Tim claps me on the shoulder. “C'mon, let's grab a cider.”
He leads me back outside to a couple of faded Adirondack chairs overlooking the orchard, away from the main hustle. Heducks into the press building for a second and comes back with two cold bottles of cider, handing one to me.
We sit. The silence is easy, comfortable. It’s been too long since we just... sat. Just the sounds of the farm—the distant chatter of families, the gentle hum of the press, the rustle of leaves.
“First time in person since August, man,” Tim says, taking a sip. “It's really, really good to see you.”
“It's good to see you, too, Tim.” I take a long pull of the cider. It's crisp and sharp and tastes like autumn. And then, without any prompting, without me even meaning to, the words just spill out. “Her biopsy results came back this morning.”
Tim sits up straight. After Maya’s hospital stay, I had given him a brief overview of what was going on with her. Now, all the casual friend energy of a few moments ago is gone, replaced by the focused attention of my best friend. “And?”
“Good,” I say, the word still tasting like a miracle on my tongue. “The news was... it was good. Mild damage. Manageable with the meds. No... no dialysis, nothing like that.”
“Zach,” he breathes, his face breaking into a grin of pure, unselfish happiness. “Zach, that's... that's incredible news. I'm so happy for you, man. For both of you.”
“It is,” I say, staring at the label on my bottle. “I'm so relieved. So... so happy. But...”
Tim just waits. He knows my “buts.”
“But I'm also... I'm terrified,” I admit, the words feeling stupid as I say them. “Even more than before. Does that make any sense? It's like... before, it was this abstract ‘what if.’ This... thisthingin the future. Now... it's real. She's okay,for now. And I feel like I'm just waiting. I'm waiting for the bad day. I'm waiting for the meds to stop working. I'm waiting for the other shoe to drop.”
I look at him, my gut twisting. “We're hiding this from our boss, Tim. What happens when... when we can't anymore? What if she gets really sick, and I... I don't know what to do?”
Tim is quiet for a long moment, just looking at me. He's not judging. He's just... listening.
“My little sister, Eva,” he says finally, his voice soft. “You know she has MS.”
I nod. I'd forgotten.
“She was diagnosed when she was nineteen,” he says, his gaze distant, fixed on the orchard. “I spent the first five years of her diagnosis doing exactly what you're doing right now. I'd call her every single day, and my first question wasn't ‘How are you?’ It was ‘How are yoursymptoms?’ I was just... waiting. Just like you. Every time she stumbled, I thought, ‘This is it.’ Every time she said she was tired, I was on WebMD researching new experimental treatments, convinced she was declining.”
He huffs a small, self-deprecating laugh. “It drove her insane. And it was drivingmeinsane. Finally, one day she just snapped. She sat me down and she wassopissed. She said, ‘Tim, I love you, but you have got to stop. I can't predict the bad days. They're going to come, whether I worry about them or not. All I can do is prepare for them and enjoy the hell out of the good ones in the meantime. And right now? You're ruining my good ones with all your anxiety.’”
He lets the words hang in the air between us.
You're ruining my good ones.
The truth of it hits me right in the chest. That's what I’ll be doing if I let my fear and anxiety about Maya’s health get in the way.
“You're scared,” Tim says, his voice kind. “It's because you care. A lot. I see it, man. It's written all over you. With Whitney...” He shakes his head, a quick, dismissive gesture.“This is different. What you feel for Maya... it's the real thing. And that's terrifying. But Eva was right.”
He leans forward, his elbows on his knees. “Maya's health... yeah, it'll probably have dips. That's just the nature of this stuff. But she doesn't need you to be anxiousforher, man. I promise you she's got that covered. What she needs is a partner. Someone who meets her needs, whatever they are that day. Someone who helps her out so that no matter how she feels physically, she has the mental and emotional support to just... keep living her life. Be the guy who helps her enjoy the good days. And be the guy who brings her soup and listens on the bad ones. That's it. You can't control the rest.”
I lean my head back against the worn wood of the chair and close my eyes. The sun is warm on my face.Enjoy the good ones. Help her live her life.
It's so simple. It's so... right.
All the coiled-up tension in my shoulders, the knot in my gut that's been there for days, maybe weeks... it just unwinds. It melts away. I take a deep breath, arealone, and it feels like the first one I've taken since I saw her in that hospital bed.
“You're a good friend, Tim,” I say, my voice a little thick. “You always know what to say.”
“Nah,” he says, leaning back again. “I'm just repeating what my little sister yelled at me. But I'm here for you, my friend. You know that. Always.”
We sit in comfortable silence for another few minutes, just drinking our cider, listening to the farm. I feel... light.
Just then, I see Maya walking back toward us, her tote bag on her shoulder. She's not alone. Sphinx is trotting at her heels like a little flesh colored shadow.
She’s beaming. She looks completely relaxed, and her cheeks are flushed from the warm room. Her smile is beautiful and genuine, and her eyes look bright and happy. The last, tiniestshred of my anxiety gives way to a rush of pure, unadulterated affection that's so strong it almost knocks the wind out of me.
