Page 32 of That's Not a Thing

“Yup.” His tone is clipped as he takes a sip of his drink and then places the glass back on the bar, clenching and unclenching his fist the way I saw him doing in the kitchen the other day. “But I’m going to keep running it while I can, even under the new ownership.” He sees me looking at his hand and holds it up, showing me his palm. “That’s how I knew something was wrong.” He takes his other thumb and pushes it deep into the first hand, massaging. “I’d been getting muscle cramps here for a long time. I’m not even sure how long ago they started. I always thought it was from the chopping, like an athletic injury but for chefs. But then it started happening in my other hand, too, my left, which I never use for chopping. So then I figured it for some sort of arthritis, which I finally went to check out. There are medicines that could have slowed everything down, if I hadn’t been such a shitbag idiot. I waited too long.”

“But I thought there’s no cure.”

“There’s not, but by the time I finally got diagnosed there was already a lot of damage, which maybe I could have staved off. I might have gotten a few more good years.” He pauses and looks up at the ceiling in obvious frustration. “My fucking life.” He shakes his head.

When I’m quiet, he keeps talking. “I was back at the doctor today. He’s estimating at least another couple of months before I have to stop working.”

“Is it just your hands?” I ask, afraid of the answer.

He shakes his head no and reaches to sip his drink, like he doesn’t want to tell me the other things going wrong with his body.

After another beat, he seems to perk up. “So,” he says, his tone lighter—purposeful, even—“tell me about your fiancé.” There’s another unusual swallow, and I can see now that it’s definitely a symptom.

“Because that wouldn’t be awkward at all,” I counter with a half-smile.

“No, seriously. I want to know where you’re going to end up, you know? Nothing’s playing out like I thought. I won’t get to find out later, so ...” He shrugs again, like he has accepted everything more than I have.

I resist the urge to cry and figure I can provide some basic information. “His name is Aaron. He’s a neonatologist. He went to Dartmouth. I don’t know. He’s a good guy. A really, really good guy.”

“Does he know you’re out with me?”

I look down at the bar as I answer, “Well, no, but he was already sleeping. He works nights a lot and took advantage of his chance to go to bed early tonight.” The part of me that never stopped belonging to Wesley wonders why Aaron even needs to know, why it’s any of his business what goes on between Wesley and me, but the adult in me knows better. “I’ll tell him tomorrow. There’s no reason this needs to be a secret.”

“That’s good,” he says, studying my face. “You belong with the kind of guy who saves babies for a living.”

“Where are you living? How long have you been back?” I ask, suddenly desperate for information about the life he’s had without me.

“I’ve been back about ten months. The whole restaurant thing happened really fast. I took it over from John Irwin when it was already halfway finished.”

“The guy you worked with at Depot Café?”

“Yeah, he got hired by a hot new chain in Seattle. Sold out for the cash, but it created an opportunity for me.”

“Where do you live?” I ask again.

“I’ve been staying at my parents’ house. In Irvington.”

“Oh.” I try to swallow my shock that he still owns the home, which I was sure he’d sold off right after his parents’ death. “And you commute to TriBeCa? Isn’t it kind of rough going back there?” I’m not sure it’s clear that I was asking about the emotional implications, versus the commute, but then I think maybe it’s better if I keep it light anyway, stay focused on the travel time.

“Yeah.” He reaches for the straw in his glass, fumbles for a moment, and then gets his fingers around it. “I was planning to get an apartment downtown, some swanky renovated loft or something. But I didn’t get around to it, and then ...” Another shrug.

I picture him out in his parents’ old house in the woodsy suburbs of Westchester, so isolated and alone. I remember with a sudden flash how cold his bedroom was the last time I was there.

“Do you have people out there who you see? Anyone?”

“I’m not dating anyone, if that’s what you’re asking.”

It wasn’t, actually. I was trying to determine who will take care of him when he can’t take care of himself.

“I was thinking about your treatment.” I offer a sheepish smile. “Wouldn’t it be better for you to be in the city? You could probably get into work more easily, and you have more people who could help take care of you.” He looks at me defensively, and I add hastily, “If you need it.” I’m glad I didn’t say “when.”

Suddenly, I have an idea. “You should take my apartment! I’m moving out in a week and a half. The building is letting me break the lease, but I’m sure they haven’t found anyone to take it yet.”

“Where are you going?” he asks.

“Gramercy Park,” I mumble, a little embarrassed, since the old me always swore I could only be happy living on the Upper West Side or way downtown.

Wesley barks out a laugh. “I never thought I’d see the day. Wow. I guess it goes with the whole corporate-law-firm theme. Moving on up.” He gives a little head shake.