Cancer

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At first, I was sure it was a joke.

But neither of them were laughing.

Ryan was staring at me with this terrified sort of anticipation in his face, like he was waiting for a bomb to go off somewhere. Pam had sidled over to stand beside him without my noticing, and now she touched his arm gently, her brow puckered with concern. Ryan gulped and glanced down at her, then at me, and back and forth again ridiculously, like some kind of absurd bobblehead.

"Um--" As my shock wore off gradually, I looked at them both standing there together, practically in their underwear, and had the presence of mind to be embarrassed. "I'm--sorry. I shouldn't have--butt in on you like this, I just--"

"No, no," insisted Pam warmly, giving me a reassuring smile. "Of course we don't mind. Can I get you something to drink?" She let go of Ryan and took a step towards the kitchen, gesticulating so that her fingers fluttered and the diamond on her left hand caught the light again. I winced.

"No, that's okay," I said miserably. It was suddenly very hot and uncomfortable there in Ryan's apartment, in such close proximity with the life I never had a right to. "I, um--" I swallowed. "I really should be going. But thanks."

Pam looked bewildered and sort of worrried again. It occurred to me that she probably thought I was insane, or high, or both. I had no idea who she was, so she probably had no idea who I was, either; for all she knew, I was some crazed fan who had somehow tracked down the famed Ryan Ross's address.

I tried to smile at her reassuringly, but I couldn't quite get my facial muscles to move right. I turned and hurried out the door before she could try and offer more hospitality. I wanted none of it.

I practically ran down the hall, bypassing the elevator altogether and making a bee-line for the stairs. The idea of walking down nine flights of stairs didn't bother me: it would be a relief to walk, to run, to release some of the frustration and confusion and betrayel I felt now through movement.

It was such an odd feeling--like if I could just keep moving, I would be okay. If I could just keep running and never stop, the emptiness, the ghosts of my past would never catch me. If I could just keep running...

Like my night terrors. Like when I used to wake up in the dark, screaming and crying and running out the door...

My fingers touched the cold metal handle on the door that opened out into the stairwell, but I stopped as I heard someone call my name behind me.

"Kelsey!"

Slowly, I turned to see Ryan jogging down the hall towards me, his face tight with worry and shame. He was alone; Pam must have stayed back in the apartment.

I waited in silence for him to reach me. I don't know why he was able to stop me so easily, but somehow, I just didn't like the idea of running from him. It wasn't even an option.

Ryan came to a stop about five feet away from me, sighing and running his long fingers through his hair with a sheepish expression. He was wearing pants now, and he slid his hands in his pockets awkwardly. "So, um--" He squinted at me like I had said something very confusing and scratched at his hair again. "Did you--did you want to, um--"

"You never told me you were engaged," I said bluntly, cutting him off. The sharp edge to my tone made it sound like an accusation.

"You never asked," he replied with fake nonchalance.

I snorted derisively and looked away.

Ryan sighed. "Look, I'm sorry," he said apologetically. "I wasn't trying to...keep something from you, I just--"

"I don't know you at all, do I?"

His face went smooth with shock for a moment. "What?" he asked blankly, and for the first time, I heard the ghost of something like fear in his voice.

"I said, I don't know you at all." Though my voice shook a little, it was louder, stronger now--I was suddenly sure of myself. "All this time, I've been confiding in you--I've been--I've been telling you everything, Ryan! You know everything about me, and I don't know you at all!"

His mouth fell open slightly, his brown eyes wide and childlike and sad. "There's not much to know," he whispered. "I'm just the weird kid down the street with no parents. I'm not--I'm not fun, or interesting, or--"

"It doesn't matter!" I hissed angrily. "I don't care who you are, I just want to know you! How can we be friends when I don't even know who the hell you are?! A friendship has to be equal. Both of us have to talk!"

His frown intensified and he opened his mouth again like he was about to say something, but I kept going.

"You hide everything, Ryan! I open up to you all the time, but you never open up to me--"

"I'm not Brendon, Kelsey!"

I had never heard Ryan yell before.

"You want someone to hold your hand and tell you everything is going to be okay, but I can't do that, Kelsey!" he bellowed. "I'm not Brendon! I'm not cheerful and upbeat and happy-go-lucky all the time! I'm not funny and interesting and loud, and I don't open up to people! I'm just not like that, okay?!"

As he finally finished his little rant, the wild look in his eyes began to face away and his expression calmed. Panting a little, he looked away, rubbing his temples wearily. I could only stare at him in completely shock at what had just happened.

And then the reality of his words set in. He was right. He was absolutely right. It was wrong of me to ever ask for his help, for his friendship, in the first place; it was even worse for me to get angry with him after all he had done for me, especially since my problems were not his fault.

Ryan met my gaze carefully. "I'm sorry," he apologized quietly, "I shouldn't have said that--"

"No, you're right," I said quickly. "I--I never should have--asked that of you--"

Before I could finish my sentence, Ryan reached out and pulled me into him.

He just held me for a while. I didn't cry. I wanted to, but the tears wouldn't come. I felt more lost and confused than sad.

I slipped out of his embrace with a sheepish smile. "I really should go now. I'm sure Mom's wondering where I am. I'm sorry for, uh--interrupting you like that--"

"No problem." He flashed me a strained smile. "Actually, I probably would have warned you about Pam sooner, but she's been out of town for the past few weeks. She's a photographer, and she's been out in California doing some photoshoots and stuff."

"Oh." I had to admit, I was surprised. She looked more like a model or dancer to me. "That's, uh...that's cool."

