“A stent isn’t even considered a surgery,” Charlie says. “Doctors do them all the time, and I was in and out the same day. But there were still risks. And even though Sam is a cardiologist and assured me that I was getting the best care, I could tell even he was getting anxious as my surgery date got closer.”
Charlie tells me the surgery means he has a normal life expectancy. He’s healing as he’s supposed to, but it will take a few months until he’s fully recovered. He won’t be able to return to work right away, but he’s not sure he wants to go back at all. He tells me how his diagnoses threw him, how worried he was when they waited for the results of Sam’s screening, and how anxious he’s been about the baby.
I bump into Sam in the hallway, and his hair is smooshed up on one side, like he’s been running a hand through it. Stress radiates from him—his daughter is coming any day. I ask what I can do to help, and he gives me the keys to Charlie’s condo.
I fill Charlie’s fridge with obnoxiously healthy foods; sort through his mail; water his single plant, a fiddle-leaf fig; and put fresh sheets on the bed.
The day before he’s released, we walk the halls of the hospital together.
“I couldn’t focus at work,” Charlie says as we turn back toward his room. “Recovery after the stent was straightforward, but waiting for this surgery really threw me. There was no reason not to work, and I was supposed to stay active, but I couldn’t bring myself to care about my job, so I took the sabbatical.”
“That sounds like it was the smartest thing to do,” I tell him. “Getting some time away to think, to relax.”
He looks at me, his eyes dancing. “Until I met a very troublesome redhead.”
“Careful,” I tell him. “I’m still furious you didn’t tell me.”
We reach his room, and Charlie’s voice softens. “You would have wanted to take care of me. You would have worried.”
“Yes.”
His eyes search my face, and even if I hadn’t told him how I feel, he would see it now. “You would have stuck with me, through all of it.”
I lift my chin. “Yes.”
“And I couldn’t ask that of you. You’ve given so much of yourself to other people. You told me once that you lost yourself in your last relationship. I wanted you to have the freedom you deserve. It wouldn’t have been fair to ask you to be tethered to someone like me.”
“Someone like you?”
“I’m broken, Alice.”
When Charlie said he’s not built for relationships, he meant it literally.
“I’m sorry,” he says, eyes pleading. “For everything I said that morning. I just couldn’t bring myself to tell you the truth. I didn’t want you to feel like you had to stand by me because of pity or a sense of loyalty.”
“I could never feel sorry for you,” I try to joke.
But Charlie steps closer, eyes darting between mine. “What if something had gone wrong? Or what if something does go wrong in the future? It’s possible. There could be complications. I may need another surgery in twenty or thirty years, and I won’t be as strong as I am now. I watched what losing my dad did to mymom.” He looks to his feet. “I’m not worth that kind of pain, Alice.”
“You can’t live in the what-ifs, Charlie. You’re here. I’m here. I wish your mom were here, too.”
His brows knit together. “Why?”
“Because I think she’d tell you how wrong you are. I think she’d tell you that all the pain and grief were worth every minute she had with your dad.” I put my hand on his cheek. “You’re worth it, Charlie. Whether you believe it or not.”
The next day, I get a phone call from a frantic-sounding Sam. “Alice? Hi. We’re on our way to the hospital.”
I jump to my feet. Charlie is being released today. “What’s happened? Is he okay?”
“Yes. Shit. Sorry. Percy’s water just broke, and her contractions are only a few minutes apart. We’re not going to Charlie’s hospital. We’re on our way to Mount Sinai.” Percy lets out a string of profanities in the background. “I’m supposed to pick Charlie up in thirty minutes,” he says, panicked.
“I’ll be there,” I say. “Don’t worry about any of it.”
“Thank you. I owe you.”
“Take a deep breath, Sam,” I tell him. “You’re going to be a dad.”
I hear him breathe. “Thanks, Alice. I’ll keep you posted.”
