Page 71 of That's Not a Thing

“You made a will with Ian?” I force my brain away from the pain of that thought, the constant talk of Wesley’s imminent death. Instead, I focus on my competitive streak. “I could have made a will for you. For free, you know.”

“Nah.” He waves a hand in the air dismissively and then lets it flop back to the bed, as if he’s forgotten how to control it. “I did that months ago. Totally done.” His eyes close again.

He seems to be drifting off to sleep once more, so I stay quiet, but then he opens his eyes again. “Whatever’s left after I pay for my care is going to Community Kitchen. For the job training program to continue.”

Before I have time to reflect on his largesse, he changes the subject. “Any word from Aaron?”

I shake my head, knowing that if I try to talk, I might start crying again. I’ve been in touch with Mitch and Gladys. I know that she’s doing all right, that Aaron has insisted on taking over her care. I figure she is in good hands and that I should just let them be.

“But at least I will be gainfully employed again.” The brightness in my voice sounds false, even to me.

He nods his head without lifting it off the pillow, and I know he sees right through me. “He’s smarter than I am,” Wesley assures me. “He’ll come around faster than I did.”

I try to block out Wesley’s words, knowing that false hope is the very worst kind.

AFTER THE CONCLUSIONof visiting hours and my subsequent eviction from Wesley’s room by the hospital staff, I meander to the subway station, heading back toward my apartment. Well, notmyapartment—Aaron’s apartment. With Wesley planning to move directly to Massachusetts after his release from the hospital, it’s incumbent upon me to find a new apartment and give Aaron back his living space. Now that I have a position lined up at the TSIAG, I have a sense of what my new salary will be and what kind of (teeny-tiny) apartment I can afford. I am actually contemplating going to New Jersey and, in the ultimate act of sticking my tail between my legs, living with my parents for a while. I’m sure my mom would be thrilled, and maybe it would be the opportunity we need to really repair our relationship, get back to the place we inhabited together before the cancer, before Wesley, and the plane crash, and the canceled wedding, and the next canceled wedding. I’m exhausted just thinking about all the drama we have attempted to weather together.

I emerge from the subway station, climbing the steps into the dusky summer twilight that is bathing Park Avenue South in an ethereal purple glow. The storefronts and office buildings glimmer as if the lighting has been artificially created, like a movie set. As I make my way toward the loft, I consider stopping at the bodega across from our building to pick up Wonder bread and peanut butter for dinner, but when I round the corner onto Twenty-first Street, I see Aaron’s large frame halfway down the block. He is leaning against the apartment building, one foot up and flat against the gray stone wall, reading something on his phone, as though he’s waiting for something, for someone. I wonder if he is waiting for me, but then I realize he must want something from the apartment. He’s probably trying to figure out how to get up there without seeing me. If he doesn’t want to see me, I think I should respect his wishes. I owe him at least that. So I quickly turn around and head back in the direction I just came from. I can get ramen for dinner instead, sit and eat my noodle bowl while Aaron does whatever he needs to do. I wonder if I should text him to let him know he can go up, but I flinch thinking about how he will likely bristle at the unsolicited contact.

I hear a thumping noise approaching, and I move over to the right so that the jogger behind me can pass. But when I turn my head, I see that it’s Aaron, not a jogger, who is next to me, slowing. I don’t understand why he’s come after me when I was so careful not to impose my presence on him.

I stop. He stops.

“Why’d you turn around? I’ve been waiting for you.” He squints, apparently confused, but I feel like I have a premium on confusion at the moment.

“Waiting for me?”

“Yeah, for the past two hours.” His eyes sweep over me from head to toe, and I’m sorry I didn’t choose to wear something more flattering than my ripped cargo shorts to the hospital today. He takes a step closer to me, crowding my space, stealing my air. His hand goes to my hair, pushing a stray strand behind my ear, and I am surprised by the touch, electrified against my will. I can feel his breath on my cheek as he adds, “Where were you?”

I don’t want to tell him that I’ve been with Wesley. I don’t want to see the look of disdain reappear on his face. Especially not now, when he’s looking at me with eyes that are decidedly kind—affectionate, even. But I’m not lying to this man, not anymore.

“I was with Wesley. At the hospital.” I look up at him, waiting to see irritation, resentment, readying myself for him to step back from me.

He nods, and his expression doesn’t change. “Good. I’m glad he’s not alone. When he fell last week, I realized what it meant that he called me after he couldn’t reach you, that he didn’t have anyone else to call.”

I’m not sure whether he’s telling me that he understands why I have been committed to helping Wesley or if he’s saying something else.

“He’s starting to have people. He has a cousin. She’s going with him to Massachusetts. There’s a facility there where he’s going right after he gets discharged. I’m getting out of the apartment, too—don’t worry,” I hasten to add. “I just need another couple of days to pack up.”

Aaron nods, quiet, contemplative. A breeze rustles around us, enveloping us, as if we’re inside our own private vortex in the middle of the city street. Pedestrians continue to make their way around us, as though they don’t even see us, as though the breeze has made us invisible.

“Good,” he says quietly, running a hand tenderly over my hair, as if to remember it, as if to say good-bye. The pieces that he tucked behind my ear comes loose again in the warm wind. “If that’s what you want.”

I nod, unsure what else to say, afraid that telling him it’s not what I want, that uttering any words at all, will lead me to cry again. I just shake my head lightly, curl my lips in toward each other.

Then his face changes, brightens. “No, not good. That’s not what I came here to say at all.” He sounds firm, like I shouldn’t need so long to vacate the apartment, like he was here waiting to tell me he wants the return of his space forthwith.

“I can probably ... I can try to get out by the end of the day tomorrow, but nothing is packed yet.” I mentally catalog how much I have in the apartment. It’s mainly clothing and personal items, not furniture or other large pieces that would take longer to move.

He shakes his head at me, and I brace for the impact of whatever hurtful words might follow. “I almost lost my nerve,” he starts. “For a split second, I thought maybe you were saying you were happier without me.”

I open my mouth to ask what he means, but he holds up a hand to silence me.

“Just hear me out for a sec?”

It’s a request, not a demand, so I nod.

“All the stuff with my mom—hell, I probably already knew it before. But you chose me.” He takes my hand in his, and I let him, as though I have no volition in my arm. His warmth envelops my fingers, my palm, my being, and I want to cry out at the relief of his touch, as he continues, “You had no obligation. I don’t know why it took me so many days to act on it, but I knew, as soon as I saw you in the hospital waiting room last week, that I was the one you chose. You stayed with my mother to protect me, even when the other guy needed you too.”