He chuckles. I feel it low in my stomach. With my eyes closed, I can almost pretend he’s on the swing next to me.
“You can always call, Otto,” I add.
I’m torn between the desire to stay close to him and the impulse to push him away. Both hurt, in different ways. Neither seems sustainable. Talking to him makes me miss him more. Not talking to him makes me miss him more.
We’re both silent for a minute. And I wish it were awkward, for the week since I saw him to have grown into an obstacle of uncomfortable pauses as we struggle to come up with things to say to each other. Instead, I’m more relaxed than I’ve been in days, swinging under the stars, listening to him breathe.
“I saw my grandfather last week,” he tells me.
“How did it go?” I can’t tell, based on his tone.
“Good. And awful. He is sick. The illness is terminal.”
My feet hit the ground with a thud, nearly pulling me off the swing. “Otto, I’m?—”
“I do not want to talk about it. I-I am not ready to talk about it. I just wanted you to know. You were the person I needed to tell.”
He’s never said he loves me. Again, it’s a tug-of-war in my chest—I want to hear the words but know they’d only hurt in the long run. But needing someone and loving someone sound very similar.
“This might not make sense, but it was the best visit we had in a long time,” Otto continues. “We talked about some things we had needed to for many years.”
“That makes perfect sense,” I reply. “You appreciate everything more when you know time is limited.”
“I knew you would understand,” he says quietly.
Otto probably thinks I’m talking about my mom, and I am. But I’m talking about us too. Honesty is easier under a ticking clock. It’s the only reason I was brave enough to addloveto the note I left him.
“How long does he have?”
“Six months. They found the tumor before his hip surgery. It had already spread. Even if he did treatment, which he has decided against, it would not…” I hear him exhale before he asks, “Do you think Cassidy will say yes?”
“I do,” I answer. “She’s more…unconventional than I am, but she loves Josh. And she’s always wanted to get married. When we were younger, she’d have me officiate. Gabe, our dog, was the groom.”
“Are there photos?”
“No,” I say quickly, although there probably are. Maybe in the album my parents were looking at together.
He laughs, likely hearing the lie, then asks, “What about you?”
“What about me?” I stall, unsure if I’m misunderstanding.
“Have you always wanted to get married?”
“No. I…I think that stability scares me.”
He waits, so I continue, “Before my dad left, we were whole. After, we weren’t. It happened so fast, and I never saw it coming. Trusting that things will stay the same feels…foolish now that I know how easily they can change.” I chew the inside of my cheek until I taste copper, forcing myself to add, “You saying, ‘I don’t know,’ in Paris—well, it hurt at the time, but I appreciated your honesty. That you told me the truth instead of what I wanted to hear.”
Silence follows, and I start to panic a little. That was too honest, and I said too much and?—
“My answer would be different now, Claire. I was scared to—my parents were never together. I never met my dad. I had no example of what a healthy relationship looked like. I was scared for you to rely on something I was not certain I could give you.”
I press a hand to my mouth, stifling any sound that might escape. My nose is doing that tingling thing that happens before I start crying.
I search my brain for anything that might resemble a neutral topic, blurting the first thought that occurs to me. “My dad and I are taking Tommy to the zoo tomorrow.”
There’s a pause before Otto asks, “Do they have tokens?”
I cover my sniffle with a short laugh. “Not sure. We’ll find out. I’m…nervous about it. We haven’t spent much—any—quality time together since the divorce. I ran into him, visiting my mom, and it went better than I thought it would, so hopefully, this is the same.”
