Chapter 17
Claudette
The private jet hummed beneath us as we climbed into the California sky. I’d settled into the plush leather seat by the window, watching the desert landscape shrink below us.
Michael was stretched out in the seat across from me, one ankle crossed over his knee. I used to be terrified of flying, but with Michael beside me, the sky felt like the safest place I could exist.
I studied him, my heart filling up with warmth. He was loving me through it all, all I could think was I could die without regrets, but at the same time, I wished I had more time to spend with him.
He looked up then, those eyes landing on me. For a moment, we just stared at each other. Just us. In this little world we had.
Slowly, he reached over and took my hand, pulling me across to his seat. “Come here.”
I settled against his side, tucking myself under his arm. He pressed a kiss to the top of my head. “Let’s play a game.”
“Like what?”
“Anything. I want to learn more about you.”
I thought about it. “When I was ten, I wanted to be a marine biologist.”
“Really?”
“For exactly three months. I watched this documentary about dolphins and decided I needed to study them professionally. Made my parents take me to the aquarium every weekend.” I smiled at the memory, back then when life used to be so normal.
“What changed?”
“I found out dolphins are actually kind of mean. Did you know they can be aggressive? Completely shattered my ten-year-old worldview.”
He laughed, the sound warm against my hair. “So you gave up on an entire career because dolphins weren’t nice enough?”
“They seemed so friendly in the documentary. Total false advertising.”
“What did you want to be after that?”
“A pastry chef. Then I realized that involved getting up at four in the morning and I’m not built for that kind of lifestyle. So, the dreams died immediately.”
His hand traced lazy patterns on my shoulder. “What about now? If you could do anything?”
“Besides being married to you?”
“Besides that.”
I turned to look at him. “I think I’d write. Maybe not novels or anything serious. Just… stories.”
“You should do it.”
“Maybe I will.”
“I’ll read everything you write. I’ll be your most annoying, devoted critic.” He kissed my forehead. “Though I doubt anything you write would need criticism.”
The flight attendant appeared with champagne we hadn’t ordered. She set the glasses down with a knowing smile and disappeared again.
Michael lifted his glass. “To dolphins being jerks… and to new dreams.”
I grabbed mine and clinked it against his. “To whatever comes next.”
When we landed in California, Michael drove us straight to the beach house.
I watched the landscape scroll past the window, highways giving way to coastal roads, urban sprawl transforming into beach towns with weather-worn signs and salt-crusted railings.
The ocean appeared in flashes between buildings, vast and blue and constant.
Michael carried our bags inside our new home. It was beautiful. Breathtaking—white walls and wood floors, windows overlooking the ocean that took up an entire wall.
I didn’t follow him inside. The ocean was right there, calling me like it had been waiting. I kicked off my shoes and walked toward it without thinking.
“Claudette?” Michael’s voice yelled from the house. “Where are you going?”
I didn’t answer, just kept walking until my feet hit water.
Cold. Shockingly cold. The kind that stole your breath and made you gasp.
I waded in anyway, fully clothed, jeans soaking through, shirt plastering to my skin. The waves pushed against my calves, then my knees, insistent and alive.
Michael appeared at the shoreline, shoes still on, looking at me like I’d lost my mind. “What are you doing?”
“Being alive,” I said, grinning, arms spread wide. “Obviously.”
He looked at me, then at the water, then at the beach house where our luggage still sat unpacked. I watched the debate cross his face—the practical part of him warring with something else entirely.
“You’re completely soaked.”
“I know.” I splashed water in his direction. “It’s amazing.”
He stepped back to avoid the spray, shaking his head. But he was fighting a smile now, I could see it.
“Come on,” I called out. “Don’t make me do this alone.”
He stood there for another moment, and I saw the moment he surrendered.
Then he waded in after me.
The water soaked through his jeans immediately. His shoes were probably ruined but he didn’t seem to care. He winced at the cold, then laughed—and kept coming until he reached me.
