Page 121 of The False Flat

“Can you reach my laptop?” He pointed toward the rolling table near my side of the bed. Deanna had dropped his computer off.

I retrieved his laptop, pulled it onto the bed, opened it, and entered his password. The first thing that popped up was a spreadsheet where Grant had started a list numbered one to twenty-three.

“Check out number seven.”

I scanned until I reached number seven, where he’d typed the words “Route des Vins.”

I looked at him. “You have this all listed. You’re serious.” When had he done this? My eyes moved back to the screen, where Grant’s imagination took us on bike rides that spanned the globe.

No.LocationNotes

7Route des VinsVineyards. Wine tasting.

8Sun Moon Lake, TaiwanLow-key, easy terrain.

9Route 10 in HollandOne of the best bike trails in the world.

10The Udaipur trail in IndiaImmersed in the people and villages of India.

11Easter Island, ChilePlan a bunch of touristy things to do in addition to riding.

“These sound amazing,” I said, my voice shaking. Reality reached all the way down until it gripped my bones and squeezed. All of these places did sound amazing, but we would never go. He hadn’t made this list for us; he’d made it for me. Here I was, trying to find a way for us both to live together, and he was making plans for my life without him. My body shook.

He put a hand over mine.

“But you know where I’d like to go most of all?” he asked.

I couldn’t speak. If I spoke, I’d start screaming, cursing cancer and God.

“Let’s go to our place. Close your eyes, Penelope, and think about our Sunset Rock in Chattanooga.” His voice was low and comforting. “A romantic picnic. We’re looking out at the trees and the city lights.”

“And we won’t dig our food out of the ground because no one in their right mind digs up a romantic picnic dinner.” I was trying—so hard I was trying.

“And we won’t dig our . . . hey!”

We closed our eyes on the mountain, breathing in the cool, evening air under the open sky that trailed down to a city waking at dusk, and we fell asleep, the two of us curled together in each other’s arms, the wind gently sweeping over us.

CHAPTER 49

LIFE REALIZATION #23: COLD CHERRY PIE IS STILL THE BEST DINNER EVER

Two weeks before the wedding, my body was covered in a layer of cold sweat. Butch, a large muscled number five, reached for my hand, helped me to a sitting position. I’d been with him for twelve hours. It felt like twelve hours, but it was actually about forty-five minutes. Forty-five minutes of complete torture, but wedding present one of three for Grant was complete, and I still had two weeks to find the right lingerie, the second gift.

Butch asked me if I wanted to see—he looked pleased—and I looked down at my lower abdomen. I’d walked into this tattoo parlor, only able to handle the thought of needles because Grant was at a chemo infusion, accompanied by Devina, the only one I’d let in on my secret tattoo gift.

As Butch instructed me on bandaging and keeping the area clean, I thought about the evening to come. Grant and I were scheduled to have a night in with a movie, popcorn, candy, pie, and ice cream, the works. Then we’d celebrate his good lab results the way we celebrated all his little medical victories these days—after good food, really good sex.

The man was hot in bed, or maybe we were hot in bed. Anyway . . . hot, and not just in bed, all over. All over. He might not have been able to ride Gaia, but he could definitely ride other things.

I’d pictured Grant pulling my shirt up to reveal the inky masterpiece on my abdomen and going wild. Now, I realized he’d lift my shirt up and see—a bandage. Much less sexy. Oh well, maybe it could work to my advantage. I could tease him with what was underneath, drive him wild with anticipation.

I’d worked myself up on the way to the condo. (We’d been jumping back and forth between our two places, trying to decide where to live as a married couple.) But as soon as I walked into the living room, what I saw sitting on Grant’s couch completely extinguished the fire smoldering in my lower regions.

My mother.

As I stood there, my mouth hanging open like a cartoon character’s, Grant told me that the business trip he’d gone on had actually been a trip to my mother’s house. He’d wanted to go alone; now I knew why. He told me that life was too short not to try. He told me if he’d had another chance with his mother, nothing would’ve kept him from it. And then he walked out the door, leaving me alone with my mother.

How dare he! His mother was not my mother . . . but the pain in Aurora’s eyes bent my knees until we were face to face on the couch.