Page 30 of Lessons in Lemonade

A small chuckle comes out of me. I’m surprised, given our current circumstance, and I think she is too as a tiny smile slips over her lips.

“Well then.”

“I know, right?” She shakes her head then leans over to remove the tray in front of me and stacks it with hers.

“How did you get out of there then?”

“Once we got inside, he ordered us a beer at the bar, and I just asked him. At first he looked surprised, and then he got an attitude about why that mattered, and that’s when I called it a night. He didn’t say anything as I kindly thanked him for dinner and left.”

“That explains the aged cheddar.” I smirk at her, and she grins in return.

Silence falls over us again, and eventually the heavy weight of my eyes has them drifting shut. At the sound of movement next to me, I crack them open and watch as Meg unfolds a blanket and drapes it over my chest and lap. A whiff of her perfume floats my way, the same smell that engulfed me in the training room, and my gaze falls to her neck. She’s so tiny, her skin so smooth, and I find that if I could, I would absolutely lean into her again.

As she settles back into her seat, I let out a deep breath, and the exhaustion of the last hour and a half sinks in. Disappointment is a funny thing. It taints the soul with a good mixture of ache and numbness, and today it’s been handed out in spades. While I am so grateful she is here, I feel that disappointment with her a little as well. I know she let that guy in December kiss her, but I’ve often wondered if she ever allows for more. I know it’s none of my business what she does, even if I don’t like it, but that doesn’t change the fact that deep down I wish she were kissing me.

Pineapple Banana Bread

EVERYONE HAS A number, a number that’s their favorite, one they love, or just one they gravitate toward, and for me that number is one. I like being number one at things, always have. I was first chair cello when I was in school and graduated in the number one position at the top of my class as valedictorian, but it’s also about being the kind of friend where I’m the first one people call when they need help. So, it wasn’t surprising when I learned about numerology and discovered my number is one. I laughed to myself and soaked up the attributes that go along with it: independence, leadership, trailblazing, entrepreneurship, creativity, and originality.

Then, ironically when I was twenty-one, I went to one routine doctor’s appointment, had one image scan, one blood draw, and that turned into one diagnosis.

Ovarian cancer.

From there, everything changed, and for the next six months I lived one day at a time.

Back and forth to one hospital, where there was really only one emotion I lived with every day . . . fear.

If I’m being honest with myself, I still live with fear.

It shouldn’t come as a surprise to anyone that being in a hospital, even though it isn’t for me or one I’m familiar with, still causes me anxiety. I’m doing my best to not let it show, but I know it’s there whether he sees it or not. He probably doesn’t, but I’m surprised by how hard it is to keep it buried away.

He finally fell asleep on the plane, and I think I got a little bit of a rest, but mostly I was wide awake with the knowledge of where we were heading. It’s a good thing this is a different hospital, because I’m certain my reaction would have been infinitely more noticeable had it been mine.

Just remembering the sights, the smells—mainly the antiseptic one—the room temperature, the people, the noises . . . all of it has me cringing and my insides protesting. But, being the best friend I’m supposed to be, I’m mentally sucking it up because he needs me.

And he does.

I’m not sure if he would ever admit it or not, but the haunted look in his eyes has only increased with each state we pass over, his grip on my hand only strengthened. I wondered about the pain medicine wearing off, but he never said anything. It was when we landed that the driver told us he was sorry about our team, said he was really pulling for them. Jack mumbled a thanks in return then leaned his head back against the seat and closed his eyes.

The Tarpons lost the Super Bowl.

What an overall disappointing experience.

I had been hanging on to the hope that they would win and that would help his disposition, but the news just made things worse as he further retreated into himself.

When we eventually arrived at the hospital, they didn’t take us to the emergency room; instead they put Jack in a wheelchair and escorted us to a private room. There was a flurry of activity to get him admitted and prepped for surgery, during which he didn’t say much, just mumbled kindly to those who were helping him and stared at me as if I were his lifeline.

“All right, Mr. Willett, let’s get you changed and then I’ll get that IV all set up in your hand,” says the nurse assigned to him. She’s an older lady, and she’s been unwaveringly kind since we arrived.

“She’ll help me,” he says to her, and that’s when I see her holding a hospital gown. She gives me a pitiful but understanding look, lays it on the foot of the bed, and slips out of the room. Everyone has looked at us pitifully. It’s unnerving for me; I can’t imagine how it is for him.

He and I are both quiet as we stare at the blue and white checked gown.

“You know you don’t have to stay for this.” Fingers squeeze around my hand, and I glance down—I had forgotten he was still holding it—then I look at his face. “I’ll be all right, and you heard them—I’ll be home just after lunch,” he says quietly, his voice rough. It feels like this is the first thing he’s said to me in hours.

“I know I don’t have to stay, but I want to. There’s nowhere I’d rather be right now than here with you.” I squeeze his hand in return and nod at him encouragingly.

Dark shadows have further settled in underneath his chocolate-coated eyes, and his skin, which is usually golden and tanned, has paled. He looks like a different person, but not at the same time. I miss my happy, funny guy.