Unedited.

Writing this was a lot of fun, I have to say. So, I hope you like it!       

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 James walks a few metres behind me and I'm grateful. He seems to realise I need my space after that to sort it all out. Childish as it is, I feel like hurling my oxygen machine at a window. Frustration, anger . . . it's all there. Yet my heart won't stop fluttering and I know I'm blushing. I can't wrap my head around it. Any of it—it's too surreal. James kissed me. Called me beautiful.

               Why? Why me?

               What am I supposed to do now? Avoid him because I've embarrassed myself; given him the worst kiss of his life? He'll be trying to avoid me now.

               The glass doors of the museum slide open and I look for a place to sit and have a breakdown. Inner turmoil runs thick. Self-hatred burns. Off all the people to kiss, he'd chosen me. The dying girl with under a year to live. The girl that can't even kiss back, standing like a statue the whole time. For one, he's out of my league. Two . . . I'm dying.

               They're my ride home, without James I'm stuck here.

               Locating the nearest seat, I walk over to it. The pressure on my lungs eases once I'm sitting, and I lean back against the wall. It's cold against my back, just like the seat under my legs. With my eyes shut, I can't see James but I know he's nearby.

               As my emotions run ramped, I blink back tears of frustration. Isn't your first kiss supposed to be the most amazing moment of your life? The one thing you remember forever? I have to be the only girl to have the most awkward kiss in history. All you have to do is kiss back . . . not stand there like a stature.

               Without meaning to, I speak aloud, though it's quiet enough for no one else to hear. "Why is everything so hard?" The oxygen machine mocks me, once again reminding me why nothing goes right. Getting diagnosed with cancer isn't even the beginning. The bad luck that follows, years on, is even worse.

               "First kiss," I mutter wryly. "Fail."

               My phone sits in one of the bags and I take it out before I can think about it. I'm halfway through typing the text when I start to reconsider. Should I really be texting Rachel when I haven't spoken to her in weeks? And worse, about an embarrassing first kiss?

               Sighing, I put my phone on the seat next to me. The last thing I want to do is spread that I can't kiss to save my life. The sounds of the museum whirl by—screaming kids, laughing parents—but none of it matters. What really matters is the complete and utter mortification I feel. First I don't kiss back. Then I run off.

               Was is as uncomfortable for James as if was for me? Did he feel the same awkwardness?

               Who am I kidding? Of course he felt it. It was impossible not to. He's kissed girls before and I'm sure they actually reciprocated the kiss. They didn't just stand there like an idiot, waiting for it to be over.

               Wiping away tears of frustration, I grab the tubes of my oxygen machine. If I'm going to sit here and debate my depressing life, I might as well do something useful. Wrapping the tube around my head, so it rests against my ears, I put the plugs in.

               Out of the corner of my eye, I see James sit on the red leather seat next to me. There has to be at least half a metre of distance between us. Guilt sinks in and I catch his eye. He stares at me, smiling softly. I'm sorry, he mouths.

               Frowning, I stare at him. I'm tempted to sign the words, but the last thing I want to do is say it wrong. Telling James to f-off is the last thing I want to, especially since its already awkward enough. So, instead, I mouth the words. What for?

               James stares at the spot right next to me pointedly. Debating it, I touch the tubes in my nose out of habit. Knowing there near, that I have them to use, is like a lifeline. Literally. Without it . . . I wouldn't be here—finally having fun.

               Until the kiss.

               Admittedly, an amazing kiss, if you took me out the situation and replaced me with some that can actually kiss.

               Nodding to the spot next to me, I move over a little so he gets the hint and takes the invitation. Standing, he eyes me warily. In return, I smile apologetically. Albeit slowly, he walks over, steps hesitant. I have to wonder if that's how slow I walk normally.

               When James sits by me, I move my oxygen machine out of the way so he has feet room. Tied to the handle of my oxygen machine are the bags we've collected from the day. One holds the towels we used at the beach area—though I'm not even sure why we still have them. Another one is the game store bags. The last holds the only things James has bought—besides the food—throughout the day: a Red Sox snapback and dark high tops. My handbag is a heavy weight against my shoulder, holding my phone and wallet inside.

               James weight settles next to mine on the chair and I glance over. A hat he'd adorned outside the game store covers most of his blond hair, and his blue eyes are oddly bright as they stare back at me. Rubbing his hand on his jean-clad knee, he uses his other hand to reach into the only bag he's carrying.

               When he pulls out his notepad, I hand him the pen in my hand.

               Giving me a fleeting smile, he starts to scrawl. Judging by the way he keeps glancing at me, I know he can feel the tense air around us, the silence no longer comfortable but awkward. It's a waiting game—one of us has to break the silence on the kiss, otherwise it'll hang like dirty laundry forever. Ironically, neither of us will actually break it, because there will be no talking.   

