I could hear him breathing. I could almost picture him in his study, haunched by those massive windows, his face tight with disapproval.
“Love? Since when does my rascal of a grandson fall in love?”
“Is that supposed to be an insult?”
“It’s because I know you,” he said, “You’ve spent your entire life avoiding commitment. You’ve never been in a relationship longer than six months. And now suddenly you’re married and claiming it’s love?”
“I’m sorry I didn’t honor our agreement,” I said. “But I’m not sorry I married her.” I was irritated by how much I had to justify my decision of loving someone.
“I want to meet her. Properly. As your wife. Bring her to dinner this weekend.”
“We’re on our honeymoon.”
“You married this girl in front of strangers and cameras. The least you can do is introduce her to your family.” His tone sharpened.
“I’ll talk to Claudette.”
I hung up before he could say more.
I set my phone down and pressed my palms to the counter, exhaling hard, thinking about everything I’d done since that night in the desert to keep this fiction alive.
It had taken a small fortune to erase every trace of my engagement from the internet. Every article, every photo, every mention of Hannah scrubbed clean. I’d hired people whose entire job was making sure when Claudette searched my name, she’d find nothing but business articles and that wedding video.
The Pierce family had been furious. Threatened lawsuits, but it was nothing I wouldn’t be able to handle.
Then there was Pauline. I’d talked with her before she met Claudette, explained the wedding, the memory loss, the tumor, the fact that Claudette had no idea she was dying.
“You want me to lie to her?” Pauline had said.
“I want us to give her what she asked for. To be treated like she’s normal.”
She’d agreed. Knowing how much this meant for her friend.
Now everyone was lying. Her parents, not calling to ask about her illness. Jack himself, calling every day to check on his sister while carrying the weight of watching her wither slowly. Pauline, maintaining the fiction that we’d been in love. Dr. Rivera, checking on Claudette without mentioning the tumor.
All of us building a house of cards that would collapse the second she remembered. Or the second her symptoms got too severe to hide.
This was what I’d signed up for. But I’d do it because I remembered that night in the desert constantly. The way she’d looked at freedom with such pure joy on her face.
I’d promised her that—silently, while she was unconscious in my arms and I was terrified I’d already lost her. I’d promised I’d give her normalcy. Give her happiness. Give her everything she’d asked for.
Even if it meant carrying the weight of her death alone.
The days since she’d woken up had been carefully constructed, me watching her constantly while pretendingI wasn’t. Noticing every symptom—headaches, dizziness, moments where she’d pause and press her fingers to her temple.
That first day, she slept most of the time. Dr. Rivera said her brain needed rest after the seizure. I’d checked on her every hour anyway.
I’d been terrified constantly since that night. A terror that lived in my bones now. Every time she closed her eyes, I wondered if she’d wake up again. Every time she mentioned her head hurting, I wondered if this was it. If her brain was bleeding. If I was about to lose her and our last conversation would be me lying about something trivial.
The second day she’d been more alert. Asked questions I couldn’t answer honestly. I’d distracted her with food and safe conversation. Watched her laugh at something I’d said and felt my chest constrict because how many more times would I hear that sound? How many more mornings would I wake up and find her still breathing next to me?
This morning, she’d seemed almost normal. Moving around the penthouse in my t-shirts. Texting Pauline and teasing me over breakfast.
And I’d smiled back while Dr. Rivera’s timeline played on repeat in my head.
‘We don’t know when the next seizure is going to occur’
I was memorizing her. Had been since the moment she woke up. The way she tucked hair behind her ear when she was thinking. The way she bit her lip when she was embarrassed. The way she looked in the morning with sleep still soft in her eyes. The sound of her laugh. The curve of her smile. The way she said my name.
