Total pages in book: 58
Estimated words: 55734 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 279(@200wpm)___ 223(@250wpm)___ 186(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 55734 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 279(@200wpm)___ 223(@250wpm)___ 186(@300wpm)
“What are you thinking about?” she asks after a few minutes without talking.
I can’t tell her the truth. I can’t tell that all I can image is what it would be like to lean into her, those moments before the kiss when it’s all anticipation and heat. I can’t tell her I was imagining squeezing her bare leg, watching her thick creaminess turn red with lust for me.
“The future,” I say. The last thing I should think of since there’s only one way it ends now. “And the past, and how, often, people take time for granted. It should sound very intellectual and insightful, but it’s just a cliché.”
“Clichés exist for a reason,” she says softly. “Often, they’re true.”
Yeah, like the cliché of a man sleepwalking through life with no idea what he’s missing until a medical emergency finally snaps him back to reality.
“I didn’t realize it when I was young, even after Charley.”
“Charley?” she asks.
“My older brother. He died of a sudden heart attack five years ago.”
“I’m so sorry, Landon.”
“It’s fine. No, it’s not fine, but I’ve processed and dealt with it. Even that didn’t make me realize how precious time truly is. It should have, but it didn’t.”
I’m sure she can sense there’s something I want to say or do. Every time I glance at her, she’s got a patient look on her face that makes me want to reveal my news suddenly. It’s proof of what an effective social worker she will be. No, she is because, internship or not, she’s already doing the job.
“Time is precious,” she murmurs, clearly waiting for me to go on.
Instead, I keep driving. She sighs softly and looks out the window. I need to give myself time to process how I feel about this woman and pull the experience of seeing her again apart so that I can analyze the pieces. How much has changed because of her, and how much has changed because of the cancer?
The question, even asked silently to myself, seems gross and unfair to Lily, as if her personality isn’t enough, as if this hunger could be due to a health scare. Still, knowing I’ve only got a little while left …
Pulling up outside her apartment, I turn, draping my arm over the back of her chair. She sits forward, looking up at me. I swear, her eyes are actually sparkling, giving her an angelic look.
“Thanks for the drink,” she murmurs.
Stop, I tell myself. Think.
Yet I do neither. Instead, I reach forward and brush strands of hair from her face. Her mouth falls open. My heart is pounding harder than it has in years as I lean down toward her.
“Lily,” I whisper. Months, not years, months, not …
“What are you doing?” She leans back so quickly that the back of her head hits the window. “Was this a date?”
“I …” I stop. “You’re so beautiful.”
“I don’t—” She cuts herself off, shaking her head. “I can’t …”
I quickly lean away. She looks so young, her confused tone adding to the effect. No, not effect. She is almost twenty years younger than me. She might seem mature, but she has nearly half the life experience.
“I’m sorry,” I say.
“Don’t apologize,” she hisses, almost as if the apology, not the near kiss itself, is the worst part.
I open my mouth to reply—though I’m not sure what I will say—but she pushes the door open and climbs out before I can. She hurries across the street, not looking back, leaving me thinking maybe it’s for the best. Not feeling that … The only feeling I have is roaring at me to go after her.
Instead, I use… logic. I watch her leave. She wasn’t prepared for that. She thought she was reconnecting with a kind older man from her youth, not somebody with end-of-life thoughts messing with his head.
I sit in the car across the street for far too long. Minutes pass with me sitting here, watching the apartment, as though she’s going to emerge and tell me she’s realized her mistake. “I want you just like you want me …”
During the ride back, I try to reason it out. I’ve gone years feeling no attraction to anybody. Even when I was younger and did have girlfriends, it was never like this. There was never this urgency, this go now feeling. What’s more likely? Is Lily the most remarkable woman I’ve ever met, or am I going crazy because of the diagnosis?
I know it’s more likely to be the latter, but the former feels so undeniable. She seems so special, so interesting. I don’t want to get carried away, but I can’t put this down to just the illness.
Maybe it’s time to speak with somebody who can give me perspective. I call Ethan.
“Yo,” he says, answering. “Late call … is something wrong?”
“I need to explain some stuff to you,” I say. “I need you to agree not to ask any questions or make any comments until I finish. It’s going to be tough, E.”