He tells me over the phone that he's dying then laughs a little and I'm strangely encouraged. I mean, who says 'I'm dying'? He's being metaphorical. What am I not understanding?
But then the silence, the lack of a punch line, tells me he's being straight.
"Cancer," he says, the word tumbling out of his mouth like one too many grapes. "It's my pancreas. I found out two days ago."
My laptop's right in front of me so I flip it open, google pancreatic cancer. I click on the first link and survey the page. I can barely stand to read it, but manage to catch certain phrases: "very few pancreatic tumors can be removed by surgery," "average life expectancy less than 1 year," "95% of those diagnosed will not be alive in 5 years."
"Shit. How's Alex taking it?"
I don't hear anything on the other end. "Kyle?"
"Well, the thing is—"
"Oh," I say. "I get it."
I hadn't felt it coming on, but I start crying—embarrassing little whimpers. I try to think about what it means that he's telling me first; any way I look at it, it sucks.
"You, okay?" he says.
The terminally ill guy is asking me if I'm okay.
"Yeah, sorry for not being helpful," I say. "So what now?"
"Well, I wouldn't mind seeing you," he says. "How is the day after tomorrow looking for you?"