Page 41 of That's Not a Thing

He sits silently, looking across the desk at me, waiting for me to continue.

“You can move in with us. It’s perfect. We have a second bedroom that’s empty. You can stay for as long as you want.”

“Us?” he asks. “You and your fiancé?”

“It’s perfect,” I say again. “You’ll have all the conveniences of the city, instead of being out in the ’burbs. You won’t be alone, so if you need something, you’ll have people to help you. And Aaron’s a doctor!” I nearly shout, as I realize this added benefit. Never mind that neonatal surgeons don’t usually deal in ALS; his medical training could still come in handy.

Wesley regards me silently for a moment and then squints, like he’s trying to see me better. “You’re joking, right?” His lip ticks up on one side.

“Not even a little.” I shake my head.

“Right.” His voice is ripe with skepticism. “And this will be just what Dr. Aaron wants, too, right—his fiancée’s old flame shacking up with them? Thanks for the suggestion. I know you mean well, but I think you’re entirely insane.” He gives me a genuine smile, and I melt a little inside.

“Do you at least have a wheelchair lined up?” I ask, relenting. “I know they can take a long time to get, and you should have it ready for when you need it.”

He nods. “I do, actually. I’m going straight to motorized. The way I see it, if I’m strong enough to use my arms to push a chair, I’m strong enough to balance on my canes. So, basically, no wheelchair until my arms go, too.”

“That’s so dumb,” I tell him, affection taking hold of me, grabbing at my whole body so intensely that I feel like it’s even clouding my vision. “Can I at least come back and visit you? Make sure you’re doing okay?”

“Of course.” He nods up at me, and I feel like we are genuinely connecting for the first time this decade. The relief I feel at penetrating his force field is intense, like I can finally let out a breath I’ve been holding since he left.

He glances over at his ebony canes, and I quickly duck down to retrieve the one that’s fallen to the floor beside of the desk, and then the other.

“And please think about using a chair,” I say as he begins to stand, using the armrests of the desk chair for more support than he should. “I don’t want our next visit to be in a hospital.”

“I like knowing that there will be a next visit,” he says as he takes the canes from my hand, his fingers lingering against mine. A shiver of electricity runs through my body, and what I feel from his touch is definitely not guilt.

THAT NIGHT, I’Mdrizzling balsamic glaze on slices of fresh mozzarella when I hear Aaron’s key in the door. The timing of his shift at the hospital prevented us from having dinner together, but I’ve gotten into the habit of making a small bite to share even when he gets home late. Somehow, eating together in the evening feels intimate, homey, like we’re a family. I’m trying to get into the spirit of my upcoming role as Mrs. Aaron Rapp, wife of the illustrious Dr. Rapp. I think about all those yoga instructors and motivational speakers who insist that the physical act of smiling can boost your mood, even if you have to force the expression onto your face. I know my feelings for Aaron aren’t forced, that I’m not preparing this cheese platter for him in an effort to mimic emotions I don’t feel. It’s just that after each time I’ve been with Wesley, I have to dig deeper to locate my attachment to Aaron, and I don’t want to lose my way or forget what’s important to me.

I walk out from the galley kitchen with the plate of cheese and greet Aaron as he drops his leather messenger bag near the door. He’s still wearing his powder-blue scrubs, which is unusual for him. I worry that it was a rough day at the hospital, that a baby died. I feel a flicker of annoyance that I’m going to have to play therapist for the devastated doctor who couldn’t save a life today, and then I hate myself for having that thought.

“Why the scrubs?” I ask.

He looks down at his body, as though he’s forgotten what he’s wearing. “Oh, nothing. A surgery ran late, and I didn’t want to waste time changing before I got home to you.”

Oh. Right. Well, I just suck.

He walks toward me and grabs a disk of mozzarella off the plate in my hand, pecking me on the cheek with his warm lips before putting the entire piece of cheese into his mouth.

“Hey,” I protest. “You’re messing up my display. This is meant to be enjoyed with wine. And maybe even a fork. Come, sit.”

I place the platter on the wooden coffee table and scamper back to the kitchen for the red wine I opened moments ago.

“Did you see Wesley?” Aaron calls out from the living room.

Well, I guess there won’t be any beating around the bush today. “Yeah, hang on.” I’m stalling, unsure how much I want to share

But then I walk out of the kitchen and see Aaron with his feet up on the coffee table, the expression on his broad face tolerant, collaborative, even, as he waits for me to answer. As usual, the comfort that I feel in his presence takes hold and I just want to unload, to share my feelings with him, to lean on someone. It’s probably unfair of me. It’s definitely unfair of me, but I need to talk through my feelings.

“He looks terrible.”Well, not his face, I think. I place two bulbous wineglasses on the coffee table and sit down next to Aaron, my hip pushing into his. I pour us each a copious amount as I continue. “He’s already hobbling around on two canes. I don’t understand it. I thought ALS was slow in how it progresses. It’s barely been a couple months since I saw him last, and already he’s starting to fall apart.” I can feel myself looking to Aaron for answers, for some sort of emotional foothold.

He sighs as he leans forward to pick up his wine, as if it genuinely dismays him to hear that Wesley isn’t doing well. “ALS is like that. Some people have good luck and the disease moves slowly. For other people, not so much. It’s one of those conditions with little rhyme or reason to it.”

“Do you think it’s his fault for not getting diagnosed soon enough? Like, maybe getting on medicine sooner might have slowed the progression?” I ask, feeling a little desperate for a direction in which to cast blame.

“Maybe.” He shrugs. “There’s no way to know.” He hands me the other wineglass, then takes another piece of cheese from the platter. We’re both quiet as he chews.

I break the silence as I slump back onto the couch. “I just feel so bad.” The taste of the wine is bitter against my tongue. “He doesn’t have anyone. He’s taking Ubers out to his parents’ empty house in Westchester every night and then Ubering back into the city when he wants to go to the restaurant. Oh, and he sold it, the restaurant, to someone who may totally ruin its vibe once Wesley’s completely out of the picture.” He must have made a killing on the sale, so at least he’s got some funds.