There was a blood clotted handkerchief sat beside Dad's usual cup of coffee when I entered the kitchen. Jenny's car was already gone and Mom was outside, all but staring directly at the sun, a slowly bubbling pan of eggs still going on the stovetop. I turned off the gas and nudged the hot pan onto an unused burner. Rolling up my button-down's sleeves, I filled a mug with coffee just to give my hands something to do and walked over to the table.

Dad didn't look up. His eyes were trained to the newspaper splayed out in front of him as though it was just another normal morning. A few candid shots of yelling politicians with nameless faces to me graced the front cover, alongside an advertisement for beans and a gripping story of a lost kitten found in a well two states over.

"You're not going to eat something more substantial?" He asked and I jumped at the attention. Dad didn't look up, busy turning the page with controlled patience that only the barest tremor of his wrist gave away. He was in what Thomas dubbed his film noir suit, clean-cut and black, a matching trench coat neatly folded against the back of his chair. He'd shaved off his beard at some point last night. It was the most jarring part of hearing him say he was proud of me, last night, for standing my ground against Jeremy; I could actually see his smile for once, the way it stretched his cheeks and produced slight wrinkles. A slight dusting of stubble had quickly grown to grace his chin, void the area where a thin scar ran through the right side of his jaw. I didn't have to look down to know his shoes were freshly polished, unlike my own with a poorly concealed scuff-mark covered up with April's old liquid eyeliner. I stepped closer to the island in an attempt to hide them from his line of sight.

"Mom would kill me if I got grease on my shirt," I said, making a point of carefully pursing my lips around the rim of my mug. The coffee was lukewarm and bitter as it coated my tongue. I contemplated spitting it back out but Dad's throaty cough told me that doing so would end in reprimand. Why pour a cup just to waste it, I could hear the lecture coming. I swallowed and tried to hide the fact that part of my soul died at the action.

"There's always cereal," he said, and god did I feel like slamming my head into the kitchen island. I had never had a more stilted and uncomfortable conversation, and that was saying something. Talking to my dad was equivalent to chewing rocks at the best of times, but the loaded tension made things ten million times worse. He turned back to his paper, brows furrowing slightly as his eyes glanced over something.

"Anything interesting happen?" I asked when a few minutes passed and Dad made no further attempt at conversation. He knew I was dying to ask what the hell was with the President Snow worthy handkerchief, but unless he hedged that it was okay to do so, I was keeping my mouth shut. "In the paper, I mean."

"Your sister up?" he asked instead, rustling his pages in a way that oozed coolness. "I didn't hear any doors slamming upstairs so I assume she's still in bed."

I fidgeted with my cup, pressing it to my lips then drawing it back again. A rush of nausea hit me just at the scent of it. "I heard her talking on the phone on my way down." I frowned, squinted up at the ceiling as though I could see through the floorboards and into April's room. "She's probably doing her hair or something."

"Thomas said there's traffic on the main highway, but he'll make it before the ceremony ends." More newspaper rustling. "We should get moving soon."

"Right." I nodded, pointing upstairs sharply. I placed my cup next to the sink then reclaimed it, glancing out at my Mom who hadn't seemed to have moved at all. "I'll go check in with April."

Dad grunted, effectively ending the conversation.

I paused for a second, questions lingering on the tip of my tongue. The words never came out though, and the moment broken seconds later by the sharp rasp of my phone in my pocket. I cursed, pulling it free to see a harried message from Iris.

I. MALT (9:37 AM): ARE YOU SHA-SHA-SHAKING IN YOUR BOOTS YET??? BECAUSE I AM.

I didn't reply, just slipped my phone away and edged toward the stairs. Dad didn't look up. I wasn't expecting him to call me back over but a pang of something still rumbled in my chest at his feigned blasé attitude. Gripping my cup tight, I turned, left the kitchen, and headed to April's room.

I took the steps two at a time in a bid to give my heart something else to pound erratically about. Thomas's bedroom door was locked shut, though I noted the sunlight that slid through the slitted gap underneath when I walked past. I could hear the clapping of his blinds, thin white metal ones that'd been up since before I was even born. He'd left his window open, again. I shook my head. His desk probably now a dewy mess from the earlier morning rain.

April let out a huff when I entered her room, even though I knocked harshly before bursting through. She was at her vanity, still dressed in her pyjamas, and lining her eyes with silver eyeliner. Her roots were showing, dark against the honey blonde from weeks earlier. I liked it, it reminded me of the snot-nosed kid I'd grown up with. Let me think of her as my little sister again, one that barely grazed my knees and cried over melted ice blocks not boys. On impulse, I grabbed an elastic band lying at her elbow and picked up a few strands of her hair, loosely braiding them into some semblance of a fishtail.