               What had I told dad? There'd be no making out?

               I have to roll my eyes. Though technically it hadn't been making out, just me standing like a statue while James kissed me, it had still been a kiss. Did I enjoy it? I don't even know the answer to that. A part of me loved it—the softness of his lips, the tingly sensation in the aftermath. But . . .

               I don't know what it means to have a crush. Do you like someone because they're attractive? Funny? Sure, James is attractive, but a crush? That I'm not sure of.

               Honestly, growing up, I'd given up on the idea of meeting anyone. No one finds the dying girl attractive—especially not after they know you're dying. Cancer sufferers have too much baggage, too many emotional problems—or, more aptly, a lack of emotions. Unless you want to wallow in a state of constant depression, you can't afford to dwell on the cancer and cry for help. Nothing will get rid of it so trying is fruitless.

               Now, I'm way out of my depth. I haven't prepared for someone actually liking me, ever, let alone kissing me.

               Something waves in my vision and I make out the words written on the paper. Next to me, James' knee bounces rapidly and I can't tell whether it's a nervous habit or not. Taking the notebook from him, I read the words. I'm sorry for a lot of things. But, right now? I'm sorry for what happened before. I forced you and it totally wasn't there. It was all one sided.

               Frowning, I narrow my eyes. He's serious, gravely serious, eyes fixed on me. Brutal honesty shines in them, matching the words on the paper.

               Shifting my eyes away, I kick the air nervously. Anything to distract myself from the severity of the conversation. It's like going in to see the oncologist—there's always an underlying tension in the room. The conversations are always so serious, no one daring to take a break in case the results that come back are bad. Not that they're ever good.

               It's not your fault. I mean, yeah, I didn't expect it. But it wasn't bad. Re-reading over the words, I check to see if they're really what I want to say. They're not, but it can't get any more awkward, so it doesn't matter anyway.

               James reads the words, face scrunched in concentration. Finally, he frowns, writing quickly before showing the paper to me. You just stood there. I practically stole your first kiss!

               Fighting a scowl, I glare at him. Yes, I'd stood there—that I agreed on. However, I don't agree with the fact that he stole the kiss. If it hadn't happened, I'd never get the chance again. I'd remain the dying girl, never to be kissed. I stood there because I was surprised and I had no idea what to do. And it's not like I'll ever get the chance again, so you did me a favour.

               Aware of his eyes on mine as he reads the words, I smile wryly, probably as embarrassed as I feel. Trying to keep the blush on my face, I distract myself by staring around the foyer of the museum. It has a large entrance, a reception counter is the front right corner, opposite to where were sitting. Diagonal from us is a gift store, though from here I can only make out is large skeletons of dinosaurs. On the far corner is a large elevator, escalators next to it.

               James places the paper on my lap and I glance down at the words written. Don't say it like that. I feel worse. Your first kiss is supposed to be special and I took it.

               Glaring at him, I roll my eyes. There's no 'special' anything about a first kiss. There's really no 'special' about anything, not after cancer. It drains the fun out of everything.

               If you let it.

               Flipping to a new page, I grab the pen from him. Don't feel bad. I didn't expect my first kiss to be amazing. Don't get me wrong—it was great. On your part. Me? I did nothing and ruined it. It was special up until the moment that I ruined it.

               James just narrows his eyes, and I don't want to see the anger in them.

               You did not ruin it. I pressured you.

               Rolling my eyes, I narrow my eyes back at him. Stop blaming yourself. If anyone was going to "steal" I'm glad it was you.

               James doesn't even smile a little. I'm sorry. I'm your first kiss and you hated it.

               I decide to just let it go. He won't see it my way, no matter how hard I try. I didn't hate it. You did.

               James frowns, staring at me. Finally, he grabs the paper, scrawling quickly. His handwriting is neat enough to make me envious; it makes mine look like a child's. It makes sense. He's never had to perfect annunciation, but he's relied on writing his whole life. Still, he's a guy and he's totally breaking the stereotype. Who said?

               Now it's my turn to frown, staring at him. If he's lying for my benefit I'm not sure I want to know. There's no way he can be telling the truth. Come on. Don't lie to me. I don't have enough time left to deal with it. Before I can hide the words from him, he sees them. Wishing I wasn't such an irrational person, I hand over the paper when he reaches out.

               Truth be told, I've forgotten how long I have left. Seven months, maybe. I can't be sure. Going off the last oncologist visit, it's seven months. That means . . . it's already been two and a half months. Technically speaking. It's never certain. One appointment the news can be good—years to live. Other times, it's not so good—nothing more than a few hours. I've only ever gotten than verdict once, when I was twelve and it had started to spread too quickly.

               In reality, how many days I have left is unknown. But one thing does remain.

