He stood in the middle of the apartment, between the living room and the kitchen, looking lost.
I folded my arms across my chest, hugging myself as I waited for him to go first.
"You need surgery," he said. The words weren't a question.
"Yes."
"And that's why you really broke up with me," he said. "You thought I wouldn't be able to handle it."
He sounded almost angry. Like he was upset I didn't trust him. But it had nothing to do with trust.
"You couldn't even handle the thought of me going indoor skydiving," I said. "You really think you can handle sitting there while I go under the knife, knowing there's a risk I might not even make it through surgery, and even if I do, I'll still be an invalid for months? You think you'll be able to concentrate on a tour if you know I'm at home, alone, in pain and unable to take care of myself?"
"I—"
"It was bad enough knowing what my illness did to my parents," I interrupted him before he could say a word. "I'm not going to let it ruin your life, too."
"You think I don't understand illness?" he said.
"I know you do."
And that was why I couldn't let him go through it again.
"My mom was stuck at home taking care of me my whole life," I began. "She had to quit her job. She had to quit all her hobbies. Someone needed to take me to all my appointments. Someone needed to be with me round the clock during times when I was bedridden. They couldn't afford to hire a full-time caregiver, and besides, they wouldn't have trusted a stranger with their sick only child anyway. She'd rearranged her whole life and dedicated it to taking care of mine. I wasn't the only one who had missed out on things."
"Becca—"
"My dad hates his job," I cut in. "It causes him so much stress and anxiety. It's a toxic work environment. But the insurance is too good. He can't leave. I have a preexisting condition and no other insurance will take us for what we can afford. He's stuck there, even though the stress makes him physically ill at times. He does it for me."
It was only once I grew old enough to realize what my parents had given up for me that I truly learned what guilt was.
"It was hard for me," I said. "But it was even harder for my parents. They didn't get to experience raising a happy, healthy child. They had to devote their whole lives to taking care of me, knowing at any minute something terrible might happen and they might lose me." The back of my eyes burned with hot, salty tears. "That's why I could never place that type of burden on anyone else."
"I looked it up," was all he said, not trying to counter any of my points.
"Looked up what?" I asked, blinking back the tears.
"The risk of open heart surgery going badly is only one percent."
"There's still a chance."
"And there's a chance you might get hit by a bus on your way to work tomorrow," he said. "I'm not going to let fear ruin this for us."
"It's not just that," I said. "I can't ask you to give up your life, your career, yourdream, for me."
"Becca, I'm rich," he said bluntly. "I'm paying for the best care for my mom. I'll pay for the best care for you."
"Nathan…"
"I'm serious," he insisted, his blue eyes firm and determined. "I promise, I'll be there every moment I can, and if I absolutely can't, I'll make sure you're well cared for."
"I can't ask you to do that for me."
"I'm offering. Because I swear to god, I am not going to lose you."
My eyes filled with unshed tears. "You might anyway."
"Then we better make the most of our time together."
