Page 208 of 72 Hours of You

“I don’t know,” Peter sighs. “With the Huntington’s thing … I just wasn’t sure I wanted to spend all those years in school. Especially if …”

“Yeah,” I say, “I get it.”

“So I was saving for something else. I thought maybe I’d go backpacking through Europe. It’s such a cheesy American cliché, I know—”

“No. It’s not a cliché. Well, okay, it is. But you’re allowed.”

31:12:15

“I didn’t want to see the Roman Colosseum or the Vatican or the Eiffel Tower. But there are these walled cities in Italy,” he says. “I wanted to walk inside one of those. Or maybe stay at one of those agriturismo places where they cook food from their farm.” He leans back on the headboard. “I always imagined myself hopping around to tiny little towns, making friends with the locals … really being there, you know?”

I nod. I can see the whole thing play out in my mind like a movie. Peter eating gelato on cobblestone streets. Peter laughing with some old guy playing chess in a town square. Peter overpaying for tomatoes because he refuses to negotiate. And maybe I’m there too. Maybe he’s telling me stupid facts about the roads, talking in kilometers instead of miles, and I’m rolling my eyes about how seriously he’s trying to “immerse himself in the culture.” The two of us happy. Free. Alive.

“I wish … I wish you would’ve been able to do that.” Tears spring up in my eyes again. Fuck, why did it have to be him?

Peter tilts my chin up. “If I had known you back then, I would have been dreaming about the Plaza Hotel with you instead.”

I almost scoff or start to argue with him, but I stop myself, and instead scooch down into the bed and put my head on his chest. He’s still breathing. He’s still here.

We lie like that for one hour, three minutes, and eleven seconds.

30:07:00

And then there’s a knock on the door and a muffled “Room service.”

Peter kisses me on the forehead and goes to get the food and I lie there watching him leave the room, and it’s only a few feet but every step away from me feels like a million miles. And I get this jolt of fear that I might never see him again.

But then I hear him talking to the service guy, and them both laughing and Peter tipping him, and he comes back into the bedroom wheeling a full fucking trolley of silver platters and plates and bowls and drinks.

“Oh my god.”

Peter grins and hands me a set of silverware wrapped in a cloth napkin. “Bon appétit.”

Sixty

“WOW, YOU’RE REALLY MAKING that sundae your bitch, huh?”

Peter shoves another scoop of salted caramel into his mouth. “I don’t know if it’s because I’m dying or what, but this is legitimately the best ice cream I’ve ever had.”

I dip my finger into the whipped cream and take a lick. “It’s definitely better than the shit they tried to pawn off as ice cream at our senior social.”

“I wasn’t at that,” Peter says.

“I noticed.”

He smiles. “Oh yeah?”

“Oh my god, get over yourself.”

“Never.”

“Where were you, anyway?”

“I was at a geneticist with my mom.”

“I’m sorry …”

“Nah,” he says. “It’s okay.” Peter dips his spoon back into the gigantic bowl, but he doesn’t take another bite. “I just feel so bad for my mom, you know? I can’t stop thinking about what it’s going to be like for her. Without me. I mean, I’m … I’m going to die before my dad. It’s …” He swallows. “She’s not going to get over this.”