I've known James for a month.

Has it really been that long? A month doesn't seem long enough.

               James catches my eye and I force myself to focus on anything but dying. If it has to be the awkward kiss then I just have to deal with it. When he passes me the notebook, I read the words. I'm going to pretend you didn't mention that, CG. And if I was lying I'd tell you. I'm dead. If I asked you to be honest and tell me if it bother you, would you tell me the truth?

               Writing without any hesitancy, I glare at him out of the corner of my eye. What the hell sort of a question is that? Of course I'd be honest! And I can safely tell you that I don't care. You can have no legs and I'd still be here.

               James grins, though he tries to hide it. I see right past the reaction. I'll take that as a compliment.

Reaching over, I scribble on the page before he can say anything else. It was a compliment.

               James just rolls his eyes flipping to a fresh page. This morning it didn't have anything written on any page. Now there's barely half left. I'm just going to say thank you . . . Anyway, you proved my point. If I hated the kiss, I would tell you. And did I? No.

               Lost for words for a second, I can only stare at him. Finally, when my heart starts to beat somewhat normally, I write a response. But I just STOOD there! Literally. How is that not awful?

               As my heart flutters dangerously, I can't help but stare at him. I've never had a conversation with Rachel about relationships—I didn't let her get that close. Now, I'm not ever sure if we're still talking, considering I've ignored her for weeks.

               There's no reason why I won't date James—aside from the fact that I don't know what to do. I'm not opposed to the idea, though thinking about it feels incredibly awkward. Surely if he kissed me, it means something.

               James hands me the paper again. Reluctantly I read the words. Awful? Try perfect. I get to kiss a beautiful girl—nothing could ruin that.

               Self-consciously flicking my hair in front of my face, I avoid looking at him—

Blushing like mad, I immediately let go off my hair. In every movie I've ever seen, hair twirling is the most obvious way any girl flirts. Great. Now I'm inadvertently flirting with him.

               Taking the paper from him, I turn to a new page, though I don't really want to respond—I don't know how to respond. Yet, I do anyway. I'll pretend you never said that. And it was hardly perfect. I stood there. I didn't kiss back. I didn't move. My foot didn't even twitch!

               James' reaction doesn't make me feel any better. As he laughs, I cringe, wishing I could take the words back.

               When he hands the paper back, I'm not afraid to admit that I'm a little scared to read them. One, don't put yourself down. You're beautiful. You think I care that you need a machine to breathe? News flash, CG, I could care less. You don't care I'm deaf, I don't care about your cancer diagnosis—that's the way this works. We accept it because we have to. You're beautiful inside and out and that, CG, is a fact.

               The words might as well be another language entirely, they're so foreign. If someone had told me that being called Cancer Girl would someday make my heart flutter nervously, I'd have laughed. Now, hearing it is more than okay. Frankly, it's better than any babe.

               Before I can take the paper back to respond, he starts to write again. It's a good thing too; I'm too busy trying to consider what he's already said.

               Finally, he gives me the paper. Trepidation thick, I read them. And the fact that you didn't kiss back? It was your first time. I froze my first kiss too. You think I expected someone to kiss me? The deaf guy? No one wants to talk to me and not just because I can't hear them. And I'm rambling. Point is, you didn't expect it to ever happen and that's why you're freaked because it wasn't right. I get it. So stop stressing. I jumped you; you didn't expect it. Don't blame yourself.

               Gaping, I can only stare at James with wide eyes. He gets it—all of it. It's the fear of already having an issue and adding insult to injury. I'm already making it harder than it has to be. Adding an awful kiss to that . . .

               The words I write are purely instinctual; I don't even have to think about them. You are something else. Seriously. How'd you know?

               James frowns, before grinning. Personal experience. So, we clear? It was a great kiss and you ruined nothing.

               Clear, I write back, at a loss.

               James is still grinning when he flicks to a new page. Despite how quickly he writes, it's still neater than mine. Good. Does that mean I can do it again?

               This time, I'm sure the blush covers my whole face. Do I want to?

               Oh, who am I kidding? Of course I want to.

               Nodding wordlessly, I try to smile.

               It only takes a second before his lips are on mine again. And this time, it's better. Though I have no idea what I'm doing, I just kiss back instinctively. My lips move against his—

               Then the cords in my nose fall out and gets caught between us.

               Pulling away quickly, I smile apologetically. "I'm so sorry," I say before I can stop myself. Actually talking aloud with James feel so odd. Luckily, he reads my lips.

               Reaching out, I watch him grab my hand. When it's clasped in his, he winks. His other hand reaches out, grabbing the tubes of my oxygen machine. Gently, he moves it out of the way, staring at me the whole time. The closeness isn't uncomfortable like before.

