Chapter 10 Miles
Iheard the phone hit the floor before I understood what was happening.
One second, Charlotte was answering a routine call from the hospital, her voice casual, unconcerned. Next, she was white as paper, her lips trembling, her eyes going blank in a way that made me seize with instinctive terror.
"Charlotte?" I was off the couch before I'd consciously decided to move. "What is it? What's wrong?"
She didn't answer. She couldn't. A sound came out of her, raw, broken, a sob that didn't sound human. Her knees started to buckle.
I caught her.
"I've got you," I said, pulling her against my chest as she collapsed into me. "I've got you. I'm here."
She wept with the full, anguished honesty of someone who cares too deeply, who had let herself hope. For a nurse, that was the professional hazard that cut the deepest.
"He's gone," she choked into my shoulder, her fingers clutching the fabric of my shirt. "He was just a kid, Miles. He showed me his drawings two days ago. He was getting better."
"I know," I murmured, one hand cradling the back of her head. "I know, sweetheart."
I didn't offer platitudes. None would help.
I just held her as the storm raged, absorbing the tremors of her grief, my own heart breaking for her pain.
This was the other side of her strength, this vast, vulnerable capacity to feel.
She'd spent weeks teaching me to accept help.
Now it was my turn to be the anchor for her.
We stayed like that for a long time. The documentary played on silently, a colorful parade of fish in a world that suddenly felt unbearably cruel.
Eventually, her sobs subsided into hitched breaths, then exhausted silence.
Her body grew heavy against mine, the tension draining away as sleep pulled her under.
I looked down at her tear-streaked face, peaceful now in unconsciousness, and felt something fierce and protective expand in my chest. She was spent. But sleeping curled upright on the couch would leave her with a stiff neck and aching back, so the least I could do was help.
"Okay," I murmured to myself. "We can do this."
Carefully, I shifted, sliding one arm under her knees and the other around her back. As I began to lift, my right arm, the one supporting her back, had betrayed me immediately. The tremor, agitated by the late hour and the emotional strain, ignited into violent, jerking shakes.
Don't you dare drop her, I told my body. I will drag us both to the bedroom through sheer spite if I have to.
My body, predictably, didn't listen. My arm shook harder.
Fine, I thought grimly, adjusting my grip, taking more weight with my left. Be difficult. See if I care.
I stood, my legs protesting, my right side threatening to lock up with that familiar rigidity. Charlotte's head lolled trustingly against my shoulder, her breath warm and slow against my neck.
"For the record," I grunted to her sleeping form, "this is extremely romantic. You're missing the romantic part."
She didn't respond, which was probably fair given she was sleeping.
The walk to my bedroom was the longest of my life.
Each step was a conscious battle—against the tremor that wanted to rattle my bones, against the stiffness creeping into my right leg, against every instinct that screamed this was too hard.
But her weight in my arms, the soft caress of her breath, the trust she'd placed in me, that was my compass.
I made it to the bed and laid her down as gently as my rebellious limbs would allow, pulling the quilt over her. I brushed a strand of hair from her damp cheek.
"Sleep well," I whispered.
Then I sank into the armchair in the corner, my right hand shaking uncontrollably now that the task was done. I watched over her until my own eyes grew heavy.
I woke at 5 AM, two hours before my alarm, to gray dawn light seeping through the curtains. Charlotte was still asleep, a small, forlorn shape in the center of my bed. The grief from the previous night hung in the room like a chill.
I knew, with bone-deep certainty, that I had to try lifting her hopes up. Even just a little.
Quietly, I slipped from the chair and padded to the kitchen. My body was stiff, the morning rigidity at its worst before my first dose. My hands trembled with a persistent, frustrating life of their own as I opened the refrigerator.
French toast. Her favorite. She'd mentioned it once, weeks ago, comfort food from childhood, the thing her mother made when the world felt too heavy.
"Okay," I said aloud, surveying the ingredients. "Eggs. Bread. Cinnamon. How hard can this be?"
The answer, as it turned out, was very.
The first egg shattered against the bowl rim too hard, shell fragments raining into the mixture like confetti at the world's worst party.
