Page 137 of Last Letters to Ara
I look over to Theo, who’s focusing all of his attention on making us coffee so as not to invade my privacy. It makes me smile, his thoughtfulness.
The memory of last night appears in my mind, the red carpet and paparazzi, verbally assaulting his father and everything that came after. I think about my phone and the thousands of people wanting to see more of my designs.
My heart doesn’t stop, it continues beating faster and faster. It’s a heavy, consistent rhythm, harder and harder, until I’m sure it’s going to burst from my chest as I make my decision.
Theo - Last Year
IT TOOK Afew weeks, but we’ve finally finished throwing away everything William deemed to be “old crap.” The house is squeaky clean and ready to be sold or rented or whatever will get done with the house.
William says he hasn’t found it in himself to be able to write the letters to Ara. I know he tries to. I see him sitting at his desk in his home office day after day, staring at the blank paper. Sometimes, he has to toss the page on top when it becomes covered in tears.
That’s where he is sitting now. I know he wants to finish them before things get too bad, but we don’t talk about when that time will come as I can see that it’s getting closer and closer.
I started staying with William two nights ago. I had to tell Connor that I was going to some author conference, and William told Ara he’s been shipped off to some mandatory retreat. It won’t be long before he’s going to need care that I can’t provide, and it’s a hard truth to confront.
My phone buzzes and it’s a message from Phil. I still feel the need to pinch myself when messages from the head of Puffin Press come in, after he decided to personally oversee the progress of my novel toward publication.
Phil: Editor says it’s looking good so far. Keep you updated.
I type a quick message to thank him for the update and make my way to William’s office. Even though the door is open, I lightly knock on the trim around the doorway, and he looks up.
“Come on in, Theo.”
I walk over and take a seat. “Doing okay?”
He rubs his temples. “I’ve seen better days, that’s for sure.”
“Need anything?”
“No, I’m still working on that tea you made me earlier.” He takes in a wet, wheezy breath that even as a usually non-aggressive person makes me want to throw something against the wall. If only my anger would be enough to drive that shit out of his lungs. “You know, nobody says how much impending doom gets the wheels turning in a head.”
His dry humor, even at the worst of times, will never get old. I crack a grin despite myself. “What are the wheels turning around today?”
William smirks. HeSMIRKS.
In the month that I’ve been following this man around, I’ve seen contemplation, kindness, amusement, regret, loss, and even despair but I haveneverseen Willaim smirk. “I was thinking about something I’ve never told anyone.”
“Have you decided to finally share?”
“It was one of my proudest moments, so someone ought to bask in my glory, before it dies with me.”
“I’m on the edge of my metaphorical seat already.”
“Help me to the living room, that way you have an actual seat, and I can tell you.”
I hate this part. Where the signs of his decline become so obvious. When he sits at his desk we can pretend. When we sit on the couch, laughing at something on the TV, we can pretend. We can pretend to be old pals in a bachelor pad enjoying a bromance-only version of the single life. But when it’s time to move?
I give him my forearm for support as he heaves himself up, just as I duck down to wrap his arm around my shoulder and my arm around his waist.
“I better get over this drinking problem of mine pretty soon.”
William likes to pretend that I’m getting him home drunk whenever we have to walk.
I give him a laugh, but we both know it’s not a real one. We make it through the hall and I get him settled gently into his recliner. Taking a seat on the couch beside his chair, I watch him become more animated than I’ve ever seen.
“It’s first period biology with Mr. Jenkins, who was a very loyal, very conservative,properChristian man.” He smiles a little, pleased with his description and set-up for the story. “You see, I knew that Tuesday afternoons he would stay behind and get the VHS for the next day’s class set up on the TV. That way all he had to do was push play.”
Before he can continue, he’s taken over by a fit of coughs. I get up and run to the kitchen, coming back with a glass of lukewarm water. He takes it from me gingerly and sips it down to soothe his throat. “Thank you. Now where was I?”