"You haven't done my hair since I was in middle school," she mused, face eerily still as she concentrated on keeping her lines straight. They weren't anywhere close to even. The right eye thicker, wing more rounded. I thought it suited her, but she scowled, wiped her face clean, and started again.

"Am I still as bad as you remember?" I asked, crossing the strands carefully, then lifted my gaze up to meet her own in the mirror. The gold in hers was alight as she grinned and shrugged lazily.

"Worse," she teased, cackling when I jabbed her shoulder.

"Why aren't you dressed yet?" I asked, gently laying her hair back down, untied. I snapped the elastic around my wrist, pulling off a few stray hairs with a wrinkled nose, and walked over to her bed. Her black duvet was a twisted mess at the end of the mattress, three pillows lying on the floor. I grabbed one, edges lined with tacky silver tassels, holding it to my chest as I rested against the headboard. I dangled my feet over the edge before April could snap at me for potentially ruining her sheets. "Never pegged you as a follower of the 'fashionably late' trend."

April grunted, tilting her head from side to side. She uncapped a tube of clear gloss that perfumed the air with artificial peppermint, and coated her lips quickly. Satisfied, she smacked them together then pointed at the dressed sundress hanging from her closet door. "Mom said I couldn't wear jeans."

"Glad I'm not suffering alone," I said, brushing a hand down my dress pants. They were a standard black, one of the few non-hand-me-down pieces of formal wear I owned, and just barely covered my ankles. I hoped my graduation robe would be long enough to hide the disaster. "I swear I haven't worn these things since my freshmen year Decades Dance."

"It shows. I could hear the fabric chaffing from halfway down the hall," April taunted, going as far as to slide her dry palms together in auditory mimicry of my thighs.

I threw the pillow at her. It bounced off her forehead, landing with an underwhelming thud onto the ground. "Asshole."

"Rude," she tutted back. "Mind respecting someone else property for once, Bow-Bow?"

"Aunt Jenny warned me that she has a fresh roll of film with her." I turned onto my side, ignoring April's snipe in favour of running a finger along her nightstand. I frowned at the dust, at the general uncharacteristic messiness of my sister's room. "Make sure to keep a smile plastered on your face at all times."

April groaned, knocking the flat of her palm against her forehead. Spinning around, she grumbled under her breath, "Why can't she just take blurry photos on her iPhone like everyone else?"

"I bet you ten bucks Thomas won't have a single photo where his eyes are open." I snorted and April shook her head.

"I swear that boy's first instinct is to flinch at first sight of a camera lens." She grinned, then gestured at my face with a slight frown. "Your nose is pretty swollen... You didn't ice it last night, and it shows."

I floundered for a second, scratching the back of my neck as April took a hold of her warmed curling iron and patiently waited me out. "What, no, I did, it's just-"

April cut in before I could spin some kind of pitiful lie. "Your ice pack sat untouched behind my smoothie mix. Saw it after my run this morning. I covered for you, though, so don't worry. Didn't want Mom to pop a gasket."

"She left a tube of concealer outside my door this morning," I frowned and April snorted, turning back to her reflection. She hissed when her curling iron connected with the back of her neck, flinching away from the device. "I honestly just forgot about it."

"You forgot about the fact your face is currently a mass of bruises?" she drawled, arching a brow at me through the mirror. I brushed off her comment, thumbing at the stack of CDs by her nightstand. They were all depressing indie music, a couple self-burned complication albums of Spotify singles. An open Bright Eyes case sat on top of her CD player. I hit play, recognising the closing notes of Four Winds, and tapped it off again when she groaned, throwing a make-up brush at me. "Stop snooping, Bow-Bow."

"Rich coming from you." I stopped touching her stuff though. Her bay window was open, letting in the slightly chilly breeze and I craned my face toward it. I could just make out the form of our distant neighbour, Libby Kart, bustling down the sidewalk. She was doing her usual circuit of the street, shoving circulars into mailboxes with loud signs stating NO JUNK MAIL. Stacks of newspapers were close to fluttering out of the green wagon she toted along behind her, matching the berettas pinning back her bangs.

