Theo handed a large coffee to the redhead in front of me, and along her paper sleeve, I could just make out a cheery, Have a nice day!

She thanked him and left the shop in a splendid mood, and I slowly approached the counter, staring at the barista in dismay. "What, do you have favorites or something? I thought you only issued insults."

"Some people don't deserve to be insulted," he said simply, and he slid my two drinks over the countertop.

My eyes dipped to the scribbled note around my caramel latte. I treasure every moment you're nowhere near me, it read. And on the Americano beside it: to make up for bad company.

I dragged my gaze back to his, despising the way his lips twitched. "Had to get that out of your system, did you?"

"Was that on-brand enough for you?"

"If your brand is 'tacky high school bully,' then sure."

His brow vanished beneath his beanie. "Tacky?"

"These read like Reddit posts from the kids who wore tails to school. It's not your best work."

My cruelty impressed him. With an open-mouthed smile, he leaned forward, placing his palms flat against the counter. On either forearm, he'd detailed a laundry list of coffee orders and chemistry formulas in red and black ink, and I wasn't sure if he did it to achieve his hipster-punk look, or if he'd simply never heard of sticky notes. "Wow. Someone's feisty this morning."

"You bring it out of me."

Those pine forest eyes burrowed into mine, full of mirth, fenced in charcoal. "Do I? I didn't realize I had such an effect on you, Mona."

Dammit, Moe.

You walked right into that one.

Laughter spilled from his lips, and I scooped up my drinks and shuffled away, pretending like I didn't enjoy the way my name rolled off his tongue—as if he'd cursed my existence a thousand times behind closed doors.

I felt him watching me as I made for the exit, basking in his victory, but I refused to spare him another glance.

Theo always had to have the last word, and that was just one of the many reasons I found him intolerable. But there was also something...cathartic about our interactions.

I could speak to him freely and unreservedly, without the fear of triggering Carl's anxious ramblings. If anything, I felt more confident in his presence—bold and audacious and liberated. And on days like this, when we fed off each other's sarcasm and mutual distaste, the banter was almost...addicting.

But maybe that was just the coffee talking.

My uncle lit his second cigarette, and I took a few moments to memorize his profile.

He'd always been a very handsome guy: tall, fit, and carved of bold edges. He'd inherited my grandparents' Guatemalan features and jasper skin tone, and like my mother, he bore dark brown, hooded eyes. However, his gaze was much warmer than his sister's, full of humor and mischievousness—even now, in his weakest state.

Today, an old university hat covered his naked head, but even his sweats and baggy windbreaker couldn't hide that gaunt frame of his. It was hard not to see him as a changed man.

"Don't," he muttered, anticipating my comments.

"It's just..."

"If I'm dying, I'm allowed to die at my own pace, Ramona."

I sat back against the frigid park bench, swallowing my remarks about him picking up the nasty habit again.

Jay discovered his lung cancer at 62, and the day he shared his diagnosis, it was like someone had knocked the family keystone loose, bringing the entire Rivas line down with it.

My grandparents had clasped tight to their religion, turning to prayer and rallying the entire congregation to keep Jay in their thoughts. Meanwhile, my mom's caretaking instincts had snapped into overdrive. For months, she'd shouldered hospital bills, oncologist visits, house chores, and food prep until my uncle couldn't take her micromanagement anymore.

In the midst of a depressive episode, he threw her out of his house and locked the door. But with the illusion of control gone, my mom had struggled to cope with the diagnosis, and I couldn't stand seeing her that way, crippled by helplessness, wound as tight as an automaton. So I'd offered to be the middleman and Jay's on-call taxi driver.

As the only closeted atheists in the family, Jay and I had always shared a special bond, so he trusted me to watch over him while he battled his war with cancer. As a result, I spent my junior and senior year of high school driving him to appointments between classes and keeping him company after chemo. I even took him grocery shopping so he could stock up on whatever snacks he wanted—something he greatly appreciated after my mother had stacked his fridge with too many healthy foods and collard greens.

It was a special time for me, getting to help him in that way, and by default, my mother.

When I graduated, we'd thought the radiation, the chemotherapy, and the lobectomy had decimated his cancer, but after three years of remission, the disease returned with a vengeance. Like a flatworm sliced into pieces, the tumor had regenerated as an entire army of cancer cells, incensed and merciless.

Two months ago, after a particularly bad spell of chemo symptoms, Jay decided to stop treatment altogether. He didn't want to endure it anymore, and he refused to go out that way—frail and exhausted all the time, too sick and tired to enjoy his existence in this world. He said he'd rather die than wither, and I really couldn't blame him.

Dreading how the rest of the family would react, Jay had only confided in me about his choice to cease treatment. He knew the truth would break their hearts, and when they dragged him to church and poured pills down his throat for the next two years, they'd break his.

So here we were. Niece and uncle, riding out the last of his days with spontaneous coffee breaks and cold walks around the neighborhood. And as much as I treasured these moments with him, I couldn't help feeling a little guilty, having so little to offer him in his time of crisis.

"Have you talked to Ian?" I asked. The 27-year-old lived in New Zealand, working as a tour guide at one of the national parks. I hadn't spoken to my cousin in years, but if his Instagram posts were anything to go by, he was living his best life among the Kiwis.

A bit of sadness crept into the man's eyes.  "No."

I couldn't contain the disappointment in my throat. "He's your son, Jay."

"And he's happy where he is.  I'm not going to tear him away from that, make him come home and take care of his old man for the rest of the year."

"Don't you think he deserves to say goodbye? In person?"

Jay huffed at my emotional fallacy. "I'd rather die remembering his smile, not the face he makes when he sees me fading away. Not the anger he'll have when he realizes I've given up."

My nails curled into my coffee cup. I hated it when he referred to it that way, as if he were surrendering to his cancer. Choosing death over chemotherapy was not a defeatist's mentality. The only thing he'd given up was life in the hospital, covered in bruises.

"Okay," I murmured. There was no point in arguing with him; he'd made up his mind a long time ago. My only job now was making his last six months as pleasant as possible.

We sat in silence for a while, watching the dead trees and yellow grass shiver in the breeze, sipping on our coffee. Locals bundled in winter clothes passed through the park with their dogs, scowling at the wind and the Canadian geese crap beneath their shoes. Each with their own problems and tragedies to work through. Each with their own ticking clock.

"You know, I'm happy with my decision, Roe, but I am sorry to leave you alone with our shit family," Jay said, aiming for one of my fond, exasperated chuckles.

I granted him his wish. "Yeah.  You're a real asshole for that one."

His laugh was bright and playful, and my heart took flight at the joyous sound. But his chuckles quickly deteriorated into a hoarse cough, and he bent over his knees, struggling to catch his breath.

Jay used to be so strong. He was the coolest person I knew: a rock climber, a rafting enthusiast, a guitarist. He even owned a motorcycle back in the day—which he totaled, of course. And now...now he was a shell of the leather-clad James Dean he'd once been, and I could see how much it killed him.

Once he recovered from his cough, Jay sat back and passed me a weary gaze. Then he extended his hand. "C'mere."

I scooted closer, dropping my head against his shoulder and blinking away my tears as he wrapped his frail arm around me.

It sucked being a bystander in a situation so tragic. It was like watching a ship sink with your favorite person aboard, and all you could do was wave goodbye as they sank beneath the ocean. Completely powerless.

He rested his cheek on top of my head. "It's gonna be okay, you know."

"Is it?"

"Eventually. If there's one thing I've learned in my time here, kiddo, it's that life goes on, even when it doesn't."