"Fantastic," I muttered, fishing out the pieces with trembling fingers. "Really excellent work…"
The extraction took approximately nine years. The second egg was better. The third was almost decent.
"See?" I told the eggs. "We're getting the hang of this. Teamwork."
Whisking the milk, vanilla, and cinnamon was a marathon. My right arm protested violently, muscles seizing mid-motion. I switched to my left hand, awkward, uncoordinated, splashing liquid across the counter and somehow onto the ceiling.
"How," I said, staring upward at the splatter, "did that even happen? That defies physics."
I wiped the counter. I did not attempt to wipe the ceiling. Some battles weren't worth fighting.
The bread wanted to tear when I dipped it. The spatula jumped in my grip like it was trying to escape. I nearly sent one slice flying across the kitchen and caught it by some miracle of desperation.
"We do not discuss this with Charlotte," I informed the rescued French toast. "What happens in this kitchen stays in this kitchen."
By the time I was plating the golden slices, topping them with berries and a clumsy dusting of powdered sugar, the kitchen looked like a war zone. Eggshells everywhere. Batter splattered across three surfaces. Powdered sugar coated the counter like snow.
But on the plate? It looked good. It looked like I was trying.
"Miles?"
I turned. Charlotte stood in the doorway, wrapped in one of my oversized sweaters, her hair sleep-tousled, her eyes still puffy and shadowed. But she was staring at the culinary chaos with something that looked almost like wonder.
"What did you do?"
"I made breakfast." I gestured at the plate like a game show host. "Ta-da."
"You made..." She looked at the French toast, then at the kitchen, then at me. Her voice cracked. "This must have taken you hours."
"Forty-five minutes, actually. Which is approximately forty minutes longer than it should have taken, but who's counting."
"The ceiling is counting." She pointed upward. "There's batter up there."
"Romantic, right? I read online that it makes people smile."
A laugh escaped her; it was small, surprised, still edged with grief, but real. The sound of it lessened the worry I had for her.
"How did you even—"
"I don't know. Physics abandoned me. The eggs were hostile. The whisk staged a rebellion." I pulled out a chair. "Sit. Eat. Before it gets cold and my suffering becomes meaningless."
She sat, her eyes never leaving my face as I carefully carried the plate over. My steps were measured, my focus entirely on not tripping. I set it before her with a small flourish that was probably more wobbly than triumphant.
She stared at the French toast, then up at me. Her eyes were shimmering.
"Miles," she whispered. "You shouldn't have. With your hands, this must have been—"
"Worth it." I cut her off, sliding into the chair across from her. "If it makes you smile, even for a second, it's worth any amount of struggle."
She took a bite, and her eyes closed. When they opened, tears were tracking down her cheeks, but she was smiling.
"It's perfect," she said.
"It's acceptable at best—"
"Miles." She reached across the table and took my hand, the trembling one I'd been hiding. She held it firmly, not trying to still the shake. "It's perfect. Because you made it. For me."
We finished breakfast together, talking softly about nothing important—the weather, the documentary we'd abandoned, whether I should attempt to clean the ceiling or just pretend it was always that way.
The grief wasn't gone; I could still see it in the shadows under her eyes.
But it was shared now. And that made all the difference.
That evening, I had another plan.
"Get dressed," I told her around four o'clock, trying to sound casual. "We're going out."
Charlotte looked up from the book she'd been pretending to read. "Out where?"
"Dinner. That Italian place on the waterfront you mentioned wanting to try."
"Miles, you don't have to—"
"I want to." I crossed to where she sat and extended my hand. "Please? Let me take you somewhere nice. Somewhere that isn't my kitchen, at least until I hire professional cleaners."
She laughed, really laughed this time, and took my hand.
The restaurant was small, candlelit, and overlooking the river. We got a table by the window, the water glinting in the last of the sunset. Charlotte was wearing a deep blue dress I'd never seen before, and she looked so beautiful it actually hurt to look at her.
"You're staring," she said, not looking up from her menu.
"You're worth staring at."
"Smooth."
"I've been practicing."