"Mom put a pair of ballet flats outside my door as soon as she heard I was back home," April scoffed and I looked back in time to catch her rolling her eyes, curling iron hissing as she threaded in a new fistful of hair. "Think it was a sign that, like my jeans, boots are not welcome. It's not like anyone will see my feet, anyway. They'll be busy staring at your doofus, graduation cap wearing, face."

"You'll be making the same doofus face soon, so tread carefully," I warned, tapping my fingers on one of her jewel cases. The plastic was cracked from mishandling, jagged lines running across Regina Spektor's face.

"Which reminds me, try not to reek the gown with your pits stains, okay?" She smirked, huffing when I made to kick her shoulder but missed by a good few feet. "Asshole."

"Bully," I countered, scuffing my thumb along the CD a little longer. "Speaking of my mom," I added, clearing my throat when April's focus lasered in on me, curious enough to put the curling iron down. "She was pretty out of it when I was downstairs. Was, like, uh... just standing in the backyard. All catatonic-like. Freaked me out a little, in all honestly."

"Oh." She turned back at the mirror, carefully avoiding my gaze. I furrowed my brow when April chewed her lip, back to curling her hair.

"April," I hedged, dropping both feet on the ground and shifting toward her. She hummed in response, but remained tight lipped otherwise. "Spill."

"Nothing to spill," she said, tone flat as she tested the weight of a new curl then shoved it back into the iron, unsatisfied. "Stupid thing barely works," she murmured to herself then added with feigned casualty, "Why do you always assume I know everything?"

"Because you constantly shove your big nose where it doesn't belong." I wasn't wrong and it showed in the minute pout that tugged at her lower lip.

"My nose is not big," she scoffed and I fought back a sigh. The one-track, narcissistic, mind of my sister never ceased to amaze me.

"How long do you want to talk in circles for before I ultimately wear you down?" I steepled my fingers, glancing at April out of the corner of my eye as she poorly fought to conceal the inner battle she was having.

"Dad got a call this morning," she said, as though remarking on the weather. I waited for her to elaborate, but she didn't. Just clicked the curling iron off and got up. I watched as she paced over to her wardrobe, pulling down the sundress. She smoothed a hand over the fabric then laid it gently onto the stretch of bed I wasn't occupying.

I gave her a few seconds to fuss about before egging her on. "About?"

"Surgery." The word was blunt, falling from April's lips like a molasses bullet, without any of the sweetness. She toyed with the sleeve of her pajama shirt then sighed. "He said it wasn't a big deal, not to bring it up till tomorrow because today is a big day for you, but..." she trailed off, gnawing at the right corner of her lip with canines she refused to let Mom straighten with braces. 

I felt my heart rate triple when a thin sheen of tears collected along her bottom lashes, immediately sitting up. "I– surgery? April what are you talking a–"

She cut me off before I could continue, a rage fuelled hand sinking into her hair as she left out a terse breath. "I mean, Mom told me it's nothing to worry about, but how can you not? Like supposedly harmless whatever, it's still a fucking– ugh, I just... I don't understand why he isn't more concerned about this. Why he always acts like he's fine, that everything's fine, but it's not. Do you get what I mean?"

She was rambling, words tumbling out at million miles a second. I struggled to keep up with her as I got to my feet, carefully resting my hands on her shoulders when April made to start pacing her room. Even through the thin cotton of her shirt, her skin was cold, icy.

"It took a fucking heart attack, Beau," she said, the words broken and no more than whispers forcing their way off the tip of her tongue. Her eyes were wide, vulnerable, but to the snot-nosed kid I knew growing up, the iris's trembling against fearful pupils and an incoming rush of tears. "Imagine if they hadn't found out sooner?"

"Heart attack?" I asked, still feeling hours behind in this conversation. A sharp ringing whistled its way in and out of my ears, my hands growing clamming as April kept talking, but no sound was coming out. She was leaps and bounds ahead of me and I was running in the dark with my feet tied together, no end in sight.

April let out a hoarse cry breaking the silence and barrelled face first into my chest and smudged a wet cheek against me. Her nails were sharp as they dug into the fabric, holding tight. "They found a tumor in his lung and he is just acting like nothing happened, Beau. How can he pretend like nothing's happening, like he does not care?"

"When?"

April blinked up at me. "What?"

"The heart attack, the tumor– fucking everything, April. When did this all start?" I was bordering on shouting at her but I couldn't help it. Every word raised in volume until she was wide-eyed and trembling against me, but not pulling back.

"He had just gotten off the phone when I came back this morning," she said, not answering my question. Her eyes were glazed over, avoiding my own, and distant. "I wasn't supposed to be there, but he and Mom were talking and she was crying. And Mom barely ever cries and then I thought about all the blood and I just... I had to Beau, you know that right?"

