“I don’t have all the answers yet. I need another appointment before they’ll explain the treatment plan.”
“Okay. Okay, that’s fine.” She reached for my hand. “Whatever it is, we’ll figure it out.”
Then I delivered the next part of my story.
“The treatment is expensive. More than I can afford.”
She frowned.
“But you have insurance.”
“It won’t cover enough.”
“What about your parents?”
“They can’t help this time.”
I mentioned an enormous amount, knowing she couldn’t possibly raise it.
She repeated the figure.
“That much?”
I nodded.
After several seconds of silence, she asked, “How much time do we have to find it?”
I’d expected questions about whether I still had money.
Instead, she wanted to know our deadline.
“I don’t know,” I said.
She took out her phone.
“Then we need to find out.”
Over the next two days, Skyla worked almost constantly.
She researched treatment centers, financial assistance programs, payment arrangements, and second opinions.
Between classes, she’d call me.
“Can you send me the doctor’s name?”
“Not yet.”
“Why?”
“I’m overwhelmed, Skyla.”
“Then let me help with the calls.”
I claimed I’d already exhausted every possibility.
She refused to accept that nothing could be done.
“There’s always someone else we can ask,” she insisted.
Yet I continued rejecting every suggestion.
On the second evening, she arrived with a notebook filled with questions.
“Archie, I need you to be straight with me.”
My heartbeat quickened.
“About what?”
“Have you actually spoken to anyone about financial assistance?”
“Yes.”
“Who?”
“I don’t remember every name.”
She studied my face.
“You’re scaring me.”
I turned away.
“Fine. I’ll find another way.”
She shut her notebook and stood.
“But if you’re not going to let me help you make calls, I need a little time to see what I can find on my own.”
The following morning, a message arrived that marked the beginning of her five-day disappearance.
SKYLA: I’m leaving for five days. Don’t call me.
I immediately called.
She didn’t answer.
I texted her.
Where are you going?
No response.
For two days, she’d acted determined to help me.
Now she’d vanished.
My father’s warnings returned.
I imagined her deciding that a seriously ill boyfriend without money wasn’t worth the burden.
On the second day, I tried calling again.
Straight to voicemail.
I nearly contacted my friends to admit they’d been right.
But something held me back.
Perhaps embarrassment.
Or perhaps I couldn’t bear hearing them congratulate themselves.
On the third day, I noticed a note Skyla had attached to my refrigerator weeks earlier.
EAT BREAKFAST BEFORE YOUR MEETING. COFFEE IS NOT BREAKFAST.
Underneath, she’d drawn a ridiculously bad little egg.
I stood staring at it.
That small gesture didn’t match the selfish woman I’d imagined.
Neither did the evenings she’d spent helping me practice presentations.
Or the afternoon she’d driven across town simply because I’d mentioned feeling lonely.
None of those gestures had required much money.
Yet I had barely appreciated them.
By the fourth day, I felt no satisfaction.
Instead, I checked my phone hourly.
I didn’t know where Skyla was.
But I also recognized that demanding an explanation from her was hypocritical when I’d invented something so serious.
The realization was uncomfortable, and I kept trying to ignore it.
Five evenings after her message, I was sitting in my living room when a key turned in the front door.
Skyla entered, looking utterly exhausted.
Her hair was tied back carelessly, her jacket wrinkled, and a small wooden box rested beneath her arm.
