Page 78 of Lessons in Lemonade

Echoes of the water fountain pick up around us as he allows me to get lost in my thoughts. I glance around at the beauty of the garden, smell the fresh dirt and fragrancy of the plants from where they are perfectly placed around the gazebo, and it’s through them I see flashes of people and the permanent etch of a lasting broken heart.

“It’s not just the loss, though.” I look back at him and do my best not to imagine what that expression would look like on him. “It’s what each of them left behind. Yes, I’ve struggled with the ‘why me’ questions, like why did I get cancer and why did I survive, but the greatest struggle I’ve had is watching the friends and family members of those who don’t, the ones who are left behind.”

Letting out a deep sigh, I let my shoulders slouch in defeat at the injustice life delivers sometimes. These people, the ones I met . . . so young, so loved, taken too soon. He doesn’t say anything, just watches me; after all, there’s nothing to be said. I know he wants to understand, but there’s no way he can.

“I know I’m not making any sense to you, but I can’t be the reason others suffer, Jack. It’s too much.” I pull my hand out from under his and tuck it into my lap. Looking down at the place where his fingers just were, I can still feel the heat of them, as if they were tattooing my skin, and pieces of my hair fall around my face. I’m not hiding, really I’m not, but when Zeus shifts on the ground next to my chair, my hand falls to weave into his fur, and I turn my head so even more is covered.

Standing up, Jack moves his chair from the other side of the table to next to mine. The table wasn’t that big to begin with, but now the only thing separating us is Zeus. Reaching up, he tucks the loose hair behind my ear and runs his hand over the side of my face to my shoulder then down my arm. He leaves his hand in my lap; he’s not allowing me to pull away from him.

“Who? Who are these others you’re worrying about? And why would you be the cause of them suffering?” he asks quietly.

“The families. The loved ones. Spouses, siblings, children, parents, friends . . . you. It’s too much.” My eyes again fill with tears. The thought of hurting him one day when it can be prevented—it nearly breaks me.

His brows pull down at my apparent distress as he studies the features of my face. “I thought you were cancer-free?” he asks, almost nervously. And that tiny shake in his voice, right there—it’s what I fear and what I never want him to experience.

“I am . . . but . . .” I’m pleading with him to understand. This is all so hard to talk about, and quite frankly, scary. Scary because voicing it makes it real, scary because I’m allowing myself to imagine a time in my life I never want to revisit, and scary because I don’t want this life for him.

“But you think it’s going to return,” he states more than asks the question.

I nod, rolling my lips in between my teeth. Two tears escape and roll down the sides of my face.

“Let me get this straight.” He leans back in his chair, taking his hand with him, and he runs it over his head before dropping his arm back to the table. “You’ve denied yourself one of the greatest gifts of life because you think yours is still ending?” he asks, almost incredulously.

So, I lay it out there for him, the black and white. “With ovarian cancer, there is a seventy percent recurrence rate.”

“So?” He shrugs his shoulders and shakes his head. He keeps his voice low, but there is an edge underneath his words. He’s always been a very boisterous person and I can feel that he wants to argue with me, but I can’t, not with him. He’s frustrated, I get it, but I can’t tell if it’s with me or because he’s finally grasping why I am the way I am.

“What do you mean, ‘so’?” That one statistic should explain everything to him. There is a really high probability that it will come back, and then what? In fact, I feel like for the last seven years I’ve been a sitting duck, just waiting for it to return, and I never want to hurt people the way I saw people grieve during and after those funerals.

“Exactly what I said—so? If it does, it does, and we’ll cross that bridge then,” he says, as if what I just told him means nothing and we’re talking about something as simple as the common cold.

“But that’s just it—I never want you or anyone else to have to go through it. You didn’t see them, Jack. It was awful. Death is awful, and not to the ones leaving, but to those who are left behind.”

My chest tightens at the thought of this and a sob escapes me. The tears come out more, faster, and I raise my hand to cover part of my face. For the first time in a long time, I allow the fear to take over. Not only do I now worry about what would happen to him should I die, I have to face the reality that he would move on with his life without me, and that hurts, too.

Reaching for my elbow, he pulls me so I end up standing, and he slides me over onto his lap. I lay my head on his shoulder, and he holds me as I cry and drain my poor bruised heart.

“Meg, I’m not afraid of what might or might not happen,” he says, speaking so calmly. “You could die in six days, six years, or sixty years, and no matter how short or long our time together, I wouldn’t trade that for anything. Certainly not over an uncertainty, over the possibility of losing you. We all lose loved ones eventually. You know this.”

His hand moves up and down my back; it’s warm, affectionate, and I want to stay curled up here with him for forever.

“Well, I am afraid. It’s why I have the promise.” My hand slides up his chest to the highest button he’s done on his shirt. Just above it a few hairs make themselves known at the split to his collar, and I run my fingers over them to the dip at the base of his throat. I love his skin, the way it feels, the way it smells, the way it tastes, and I can’t tear my eyes away from this one spot.

“I hate to break it to you, sweetheart, but that’s a promise you’re just going to have to break.” He pulls me away from him, and I want to protest until his hands cradle my head and the deep brown color of his eyes bores a hole into my soul, taking my breath away. “It’s too late, because I’m not going anywhere. I’m in love with you. You know this, and you are stuck with me.”

His fingers dip into my hair at the base of my head, and he prevents me from turning away. He wants me—no, needs me to look at him as he tells me this, but what he doesn’t understand is I never had any doubts about him. The doubts have always been about me and what I can give him, what I could possibly take away.

“I do know this, and that’s why I’m trying to tell you all these things. I want you to live your best life, one that’s so amazing and fulfilling, the kind dreams are made of.” What I leave off but he hears between the lines anyway is that I believe him living his best life won’t happen with me.

“But, Meg . . .” His thumbs swipe across my cheeks to erase the tears that just won’t stop. “What you don’t realize is I’m already living my best life. It’s already amazing, and you by far surpass any dream I’ve ever had. You are beyond a dream come true to me.”

My chin quivers at the sincerity of his words. I believe him, I do, and that’s why these words so effortlessly slide through my lips. “I love you.”

Slowly, his eyes crinkle in the corners, and then his mouth turns up into the most magnificent smile, dimples and all. His reaction to my words has my pulse picking up speed, and I can’t help but smile along with him.

Crushing me to him, he hugs me, and it’s the best hug I’ve ever had in my entire life. It’s one that says, I’ve got you, and together we’ve got us.

Sliding my eyes shut, I take in the moment and brand it to memory: the slight roughness of his cheek against mine, the clean body wash that’s a permanent part of his unique scent, and the strength of his hold that, with no uncertainty, tells me I am his and he is mine. I always want to remember this incredible man, this perfect man, my best friend.