Texas or Bust

The faded denim of my skinny jeans clung to my skin, still tender from treatments. A soft floral blouse peeked out from under a loose gray cardigan that did little to fight off the chill. On my feet, worn-out ballet flats added a touch of shabby chic, their pale pink a faded echo of my once vibrant spirit. My fingers instinctively went to my neck, tracing the delicate chain of a silver locket that rested against my skin, a gift from my mom before… before. A small pearl stud earring remained in my left ear, a tiny bit of sparkle against my soft cream beanie-covered head.

"Ten more minutes," I whispered to myself, fingers trembling around the pencil as another equation glared back at me from the paper. "Then lunch. Freedom…" Even if it was just temporary.

Then it came, hissed like a whisper directly into my ear. "Hey, chemo head, still look like you're dying?"

Tahni, I thought, stomach clenching. I didn't need to turn to confirm it was her. The sharp sting of cheap perfume and that sugary-sweet voice were unmistakable. A wave of nausea washed over me.

I kept my focus on the paper, trying to ignore the prickling sensation of tears threatening to spill. The pencil snapped beneath the pressure of my grip. "Damn it," I muttered under my breath, reaching for a replacement.

Tahni giggled, that high-pitched sound that cut like glass, and behind her, I heard a familiar chuckle. Evan. My face flushed hot. I could practically feel their eyes boring into the back of my head. "Can they just leave me alone?" I thought desperately.

Mr. Kalyoncuoglu cleared his throat from the front of the class, and the sounds behind me faded. I squeezed my eyes shut, willing my heartbeat to its regular, slow rhythm. The nausea remained, a heavy weight in my gut mixed with a twisting sense of humiliation.

The bell's shrill ring snapped me from my trance, and a stampede of feet erupted around me. I didn't risk a glance in their direction. Grabbing my bag, I bolted from the room, the heavy scent of disinfectant a lingering reminder of sickness. I needed fresh air, and fast, some escape from the smothering feeling of vulnerability.

The cafeteria buzzed with the usual lunchtime chaos - voices overlapping, the smell of greasy pizza and stale fries, the scrape of chairs against tile. My stomach churned in protest, a bitter reminder of why I hadn't bothered with lunch today. Another appointment. More testing for a second opinion.

My eyes scanned the crowd, searching for a familiar face. "Sloane!" A hand waved frantically. Noelle's bubbly face broke through the haze of bodies. I forced a smile, weaving through the crowd toward the familiar faces of my friends.

Chandler slid into the empty seat beside me, his warm smile making something loosen inside me. Stetson followed, a teasing glint in his eyes. Does he know how I feel? I wondered, hoping he didn't notice my cheeks turning pink.

Across the table, Emory was already mid-joke, Maekynzie rolling her eyes but chuckling. "So, Tinsley," Noelle chirped, leaning across the table, "Are you and Ashton, like, a thing now?"

Tinsley, her attention caught, smirked. "Oh, I don't date, remember? But I'm definitely keeping my options open." A quick glance at Ashton, who was staring at his phone but with a slight blush on his cheeks, told me there was more to that story.

I barely registered the rest of their conversation, the comforting buzz of my friends washing over me. Then, my phone buzzed against my thigh. It was Dad.

Out front. Pops and I are here.

A surge of anxiety mixed with the tiniest flicker of hope. I glanced up at my friends. “I gotta go,” I said, trying to keep my voice steady, “Appointment time.”

"Good luck, Sloane!" Noelle chirped, always the optimistic one.

Emory gave me a thumbs up, and even Maekynzie squeezed my shoulder. “You’ve got this.”

Tinsley just nodded, but her usual smirk had softened. Ashton, surprisingly, met my gaze for a moment before looking away, a flicker of something uncertain passing over his face.

Chandler and Stetson were already gathering their stuff. Without a word, they fell into step with me, a silent show of support. As we moved toward the exit, the noise of the cafeteria seemed to fade, replaced by the relentless pounding of my own heart.

The revolving doors of Children's Hospital Colorado whooshed us into a bright, open atrium that couldn't be more different from my usual drab hospital. Sunlight streamed through massive windows, illuminating polished marble floors and a vibrant mural of whimsical animals. But even this cheerful scene couldn't lift the weight pressing down on my chest.

Pops squeezed my hand, a silent echo of the reassurance I'd just gotten from Chandler's tight grip on my other hand. Stetson trailed behind, his usual teasing grin replaced by a quiet intensity. Dad, always the one to take charge, handled the check-in, his voice oddly hushed against the high ceilings.