She smiled, and I felt warmer inside just seeing her face. This was what I wanted, not only to comfort her, but to make her happy. To give her joy, not just relief from pain.
The waiter came, and we ordered wine, pasta, and too much bread. The conversation wandered, from childhood memories to terrible first dates to the most absurd patients she'd ever treated.
"He swallowed a what?" I choked on my wine.
"A harmonica. A full harmonica. And every time he breathed, it made a little wheeze."
"That's not possible."
"I have the X-ray somewhere. It was kind of musical, actually. Very avant-garde."
I was laughing so hard I had to set down my glass. Charlotte was grinning, her eyes bright with mischief, and I realized this was the first time all day she'd looked truly light.
"Your turn," she said. "Worst case you ever worked on."
"I'm a family lawyer. All my cases are terrible. That's the point."
"Worst one."
I considered. "There was a custody dispute over a pet iguana."
"An iguana."
"Named Gerald. Both parties were absolutely convinced Gerald preferred them. We had to bring in an animal behaviorist to testify."
"What was the verdict?"
"Gerald bit the judge, and the case was dismissed."
Charlotte's laugh rang out across the restaurant, drawing a few amused glances from nearby tables. I didn't care. I would happily embarrass myself in every restaurant in the state if it meant hearing that sound.
Somewhere between the main course and dessert, her hand found mine across the table. Not for comfort this time, but just because. Her thumb traced lazy circles across my knuckles, and I felt the warmth of it spread through my entire body.
"Thank you," she said softly. "For today. For all of it."
"You don't have to keep thanking me."
"I want to." Her eyes met mine, serious now beneath the candlelight. "I want you to know that I see it. What this costs you. What you push through to do things like this." She squeezed my hand. "I see you, Miles. All of it."
I felt it, in my heart, that she really meant what she said; she was the only person I really, truly believed when she spoke.
"I have a proposal," I said, surprising myself.
Her eyebrows rose. "A proposal?"
"Not that kind." I paused, letting that word hover. "Not yet."
I watched her eyes widen slightly, watched the color rise in her cheeks, and felt a fierce satisfaction at being the one to put it there.
"I think we should go somewhere," I continued. "Together. A trip."
"A trip?"
"You said once you wanted to travel. Somewhere with a view, where the air is clear." I traced my thumb across her knuckles. "I want to give you that. Before—" I stopped, swallowed the fear that always lurked beneath the surface. "I want to give you good memories. As many as I can."
Charlotte was quiet for a long moment, her expression unreadable in the flickering candlelight. Then she smiled. Not with the fragile smile from this morning, but something brighter. Something that looked like hope.
"Where would we go?"
"Anywhere you want." I squeezed her hand. "Pick a place. I'll figure out the rest."
"Anywhere?"
"Anywhere."
She considered this, a slow smile spreading across her face. "I've always wanted to see the northern lights."
"Then we'll go somewhere with northern lights."
"That's not exactly a quick trip."
"So we'll take a long one." I leaned forward, holding her gaze.
"I'm serious, Charlotte. Whatever time I have, however much or little, I want to spend it making you happy.
I want to fill your life with so many good memories that even if.
.." I stopped, my throat tight. "Even if things get difficult later, you'll have enough light to see you through. "
Her eyes glistened in the candlelight. She raised my hand to her lips and pressed a soft kiss to my knuckles, right over the tremor that never quite stopped.
"Okay," she whispered. "Let's go see the northern lights."
We walked home along the waterfront, her arm looped through mine, the night air cool and clear. At some point, she stopped, turned to face me, and kissed me, slow and sweet and tasting faintly of the wine we'd shared.
"What was that for?" I asked when we finally pulled apart.
"For the French toast. For dinner. For today." She smiled up at me, her eyes bright in the moonlight. "For being someone worth choosing."
I cupped her face in my hands, both of them, tremor and all, and kissed her again.
The future was still uncertain. My body was still betraying me in slow motion. There would be hard days ahead, probably more than either of us wanted to imagine.
But right now, on this quiet waterfront with this extraordinary woman in my arms, none of that mattered.
Right now, we had a trip to plan and memories to make.
And I intended to make every single moment count.