To My Romeo, with Love novel · Chapter 15 of 24

Chapter 15: Not Until You're Eighty

"Put that back," I said.

Fraser held the envelope between two fingers.

Dad had gone to find the nurse, and the infusion bay was empty except for the beeping pole.

"I'm not going to read this," he said.

"You're not supposed to read it now. It says open if."

"I know what it says."

"It says if."

"I know what the if is, Laurel."

His voice was quiet, which was worse than loud.

I had seen him like this exactly once, at nineteen, standing in a hospice hallway.

"Mine is a letter for after," I said. "That's all. My mom wrote me one. It was the best thing anyone has ever given me."

"Your mom wrote hers knowing."

"So do I."

"No." He leaned forward. "You know a percentage. You know seventy-five. You don't know."

"Then take it and keep it, and don't open it."

"I'll take it."

He slid it inside his flannel, against his chest, and buttoned the pocket.

"I'll keep it right here. I'm not opening it until you're eighty years old and you're yelling at me about the thermostat."

"That's not how it works."

"It's how it works for me."

My eyes stung.

I wanted to be furious, and I could not find the anger anywhere.

"You're impossible," I said.

"I'm a McCracken."

"That isn't an excuse."

"It's a diagnosis."

I laughed so hard the nurse came running to check the pump.

The shower happened nine days later, on the first morning I felt like a person.

I woke without the taste of pennies.

I could keep down toast.

I stood in the bathroom doorway, in the T-shirt I had slept in, and looked at the tub.

The hospital had sent home a plastic bench that clipped onto the rim, and a roll of clear film for covering the port.

Fraser found me staring at it.

He was in his boxers and a work shirt, with a toothbrush in his mouth.

"I can't do the film by myself," I said. "It slides."

He spat, rinsed, and picked up the roll.

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