Soon, we were swallowed by a maze of corridors, the antiseptic smell growing stronger with each step. First, the PET scan, its machine whirring and clicking ominously. Then, the sting of needles for the blood tests. And finally, the looming dread of the consultation with Dr. Ryberg.

The waiting room was a bizarre mix of forced cheerfulness – overflowing with colorful toys and books that screamed "this is meant for much younger kids" – and the underlying tension radiating from my family. Hours seemed to stretch into an eternity, my fear nibbling at the edges of my composure like a hungry mouse.

When the door finally opened, a tall, slender woman with warm chestnut hair pulled back in a loose bun emerged. Dr. Ryberg. Her piercingly blue eyes swept over us before landing on me.

"Sloane?" Her voice was cool, professional, a soothing balm against the chaos swirling in my head.

I followed her into the consultation room, my legs feeling like lead. Charts with my name, stark black against white paper, were spread across her desk. A wave of nausea washed over me.

"I've reviewed your case," Dr. Ryberg began, her gaze flickering between me and the scans on her screen. "The Ewing Sarcoma… it's aggressive. And unfortunately, your current treatment plan doesn't seem to be slowing its progress."

The words hung in the air like a death sentence. My insides turned to ice. Did she just say...? No, she couldn't have...

"There are options," she continued, tapping a long fingernail against a printout. "Depending on the results of these latest tests, we might consider a more targeted therapy. It's riskier, harsher side effects..."

My head was spinning. Targeted therapy? Was that better? Worse? A million questions flooded my mind, but my tongue felt thick and useless.

Dr. Ryberg seemed to sense my confusion. "There's a clinical trial at a facility in Texas. New treatment, focused specifically on the genetic mutation driving your type of sarcoma. High risk, but potentially higher reward."

Texas? Leave everything behind? The risks...the hope...it was all too much. My breath hitched in my throat, and I could feel tears welling up in my eyes.

Dad cleared his throat. "Dr. Ryberg, can we have some time to think about this? It's… a lot to take in." His voice was uncharacteristically shaky.

Pops squeezed my hand tighter, his voice gruff but gentle. "We need a minute to wrap our heads around this, Doc."

Dr. Ryberg nodded, a flicker of understanding passing over her cool features. "Of course. The PET scan results will take a few hours. Why don't I meet you back here later this afternoon? We can discuss options and answer any questions you have."

Relief washed over me like a cool shower on a sweltering day. We thanked the doctor, a jumble of words tumbling awkwardly from our lips, then retreated back into the waiting room. The weight on my chest hadn't lifted, but at least it felt a little lighter, a little more bearable. Maybe, just maybe, there was still hope.

The silence stretched between us, thick and uncomfortable. Because what could we even say? Every option felt like a gamble, a terrifying roll of the dice with impossible stakes.

My head pounded like a drum solo, a relentless beat echoing the chaos in my heart. Dad and Pops' voices drifted over me, their hushed tones blending into a whirlwind of possibilities.

"...good hospitals down there..." Dad murmured, his voice heavy with worry.

"...could transfer…plenty of SWAT teams needing good men..." Pops countered, his voice rough with emotion.

My gaze drifted to Chandler. Worry lines etched his forehead, a stark contrast to the playful grin I knew so well. I ached to reach for him, to seek the comfort of his familiar touch.

But I hesitated. This was bigger than us.

Suddenly, he was beside me, his hand finding mine. "Sloane," he said, his voice low and steady, "I'm not going anywhere. Long distance sucks, but I just got you, and I'm not giving up that easily."

His words sent a shiver through me, both comforting and terrifying. A small sliver of hope flickered to life within me. Maybe...maybe this wouldn't be the end.

Dad and Pops turned back to me, the weight of the world in their eyes. "Slo, whatever you want to do…" Dad began, his voice thick with unshed tears.

My throat tightened. This was my decision, but it would ripple outward, altering their lives as much as mine. I thought of our friends—they'd be heartbroken if I moved, but they'd support me no matter what. But in my heart, all I saw was Chandler, his steady, blue-green gaze fixed on me.

"I…," I swallowed hard, the words barely a whisper. "I know it's selfish, but can we FaceTime Uncle Jake? I don't want to go... not without him and Chandler."

Pops' gruff chuckle broke the tension. "Always did say you two were attached at the hip." He pulled out his phone, his hands fumbling slightly as he swiped at the screen.

