The two of us, sitting cross-legged in the corner, sharing a single copy ofPride and Prejudice. I insisted he had to read it because he needed some culture in the form of classic literature. I secretly loved the idea of the broody, quietly intense guy getting flustered over Mr. Darcy. Of course, he refused to read it on his own. Said he didn’t “connect with the prose”, whatever the hell that meant. So, week after week, I read it aloud to him right here in this corner.
He’d interrupt me every five minutes to argue that Darcy was an emotionally stunted egomaniac. I would pretend to get frustrated and roll my eyes, telling him that was the entire point. He was supposed to grow throughout the book. That’s what makes it a love story.
He’d roll his eyes. I’d smile back. And somehow, we’d never get through more than a chapter at a time.
Either of us could’ve bought the damn book and read it anywhere else but this bookstore, but we didn’t. We kept coming back here like it meant something. I don’t think we would’ve kept the routine anywhere else. Coming here wasour thing.
I squeeze my eyes shut for half a second, willing the past to stay where it belongs. But still, I find myself heading straight to the classics corner without needing to search. I know where it is.
My hand lands on the worn spine of a paperback copy ofPride and Prejudicefrom the shelf. I flip through the pages, hoping that it will be the same copy we read through all those years ago—the one where we dog-eared our favorite chapters for “future reference.”
A small ache stabs at my heart when I realize it’s not the same one. It's as if a part of me is gone forever, inthatcopy. A younger version of me, in love with a boy who was patient and loved the parts of me that I tried to throw away and was convinced no one could ever love.
I grab it anyway and clutch the book to my chest as I walk to the register before I can overthink it, or start to think about this same corner of the bookstore being the first place I realized I was falling in love with Alex after our first kiss.
Cam doesn’t ask why I’d insisted on coming or why I bought the book. He doesn’t say anything at all. He simply gives me a nod as a way to ask if I’m okay or got what I needed. I nod back in silent response as I climb back into the car. He drives me home, tapping his fingers on the steering wheel rhythmically. It feels like he’s trying to figure out what to say, but can’t come up with anything of substance beyond the condition of my heart and all the other medical jargon that was spewed out during my appointment.
No one knows what to say to me anymore. Not Leo, Cam, Frankie… or even Liv.
Everyone that knows about the failing heart inside my chest seems to be at a loss for words beyond regular small talk.
I get it. If the roles were reversed and one of them was in my situation, I don’t know that I would have the right words to sayeither. But being on the receiving end is shitty. I feel like a ticking timebomb with everyone constantly on edge, waiting for me to explode… or in this case,die.
A few months ago, the silence might’ve bothered me, but not anymore. I physically do not have the energy to care to fill it anymore. There’s nothing to talk about that hasn’t already been said a million times.
When we pull up to the yellow house, Leo’s work truck is in the driveway. As I walk through the front door, I find him crouched in the kitchen, his sleeves rolled up with a wrench in hand, as he fixes a leak under the faucet.
“I remembered this faucet had a leak that I never got around to fixing,” he says without coming out from under the sink. “Figured I’d fix it before it flooded the place.”
“Appreciate it,” I say, setting my bag down by the entryway.
Leo finally pokes his head out after a beat. His eyes find mine and I can feel him studying me, trying to find any clue on how I am feeling.
Ticking timebomb.
“Cam told me how the appointment went.”
Cam must’ve called him to talkin about all thewonderfulnews while I was in the bookstore.
I force a smile. “Yeah, well. Not the best Yelp review, but I’ll live another day… for now.” The joke is weak, barely even a joke, but it’s all I’ve got.
Leo doesn’t laugh. Getting to his feet, he sets the wrench down on the counter and crosses his arms. “You scared?”
The question slices through my chest. I open my mouth to deny it and brush it off, but my throat locks up. No one has asked me that question yet, probably out of fear of what I’m going to say.
That I’ll say I’m terrified of dying. That I wake up some nights convinced my heart is going to give out before the suncomes up. That I lie there, staring at the ceiling, counting beats like I can bargain with each one.
Please just one more.
Just one more.
Just. One. More.
Everyday I go through the motions. I smile, I laugh, I make sarcastic comments about my heart like it’s some kind of punchline, trying to convince myself that if I say it before anyone else can, maybe it won’t feel like it’s swallowing me whole.
I’m so goddamn scared I don’t know where to put it all. There’s no box big enough for this kind of fear.
No one tells you how grief starts before the ending. You mourn your own life while you’re still living it. You sit at a table with the people you love and wonder if it’s the last time. You look at your siblings or best friends and feel your heart crack because what if you don’t get to see them anymore after that moment?
