34
"You ready for this?" Nathan murmured in my ear.
"No," I muttered, before raising my voice. "Mom? Dad?" I knew my mom was upstairs putting away laundry and I could hear my dad typing away on his laptop in the living room. "Can you guys come into the kitchen for a second, please?"
The clacking of computer keys stopped, going quiet, as did the rest of the house. It was eerie. I could hear Nathan breathing beside me.
I squeezed his hand.
"It'll be fine," he whispered.
My mom was making her way downstairs on light feet. She saw me in the kitchen first, hand in hand with Nathan.
Hand in hand with the man I loved. With the man who loved me.
Her eyes went round.
"Don't freak out," I told her.
"What is it, honey?" my dad asked as he came into the kitchen. "What's wrong—"
He stopped short, too. My parents stared at us.
My throat closed up.
Nathan stepped forward and offered his hand to my dad.
"Mr. Miller," he said, as polite as I'd ever heard him. My dad took his hand reflexively and gave it a single pump. Nathan turned to my mom and did the same. "Mrs. Miller." She shook his numbly.
"It's nice to finally meet you," he said. "I'm Nathan Walker, Becca's boyfriend."
I couldn't stop a beaming grin from lighting up my face. I knew we'd just confessed our love to each other, but hearing the wordboyfriendout loud from Nathan's lips sent joy singing through me.
"I see," my mom replied. Her eyes roved over Nathan's arms, taking in the multitude of tattoos. "I thought you two had broken up."
"We're back together," I explained. "We've talked things out and Nathan made me realize a few things."
"Such as?" my dad cut in.
"That we love each other," Nathan replied. "And that nothing about Becca's illness is going to stop me from being with her."
My mom and dad looked taken aback.
"I didn't actually ask you guys to come in here to talk about Nathan," I said. "We're together. End of story. Nothing you say or do will change that. I just wanted him here for the moral support, because I need to tell you something else."
My parents looked as if they'd both gone through whiplash. They turned toward each other, having a silent conversation with their eyes, the way long-time couples did. Even when they fought with each other, they still understood one another. Confusion turned into worry, and then that worry turned into fear.
Before they could work themselves up too much, I spoke up.
"I had a check up recently," I told them without preamble. "They found that a part of my pulmonary valve is tearing off. I'm going to need open heart surgery to replace it."
They held themselves still, neither one of them breathing, as if waiting for something worse to come along.
It was. But not in the way they thought.
"And I'm moving out," I told them.
"Becca!" they both protested, my mom shrilly, my dad low and growling.
