Page 19 of While I’m Still Here

“Then I’ll help you shave it.”

Her smile grows into that mischievous one she always gets before she winds me up. “What if I want to have lots and lots of hot sex?”

I glance at the notebook, then back to her. “I’d be lying if I said I didn’t have a preferred candidate for the position. But… I’m not going to tell you how to live your life just because I’ve finally told you how I feel about you.”

Her face shifts. “You wouldn’t care?”

“I’m not falling into that trap. Yes. Of course I would care, Bea. I’ve been secretly in love with you for seven years. I’m not suddenly going to become some spiritually enlightened monk who wishes you well while you shag your way through Britain.”

That earns me a laugh at least. “But me caring doesn’t mean I get to tell you what to do. I don’t know what the next year will look like, and neither do you. Maybe tomorrow you’ll decide I went insane and you’d rather we never speak about this again.”

“I won’t.”

I swallow. “Okay.”

“And I don’t want you to take it back,” she says.

“I won’t. I don’t think I could, even if I tried.”

She stares at the wine in her glass. “I just keep thinking that this morning I was worried about bins. I was worrying about fucking bins, and now I've got this list of things I've never done and places I've never been and...” She trails off. “People I've never...”

I know where the sentence ends. This time, surprisingly, jealousy isn't the first thing I feel.

Fear is.

Not fear of another man. Fear that she'll start treating her life like a closing-down sale. Trying to cram thirty years into however much time she thinks she has left because she's terrified there won't be more.

I reach for her hand. “Then do them because you want them, not because you're scared.”

She looks at me. “There's a difference?”

“Massive one.”

Her fingers curl around mine. “And if I want something that hurts you?”

I could tell her no. I could tell her I've waited seven years and I want my turn. Instead, I think about that pink folder. About doctors and appointments and surgery and all the choices cancer has already taken from her. “I'll tell you.”

Her brows pull together. “What?”

“If something hurts me, I'll tell you. We'll figure it out.”

“We?”

“We.”

Her thumb brushes over my knuckles. “You make that sound very easy.”

“It probably won't be, but I'm not going anywhere.”

She looks at me for a long moment. Then, very quietly, “Promise?”

That one I can give her. “Promise.”

She leans towards me, and for a moment I think she's going to kiss me. Instead, she rests her forehead against mine.

And somehow that's worse.

Or better.