Her trembling lip turns into a full-on shake before the tears fall freely down her cheeks. "I’m just scared, you know?"
I want to tell her that I know. That I’m scared for her, too. But I don’t, because that isn’t what she needs.
"Anyway, it’s late. And I need to get off my phone and get some sleep. Goodnight, Avery."
"Okay," I say softly. "Goodnight."
The call ends, and I’m left staring at a black screen.
I meant to tell her to sleep well. To call if she needed anything.
But I didn’t.
I sigh and open Orlando’s text. He wants to meet at the gym before our flight out.Great.
I spend the rest of the night spiraling, Googling medical trials, digging through articles about the kind of medication she’s on and the side effects they don’t tell you about.
Even though I already know most of it.
I did the same thing back when Orlando showed up at our dorm room, completely ruined after getting his diagnosis.
I remember sitting on the floor with my laptop, doing everything I could to understand something I’d never be able to fix.
And now here I am again. Same spiral. Different person.
When he and I cried for hours about the ‘what ifs?’and the‘what nows?’
It was also the same day that we both determined he would be okay.
And it’s how I know Olive will be, too.
Chapter thirty-five
Avery
I’mstandinginacramped Portuguese grocery store off Ninth Street in the East Village, holding two nearly identical jars of preserved cod and wondering if I’ve made a huge mistake.
The place smells like dried fish, spices, and olive oil, and everything on the labels is in Portuguese. I glance down at the handwritten list in my hand, and only three of the items are checked off.
This was supposed to be simple.
Buy ingredients. Cook the thing. Impress my wife.
"How hard canBacalhau à Brásbe?" I mutter under my breath. "It’s basically shredded cod, eggs, and potatoes. Throw it all in a pan and cook."
"Are you sure you want to even attempt this?" Orlando asks, standing beside me and just as confused as I am. "I am almost certain you’re not supposed to justthrow the ingredients in and let them cook, but I’m not here to interfere." He takes the listfrom me. "This is a lot of effort to go to for a woman you don’t know all that well," he says, eyeing me suspiciously.
I shrug it off. "She’s my wife. And like yousaid, I don’t know her as well as I would like to. I’m hoping this helps with that a little."
"You wouldliketo get to know her, or youshouldget to know her?" he questions, right as I pick up golden potatoes and throw them into my cart.
"What’s the difference?"
"The difference, my brother, is that you are not obliged to cook your pretend wife dinner from a country she’s never been to. It’s not a part of your contract to cook her dinner, period. And yet, here we are, buying things you thought were only sold in this one store, which tells me one thing. Well, two."
I can hear the arrogance in his words, but my mind is too preoccupied to get defensive about them. "Go on, tell me what you think you know."
"One, you’ve done your research. You’ve never cared about anybodyenough to go to lengths like this for no reason. And that reason brings me to point two. You like her."