He shrugged. "She just flew in last night earlier than she was supposed to, as a surprise. I came in from marauding around with you all night at two in the morning and she was in my living room waiting for me." He laughed nervously, but it didn't reach his eyes.

"Well, you should probably be getting back, then," I said, nodding towards his apartment. "I'm sure you've both missed each other a lot."

But Ryan just shrugged again and scratched at his hair like he always did when he was uncomfortable. "Yeah. Right."

"Well...bye," I said awkwardly over my shoulder as I started to walk away.

"Oh, hey--wait!"

I turned back to him expectantly. "Yeah?"

"There's, um... We're having our record release party thing this weekend, and I wondering if...if you wanted to come?" he asked hopefully. I couldn't help but laugh at his childish nervousness.

"I'd love to, Ryan," I said.

"Okay," he said, smiling with relief. "I'll pick you up Friday night at eight, okay?"

"But what about--won't Pam mind?"

"Nah," said Ryan, shaking his head dismissively. "Doesn't matter."

"Okay, well...see you Friday, then."

"See you," he agreed.

I watched him walk off down the hallway, back to his apartment again. He turned and waved at me, smiling just a little, as he reached the door and let himself in.

Then I walked back to the elevator and pressed the down button. I didn't feel like running anymore.

-----

I had a lot of deep thinking to do when I got back to my hotel room.

The TV guide was scrolling sluggishly down the television screen when I walked in. Mom was fast asleep and snoring in her bed, the remote still in her hand. I felt a stab of guilt at that: she had probably only fallen asleep because she had had a late night waiting up for me.

I turned the TV off as I walked by it and then took the remote control out of her hand and shifted her into a more comfortable position. As if I hadn't been thinking about Brendon enough already, this only reminded me of earlier that morning, tucking him in and putting that ring on the table for him...

The ring. I had been subconsciously blocking it from my thoughts all day, but now I couldn't quite chase its image from my mind. It was pretty, simple, elegant and expensive-looking; there was a modern edge to it that asserted its newness. It wasn't an old hand-me-down or something he had just found lying around. He had to have bought it.

Because it was a girl's ring. An engagement ring. Remembering it now, there was no doubt in my mind...

Who would Brendon buy an engagement ring for? Judging by the looks of his apartment (and, as awful as it sounds, by the looks of Brendon himself these days), there was no way he was keeping up a relationship with a respectable girl of any sort, no matter how famous he was. Girls with self-esteem don't date guys who live amongst mounds of empty beer cans and cigarette butts and wear the same outfit for days.

...But no, that wasn't true. Maybe decent girls wouldn't date a normal guy who lived like Brendon did now, but Brendon wasn't a normal guy. He was Brendon Urie. Rock star, pop star, celebrity--call him whatever you want, but he was famous, and he had enough rabid fangirls chasing after him to easily populate a small European country all on their own.

So maybe there was a girl.

That didn't make sense either. If he was seeing someone--planning on proposing to whoever it was, even--why would he get down on his knees and beg and grovel for me to take him back? Why would he be suicidal, as he claimed to be? Why would he cry on my shoulder and apologize convulsively for our failed relationship?

Maybe it really was just an act, as I had feared all along. Maybe he didn't miss me as much as he said he did. Maybe he was just looking to use me again--me, and whatever other girl he had on the side...

Some kind of ugly emotion prickled inside of me as I considered that. I hated the thought of it, partly because I was so unreasonably terrified of being taken advantage of again, and partly because--though I hated to admit it--I was jealous of any other girl being with him. I didn't like to think that Brendon preferred anyone else over me--or that he even preferred anyone besides me. All at once, I realized that I simply couldn't stand the thought of him being happy with someone else.

I wouldn't take him back, but I didn't want anyone else to have him, either.

So was this my ideal scenario, then? I didn't belong to him anymore, and, unless he was misleading me, no one else did, either. According to my rational, this was exactly what I wanted.

But it didn't feel like it. It didn't feel right at all.

I wasn't happy, and neither was Brendon. That much, at least, was obvious.

It occurred to me, sitting there alone in the silence of my hotel room, listening to my mother's quiet breathing, that I had brought my own problems on myself. I made it impossible for me to be happy.

Even when Brendon and I had been together and our relationship had flourished, I hadn't cherished my time with him; I had wasted it worrying about what would happen when it came to an end. And then when it did finally end, I spent every last second moping, dwelling on the past and exaggerating every tiny hurt until they grew into massive wounds that would not heal.

And now, I was pushing Ryan's friendship away, resenting him because he could never be what I wanted. He could never be Brendon.

I wanted Brendon.

Brendon wanted me.

So what was the problem?

I was the problem. I was the one being difficult. Brendon had been wrong last night: I was the one who had fucked everything up, and I was the one who should be apologizing.

I was the one who had been watching his every move, waiting for one little mis-step, and then overreacting when they came. I was the one who had flipped a shit when he calmly suggested a break and told him I wanted to break up altogether. I was the one who had left Vegas for New York without leaving behind any phone numbers or addresses for anyone but Dad, so that he couldn't find me again even if he wanted to.

And then, when everyone--Dad, Ryan, even Brendon himself--had reached out to help me out of my own self-made misery, I was the one who kept pushing them away stubbornly, stupidly.

Despite what I had been telling myself for the past few months, nothing had changed. Ryan was still secretive. Brendon was still hopeful. And I still wandered through life skittishly, breaking things on purpose and then refusing to allow other people to help me put the pieces back together.

After all the terrible things I had always said about Mom, I was just like her. I, too, had blamed it all on my Vegas boy when I was the one who wrecked him in the first place.

I had made a huge mess of things. And now I had no idea how to clean it up again.