“Stacey!”
I turned to see Marcus jogging toward us, his face a mixture of frustration and concern.
“What the hell was that?” he demanded, stepping between me and Monica.
“What are you doing here?” I shot back, my voice sharp. “Taking her side now?”
Marcus held up his hands. “I’m not taking sides. But maybe you should at least listen to what she has to say.”
I let out a bitter laugh, shaking my head. “Of course. I forgot how easily you can be fooled. Go ahead, Marcus. Believe her. See if I care.”
“Stacey, please,” Monica interrupted, her voice trembling. “This isn’t about me. It’s about your father.”
The mention of him was like a punch to the gut. My chest tightened, and for a moment, I couldn’t breathe.
“What about him?” I asked, my voice brittle.
Monica stepped forward, her eyes glassy with unshed tears. “He’s dying, Stacey. He needs your help now.”
Time seemed to freeze.
I stared at her, the words echoing in my mind but refusing to fully register. Dying. Help. My father.
Monica must have taken my silence as permission to continue because she launched into an explanation. Something about his kidneys failing, about needing a donor, about me being his only chance.
I barely heard her.
I couldn’t get past the way she’d said “dying” like it was supposed to mean something to me. Like I was supposed to care.
When she finally stopped talking, the silence pressed down on me, suffocating.
I swallowed hard, my throat burning as tears pricked at my eyes. “Well,” I said, my voice shaking, “he’s been dead to me for a long time.”
I turned and walked away, leaving Monica standing there, her face crumpling with anguish.
Marcus followed me, but he didn’t say anything. He just walked beside me, his presence solid and steady.
I didn’t need his words.
I just needed to get as far away from Monica as possible.