At least he was decent in that aspect because the thought of putting my mouth on him after he'd beeninsideElise makes me sick to my stomach.
Did Elise pick up her entire life after college and follow him to his hometown? Did she cook his food, do his laundry, or bake him his favorite red velvet cakefrom scratchon his birthday every year? Did she schedule his doctor and dentist appointments when he forgot to?
Did she do all of this after working a forty-hour work week with an almost hour commute to and from, just so he could live in his hometown, where he's with his family, and where he's beloved by all who encounter him?
I did.
I memorized how he took his coffee and made it for him every morning because it made him happy. I packed his lunch every morning and placed those little love notes in his bag to make him feel better if he was having a rough day.
I showed up and chose him every moment we were together.
And when I got the diagnosis? I didn't ask him to fix it, or trade places with me, or perform a miracle.
I just asked him to be there for me so I wouldn't be alone. To drive me to chemotherapy and hold my hand. To still tell me I was beautiful when my hair was gone, even if it was a lie.
To love me when it wasn't convenient, when it wasn't easy. Because this wasn't going to be easy, it would be hard, consuming, and painful.
I was asking him to stay—to just stay.
And I had assumed he would because what the hell have the last six years been for if not for building a partnership?
And I keep thinking—what if the roles were reversed?What would I have done if Paul had been the one diagnosed withcancer?
I don't even have to think hard because I know my answer instantly.
There's not a version of me, in any universe, who walks away from him when he's sick and needs me.
Not one.
I would've held his hand through every appointment. I would've packed his chemo bag with his favorite snacks and silly little gifts. I would have made ridiculous playlists and danced around the apartment to make him laugh on the worst days. I would've told him he was brave every single morning. I would've kissed his bald head and rubbed his shoulders and stayed up all night to soothe his fears.
I would've loved him,in sickness and in health.
I would havestayed.
I gave myself Thursday night to cry, as Tess told me. It was a cleansing cry, loud sobs muffled in the shower, purging every sad emotion out of me.
The next day, I woke up and went to work.
My meeting with my boss on Friday to discuss remote accommodation went extremely well, and she said that whatever I needed, the company would back me. I buried myself in spreadsheets and numbers, coloring in cells, moving decimal points, analyzing quarterly shifts—each one a welcome, numbing distraction.
Saturday and Sunday, I didn't stop moving. I spent the weekend cleaning, organizing, and washing every piece of clothing I owned with a brand-new laundry detergent that wouldn't remind me of him.
I cleaned out the fridge and threw out anything that was his and scrubbed the counters until I could see my reflection. Idusted the bookshelves, one by one, placing any knick-knacks that reminded me of'us'in boxes designated for the thrift store.
I cried only a little while doing it, because those things were attached to happy memories. I'm not angry at the memories, just the way they are swallowed by the hurt now.
Letting the grief crawl out of me in pieces was kind of nice, and sometime in the last twenty-four hours, my heartbreak has evolved.
It's calcified into something angrier.
Andthatfeels better.
Every time his stupid, beautiful face flickers across my memory—those blue eyes, that crooked smile, the voice that once made me melt—I force myself to focus on the betrayal, the disloyalty, the cowardice of it all.
Anger, I’ve learned, isproductive.
I can channel anger into movement, into action, into spreadsheets and gleaming floors and organized bookshelves.