               When it's out of the way, he raises an eyebrow. Round two, he mouths.

               All I can do is nod. Then his lips are on mine again. The kiss isn't passionate like I see in all the movies. It's gentle and sweet . . . and completely unlike it was outside. This time it's perfect and I just go on instinct; kissing back.

               His lips are soft against mine and I lean further into him. It still feels a little awkward, but I figure it's just nervous jitters. This is what people talk about—the moment you can't get any other way. Cliché as it is, it's perfect.

               James' arm comes around my shoulders, pulling me in. In response, I wrap both my arms around his shoulders.

               Kissing in the middle of a museum isn't the best place, but I can't bring myself to care. People can look on all they want, judging us, but they're irrelevant. A museum is perfect.

               Moving my lips against his feel like the most natural thing in the world. He doesn't try to add tongue for which I'm grateful. On one hand, I couldn't handle it. On the other hand, it's just gross. The idea of swapping saliva is just gross.

               Telling myself to shut up, I go back to kissing him. Now I'm in the moment, it's not scary at all.

               When we finally break apart, I'm breathing heavily. James isn't but I'm not surprised. Kissing puts more strain on your lungs—or lung—than I'd assumed.

               There's a moment where we just smile at each other, his eyes gentle and soft. I don't even want to guess how I look.

               Finally James grins broadly.

               I grin back, grabbing the paper sitting between us. I told my dad there'd be no making out. That planned failed, huh?

               James smiles, grabbing the pen from me. Technically that wasn't making out. I'll deal with him. You come back safe and I get heaps of brownie points.

               Laughing loudly, I punch him in the shoulder. That was . . . amazing. Cliché, right?

               James shrugs. Not at all. First kisses are supposed to be special.

               That wasn't the first kiss. Which only proves that it's all lies. First kisses are awful.

               James smirks, standing. Handing me the paper, he stretches his arms over his head. I can't help but stare at his lips, mine still tingling. When he hands me the paper, I scan the words, while winding my oxygen machines tubes around the handle, to keep them safe.

               Well, we need them. Otherwise there'd be no round two. And we can have round three later. But, right now? Let's go see some dinosaurs.

               He reaches out a hand, but I write instead. Scribbling quickly, I show him the words when I'm done. You make it sound so dirty.

               James tracks the words, before laughing. Winking at me, he mouths, I'm a guy. What do you expect?

I have nothing to say in response, so I just grab his hand and let him pull me up.

As we walk to the elevator, in search of the dinosaur exhibit, it feels like the most natural thing in the world to hold his hand in mine.

*

When we finally get back to the car at half past five, Jordon is standing next to it. James and I walk up to the car, my hand still in his. We're the teenage couples I always mock in my head but I don't care.

               After one look at us, Jordon figures everything out. "That was quick," my mutters dryly. "Aren't you two cosy?"

               Before I can respond, James starts to sign next to me, narrowing his eyes at his brother. Jordon mimics the expressions, signing back just as rapidly. Finally, he stares at me, rolling his eyes. Though I can't tell what they're saying, I know it's about me and I'm not sure whether to feel flattered or scared.

               Jordon finishes signing, turning to me. "Come on, get in. I need to get you home before your dad blames me—then mum will yell at me as well. I have enough to deal with as it is."

               Unsure of how to respond, I just nod, getting into the car. The oxygen machine follows, along with the bags from the shop. James follows soon after, sitting close to me. Leaning my head on his shoulder, I close my eyes. "Thank you," I whisper. "Both of you."

               Opening my eyes a little, I see Jordon signing to James from the front seat, probably telling him what I said aloud.

               My phone rings an hour into the drive, and I glance at the number before answering. Mum. Frowning, I slide the answer button across the screen, putting it to my ear. James tenses against me, before relaxing again.

               "Hey mum," I answer quietly, not wanting to disrupt the comfortable silence of the car.

               Immediately, I know something is wrong. She's crying over the phone.

               "Mum," I whisper. "What's wrong?"

               She doesn't say anything for a second. But then I get a response. "Hey, honey, how was your day?"

               The small talk is another warning and alarm bells ring in my head. "Mum. Tell me."

               "Honey . . ."

               "Mum."

               Dread starts to sink in, deep and heavy in the pit of my stomach, as she doesn't respond. All I hear is tears.

               "Mum," I whisper frantically. "Tell me."

               "Alison . . ."

               "Tell me."

               There's a deep sigh on the other end of the phone. "I have news."

               "Yes? What is it?" Whether it's good news or bad news, I can't tell.

               "Sweetheart . . ." Again, she sighs heavily, the sound little more than a sob. Finally she speaks and I have to shut my eyes to ward away the tears that want to fall. It's a futile effort, as they just fall anyway. "You're on the waiting list for a double lung transplant."