These Death-Cast origin stories are breaking my heart.
（Even more.）
But I can’t stop listening, not even as I feel like I’m being ripped apart: a woman’s fiancé died in a limo accident on the way to their wedding; a child drowned in a bathtub after her big brother got locked out of the home while taking out the trash; a girl’s best friend got knifed to death on her birthday, forever staining that day; an older man’s wife and child died during a complicated pregnancy, and while Death-Cast can’t predict the fate of fetuses, the man still could have braced himself for this tremendous hole in his heart; and then there was a girl who got orphaned like me when she lost her parents in a tornado.
“We have time for one more story,” the Death-Cast rep says. She looks to be in her early twenties with a young teacher vibe, like she’s about to call on a student for the last presentation of the day. She reaches into the glass bowl, ready to fish out a name.
It’s got to be mine.
It has to be, this is the only time I’m ever going to be able to tell my story and— “Lincoln,” the Death-Cast rep calls.
A boy comes down from the red glass benches, really carefully, as if he’s scared he might trip and fall and die before he can share his story.
Before it goes unheard like mine.
Lincoln makes it safely to the microphone and tells us about his cancer diagnosis, pointing to his mother and sister in the audience and how Death-Cast will allow them the opportunity to stop resisting the inevitable if that’s truly what’s in store for him.
I don’t have it as bad as him, but I get what it’s like to want to tap out of the fight.
Then his story is over. The Death-Cast rep thanks the crowd for their time, and a security guard escorts her away. And everyone goes about their lives—their really difficult, complicated lives.
“I’m sorry,” Dalma says.
“For what?”
“That your name didn’t get called.”
I never outright said how badly I wanted this, but my best friend gets me.
“It’s all good,” I lie.
I look at the digital hourglasses on the jumbotrons, watching sand, aka tiny black blocks, fill the bottom. Until a tall guy—I bet he’s my age; I’ve got a good eye for this—passes by and breaks my focus. And I mean really breaks my focus because dude is beautiful; I can’t help but watch him as he takes a seat at the far corner of the glass bench, looking up at the hourglasses as if they’re stars.
I want to know his story as much as I wanted to tell mine.
My heart is going for it; it’s wild how being attracted to someone can feel so exciting and dangerous, like he can be everything good and bad for me.
I can’t tell the color of his eyes, but man, I want to know.
He’s pale, but he could also be pretty white-passing like me.
I think we’re the same height if you ignore his dark floppy hair or the classic Timbs giving him a mini boost.
He’s undeniably muscular with his broad shoulders, thick neck, the kind of arms that guarantee him the win in any arm-wrestling match, and pecs that must be suffocating inside his fitted black V-neck.
“Earth to Orion,” Dalma says, snapping her fingers. “What are you— Oh.”
“Yeah. I bet he’s a model.”
“You swear everyone cute is a model.”
“And it’s a crime to society every time I’m wrong.”
I rip my gaze away from him even though I really, really, really, really, really want to keep staring. Fuck it, I’m weak. I don’t last a whole second before I’m sneaking another peek, half hoping he doesn’t catch me looking, half hoping he does. But for what—he might not even be into guys, though I’m always down for more friends, especially once Dalma begins clocking mad hours at Hunter College this fall, but I don’t know if I can orbit around someone this beautiful and not just fall in love, stay in love, and die in love.