My throat dried, each breath scraping its way out my throat as I pried April from my chest. The center of my shirt was glued to my skin, spot damp and covered in faded grey marks from her now smudged eyeliner.

"Say something," she pleaded but I was already scrambling for the door. The latch failed to catch three times before I was storming out, her bedroom door rattling against the back wall of the room as I marched down the hallway. April didn't follow me, my own footsteps and her soft cries the only sound. I almost turned back around when I made out my Mom walking across the living room, seemingly done with her vacant staring. She glanced up, placing a hand on the barrister.

"Were you ever going to tell me?" I asked, and Mom hovered at the foot of the stairs. Confusion lingers in her eyes then bled away to understanding.

"Beau–"

"You are all unbelievable." I scoffed, shoving past her enough to slip off the stairs and toward the kitchen. I found Dad stood over the sink, washing his mug with slow and methodical brushes of the sponge.

"Yes?" He asked, calm, poised, not even raising his gaze my way as he turned to gently place the mug on the drying rack. The blood-stained handkerchief was gone, but his left eye was red, as was the right side of his jaw. A tick born from stress, from scratching for long enough to make his skin bleed. The unofficial reason why my father relied on facial hair. A tick we were never allowed to talk about and made me wonder so many things about my father. How long had he known he was sick. Did Thomas know. Why the fuck was I always the last to know about anything that happened in this family.

What did I miss? A seemingly innocent question I had asked so long ago now seemed like a glaring admission of my own ignorance.

Too much.

April was right. I had missed too much.

"A fucking tumor?" I was yelling, but I couldn't help it. Blind panic had taken over and I felt my heartbeat stampeding my chest. This was my fault. All my fault. I was selfish, I didn't pay attention. I shuddered out from the gentle hand placed on my shoulder, barely catching the worried look on my mother's face. "You have a fucking tumor."

"Beau, language," Mom scolded, but there was a tiredness to her tone I hadn't ever heard before.

"Seriously, that is your response to this? For me to watch my fucking language," I snapped, and something the back of my mind knew I'd regret it later but I didn't care. I marched forward, staring my Dad down. He just leaned back against the sink, expression blank and I scowled. "I can't believe you kept this from me."

"It's benign. No reason to make a fuss about it," he said, tone gruff and I just stared blankly at him in shock. "April found out because she is nosier than I'd like."

"I had no idea that you were fucking dying."

"I'm not dying, Beau." He sighed and I heard Mom take in a sharp breath. A chair dragged behind me as she took a seat and I glanced back to see her cup her cheeks in her hands, staring at the table's grain despondently.

"You're coughing up blood, Dad."

He thinned his lips, eyes raising to the ceiling. A tremor cut across his cheek as he spoke. "I had a heart attack at work a few days ago and combined with the complications that came from my last one, the hospital ran some extra tests. Nothing conclusive came until this morning. They are sure it isn't cancer, but want to schedule surgery to remove it before the end of the month in order to rule out any future complications. I was going to talk about it with all of you after your graduation, Beau."

I felt the cold of the kitchen floor before I realized my legs give out beneath me. I didn't move though, even when Mom rushed to my side, squatting in the space beside where I'd fallen to my knees.

"You're dying."

"I'm not– Jesus, son. Listen to me." Dad dragged a hand down his face, striding in front of me but I couldn't think. Couldn't breathe. It felt like someone had turned the heat on beneath my skin and my blood was boiling. Every muscle in my body ached and I could feel my cheeks growing warm, wet with tears I barely felt tugging free from my eyelids. My nose stung with every exhale I gave and when my Mom scrambled to her feet, returning with a balled up paper towel, I realized it had started bleeding again. "Beau..."

I didn't hear another word that came from his mouth. All I knew was that suddenly fresh air was beating against my skin, plush grass cutting at the undersides of my shoes. Someone called my name but it felt like dead weight against my ears as I rounded to the front of the house. Libby Kart raised a hand my way but I ignored her, ignored everything but the painful thud in my chest and ears. I was scared, terrified, running.

The pavement was warm beneath my feet, echoing harsh slaps as my dress shoes grazed across the pressed asphalt. I ran even when my lungs burned and the yelling voice behind me blurred away into white noise. My shoulder slammed into the edge of the metal sign displaying the bus timetable, pain shooting its way through me, but I didn't stop. I kept running. And I didn't look back.