Sloane, I’ve still been practicing on my own. I’ve just missed the morning stuff.”
“That’s the stuff Hartman cares about.”
“I know.”
I stared at him. “You know?”
He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “Yeah. I know. I’m going to talk to him.”
“Chandler, you could lose your starting spot.”
“I know.”
“Can you stop saying that?”
He looked up at me. “What do you want me to say?”
I didn’t know. That he’d somehow managed to be at radiation and soccer practice at the same time? That Coach Hartman had made a mistake?
“You told me it was fine,” I said.
“I said I was keeping up with school and soccer. I am.”
“You left out the part where you stopped going to conditioning.”
He rubbed a hand over his face. “Yeah. I did.”
Six weeks. Six weeks of him waiting in the parking lot, carrying my bag, sitting beside me while I stared at the same ugly waiting-room chairs. I’d never asked what he was missing to be there.
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Because I knew you’d tell me not to come.”
“Well, yeah!”
“Exactly.”
I looked away from him. The Valentine’s card was still sitting on the coffee table, my name written across the envelope in his messy handwriting.
“That’s not fair.”
“I know it wasn’t.” He leaned back, looking as tired as I felt. “I should’ve told you. I just wanted to be there, okay? I thought I could make up the training later.”
“And now?”
“Now I have to talk to Hartman.”
He said it like it was simple. Like six weeks of missed conditioning was something he could fix with a conversation. I wanted to believe him. I also wanted to shake him.
Pops came back into the living room and took one look at us. “Everything okay?”
“Fine,” I said, which fooled absolutely nobody.
He looked at Chandler, then at the card on the table, and quietly suggested we take a few minutes. I asked him to take Bernard outside. He hesitated before agreeing, and Bernard followed him toward the back door with the enthusiasm of a dog who had no idea his family was falling apart.
Chandler stayed where he was. I kept looking at the card.
“I need you to go,” I said.
He was quiet for a second. “Okay.”
He stood and picked up his jacket, pausing beside the couch. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you.”
I nodded without looking up. After he left, I sat on the couch with the television off and the Valentine’s card unopened beside the team gift bag.
I kept thinking about the way he’d talked about soccer since we were kids, like it was something he couldn’t imagine not doing. And then I thought about him standing outside that building every morning, freezing because he’d decided I needed him more.
He hadn’t asked me to choose for him. He hadn’t asked me for anything. That somehow made it worse.
He came back at eight. His text arrived from the curb.
Chandler: Can we talk? I’m outside.
I looked at it until the screen dimmed. Then I typed one sec and pulled my coat over Pops’ hoodie.
Pops helped me into my wheelchair and followed me toward the front door. Then he went back to the kitchen, which was as much privacy as I was getting.
I opened the door. The porch light was on, and the cold had that sharp, dry bite that made my nose sting.
Chandler stood on the front walk in his unzipped work jacket, hands hanging at his sides. He hadn’t come up the steps.
“Hey,” he said, glancing at me before looking down at his shoes.
“Hey.”
He rubbed his palms against his jeans. “I’ve been trying to figure out what to say.”
“I’m listening.”
He looked up at me. “I love you.”
I stopped breathing for a second. Chandler watched my face, then gave a small, nervous laugh.
“I do. I’ve wanted to tell you for a while, but I kept thinking I’d find a better time.” He glanced toward the Jeep. “And then today happened, so.”
Number six. Say it first. He’d beaten me to it. Lylah would’ve had something to say about my timing.
I’d wanted to hear those words from Chandler for so long. Not with my leg hurting and Coach Hartman’s voice still stuck in my head. I looked at Chandler, and all I could think about was how much he hadn’t told me.
“You should’ve told me about soccer.”
His face fell. “I know.”
“You could lose your starting spot.”
“I might.”
“And you’re just okay with that?”
“No, Sloane. I’m not okay with it.” He looked away for a second. “I don’t want to lose my spot. I worked really hard for it.”
“Then why would you miss all that training?”
“Because I wanted to be with you.”
I shook my head. “You shouldn’t have to give things up because I’m sick.”
“I didn’t have to. I chose to come.”
He wasn’t yelling. Chandler never yelled. But his frustration came through anyway, and that made me want to push harder.
“You told me you got good at not asking for things,” I said. “So your dad wouldn’t have to worry about you. You didn’t tell me because you knew what I’d say. That’s the same thing.”
He looked down at the walkway for a moment. “Maybe part of it is,” he admitted. “I don’t know. But I wanted to be there. That part’s real.”
“I know it is.” That was the problem. He’d meant every single morning, and he’d keep meaning it until there was nothing left that was just his.
“I don’t want to be the reason you lose soccer.”
“Then don’t make that decision for me.” He took a breath and rubbed the back of his neck. “I should’ve told you. I get that. But you can’t keep telling me how I feel.”
I hated that he was right about that part. I hated that it didn’t make me any less scared.
“What if you regret it?” I asked.
“Then I’ll deal with it.”
“And what if you regret me?”
He went quiet. I wished I could take the question back.
“Why would you say that?” he asked.
I shrugged, even though he couldn’t possibly mistake it for an answer. “I don’t know.”
“Sloane.”
I looked at the edge of the porch, where a little pile of snow had collected against the railing. “Maybe you’d be better off with somebody who isn’t sick.”
For a second he didn’t move. Then he looked at me like I’d said something in a language he didn’t understand.
“Do you actually want me to leave?”
No.
I wanted him to come up the steps. I wanted him to tell me I was being stupid. I wanted to say I loved him too and go back to the couch and open the card he’d brought me.
But I could still see him looking at the floor while Coach Hartman talked. I could still hear myself asking why he hadn’t told me. I was tired of being the reason things changed.
“Yeah,” I said.
Chandler looked at me for another second. His eyes were wet, and I wanted to reach for him so badly that I tightened my hands around the wheelchair armrests.
“Okay,” he said.
He turned and walked toward the Jeep. He got in, started the engine, and pulled away without looking back.
The cold air stung my face. I stayed in the doorway until Pops came over and quietly asked if I wanted help getting back to my room.
I nodded. He didn’t ask what happened.
Back in my downstairs bedroom, I eased onto the bed with my coat still on and propped my left leg carefully on its pillow. Lylah’s bracelets slid down my wrist, the little sun charm cold against my skin.
I opened my phone. The Chemo Calendar group chat was the third one down. Noelle had sent a string of hearts that morning.
Noelle: happy valentine’s to my favorite person!!! 💗💗💗
The others had piled on with pizza, cookies, and a single eye-roll emoji from Tinsley, which from Tinsley was practically a declaration of love. I typed a message, deleted it, then tried again.
Me: taking a break from visitors. please don’t come.
I hit send before I could think too hard about it. Then I turned off my phone and set it on the nightstand. The house was quiet except for the television in the living room and Bernard moving around outside my door.
For six weeks, Chandler had shown up every morning. Tonight, I’d told him not to.
And he’d listened.