The familiar ring of FaceTime filled the sterile waiting room. Uncle Jake's face appeared, his eyes wide with surprise from his office desk, laptop open beside him.

"Hey, what's going—" He cut himself off, his gaze taking in our grim faces.

Pops launched into an explanation, recounting the doctor's words and the whirlwind of emotions.

Uncle Jake's response slammed into me like a wave, washing away some of the fear. "Hell yes!" His voice boomed through the phone's speaker, raw with emotion. "I'd move to the freaking moon if it meant helping Sloane. You're the only family Chandler and I have."

A lump formed in my throat, and I wasn't sure if it was from relief or the overwhelming weight of it all. Pops broke first. A wide grin cracked his face.

"Well then, I reckon it's settled!" he declared, his booming voice echoing in the small waiting room. "Texas, here we come!" The tension that had choked the air moments ago seemed to dissipate.

He ended the call with Uncle Jake, then turned to us, a gleam in his eye. "How 'bout we get out of here for a while? I hear Texas is all about the barbecue. Doc said those results wouldn't be ready for a bit, might as well eat while we wait."

Dad chuckled, a hint of the old spark returning to his eyes. "Lead the way, babe."

Chandler squeezed my hand, a silent promise of support, and the five of us trooped out of the hospital. The crisp November air bit at my cheeks, a stark contrast to the warmth within.

The decision was made, the course was set. Now all that was left was the waiting – for the results, for the move, for whatever Texas had in store for us.

The sterile smell of disinfectant and the rhythmic beeping of heart monitors hung heavy in the air as Dr. Ryberg delivered the news. My heart pounded in my chest, a frantic drumbeat echoing the dread pooling in my stomach.

"The scan confirms what we had suspected," Dr. Ryberg said, her voice steady but her eyes filled with a gentle understanding. "While the cancer has spread, it's still localized enough to qualify you for the clinical trial in Houston."

Silence hung in the air, thick and suffocating. Texas? Houston? It felt like a world away, a distant dream rather than a potential lifeline.

"So," Dr. Ryberg continued, her voice a gentle nudge, "have you been able to make a decision?"

I looked at Dad, his face etched with worry, his hand gripping mine with a reassuring strength. Pops stood beside him, his usual boisterous energy replaced by a quiet intensity. And then there was Chandler, my rock, his blue-green eyes filled with unwavering support.

"Yes," I finally managed, my voice barely a whisper. "I'll do it. I'll go to Texas."

A wave of relief washed over Dad's face, and Pops let out a low whistle. "That's my girl," Dad said, squeezing my hand. "Atta girl."

Dr. Ryberg nodded, a warm smile gracing her lips. "The team in Houston will want to see you as soon as possible. I'll contact them immediately and let them know of your decision. We can start working on the logistics right away – transfers, housing...there's a lot to arrange. It would be best to plan on moving within a couple of weeks, if possible."

A couple of weeks? The words hit me like a cold splash of water. It was all happening so fast, a whirlwind of emotions and logistics threatening to sweep me away.

The office suddenly felt too small, too stuffy. I needed air, space to breathe and process. "Can I...," I began, my voice choked with emotion. "Can I have a few minutes outside? Just to breathe?"

Dad and Pops exchanged a knowing glance, their silent communication a testament to their years together. "Of course, sweetie," Dad said, his voice gentle. "Take all the time you need."

Chandler and I stepped out into the crisp November air, the hospital's sterile atmosphere replaced by the earthy scent of fallen leaves. We found a secluded bench tucked away from the main entrance, a quiet haven in the midst of chaos.

As I sank onto the bench, the weight of the situation crashed down on me. Tears welled up in my eyes, hot and heavy, blurring the world around me. Chandler wrapped his arms around me, his warmth a comforting anchor in the storm.

I sobbed into his shoulder, the sound of my own cries a strange melody in the quiet afternoon. He didn't say a word, just held me tight, his steady heartbeat a reassuring rhythm against my own erratic one.

When the tears finally subsided, a sense of calm washed over me. It wasn't a resignation, but a quiet acceptance of the path ahead. I knew this journey wouldn't be easy, but with my family and Chandler by my side, I was ready to face it head-on.

"Thank you," I whispered, pulling back to look into Chandler's eyes. "For everything."

He smiled, his eyes crinkling at the corners. "Always," he said, his voice a soft promise. "Always."

As we walked back towards the hospital, hand in hand, a newfound determination filled me. Texas may have been a world away, but it was also a chance, a glimmer of hope in the face of uncertainty. And I was ready to fight for it.