He took my hand, and we stood there as waves crashed around our legs, soaking us higher with each surge, and I laughed until my sides hurt.
“This is insane,” Michael said, but he was smiling, the kind that crinkled the corners of his eyes and completely stopped my heart.
A wave hit harder than the others and I stumbled. Michael caught me, steadied me, held on even after I had my footing back. His hands warm even through my soaked shirt. The water swirled around us, and for a moment neither of us moved.
“I love you,” I said, and the words felt different here—bigger, heaver, truer. The ocean stretching out behind us and the sky going soft with evening light. Not just words anymore. A promise. A thank you. Everything I couldn’t say compressed into three syllables.
His expression was tender, he pulled me closer, water sloshing between us, and pressed his forehead to mine.
“I love you too,” he said quietly, his lips pressed against my forehead, lingering there. “But your decision to swim fully clothed is objectively terrible.” He said and I laughed.
That evening, my phone rang and my grandfather-in-law’s name lit up the screen.
I answered. “Hello?”
“Is my grandson treating you well, or do I need to write him out of the will again?” Augustus’s voice came through crisp and clear.
Michael groaned next to me and muttered a curse about his grandfather going to be the death of him.
“I can hear you, you rascal!” Augustus’ voice blared through again, and this time the expression that crossed Michael’s had me doubling over in laughter.
“How are you doing?” I asked.
“No need to worry about me girl, I’m as healthy as I can be. Now tell me honestly—is he being properly romantic or do I need to have Sandra give him a talking-to about how to treat a wife?”
“He’s perfect,” I said, looking at Michael across from me. “Stop threatening him.”
“Keep him in line for me. He needs someone who won’t put up with his carefree nonsense.”
“I’ll do my best.”
“I know you will. Now enjoy the rest of your vacation. And bring him to dinner soon or I really will adopt backup heirs.”
When we said goodbyes and hung up, Michael was watching me with a bemused expression. “What did he say at the end?”
“That I need to keep you in line. Something about you behaving carefree in the past.”
“True, but I don’t need you to keep me in line.” He pressed a kiss to my temple. “There’s no other place I want to be but here.”
I snorted at that. “God, we sound like an old married couple.”
Michael laughed, and for the rest of the evening, we talked about nothing and everything, making plans for decorating the beach house, arguing about what to have for dinner.
Normal conversation. Easy conversation. The kind married people had when they weren’t thinking about tumors or time running out.
The kind of conversation I’d wanted my whole life.
The next night, after dinner under the stars on the deck, I found paper and a pen.
Michael was in the shower, the sound of running water humming faintly through the walls. I sat at the small desk and began to write.
Michael,
You’re in the shower right now, and I’m sitting here trying to figure out how to tell you I’m completely obsessed with you—in a way that would be embarrassing if I cared about being embarrassed.
But I don’t. Not anymore.
I love the way you look at me when you think I’m not paying attention. I love waking up next to you. I love falling asleep in your arms. I love the way you read to me and do all the voices even though you swear you’re not doing voices.
I love you. Present tense. Right now. This moment.
Come find me when you’re done. I’ll be the one wearing your t-shirt and nothing else.
Yours (in every way that matters),
Claudette
I left it on his pillow and felt giddy the entire night wondering when he’d find it.
When I woke up the next morning, I found his letter on the nightstand.
Claudette,
You’re still sleeping right now. Your hair’s a mess, you’re drooling on my pillow, and you’re still the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.
I’ve been watching you breathe for the past hour—because I’m creepy like that and also because I still can’t quite believe you’re real. That you’re here. That you chose me.
You’re perfect. Perfect as in exactly right for me.
I love you. Present tense. This moment. Every moment.
Also—you look so good in my t-shirt. I’m hoping you continue wearing that.
Forever yours,
Michael
P.S. You do drool. Don’t even try to deny it.
I found him on the deck drinking coffee, and I couldn’t help the smile that spread across my face.
“I do not drool,” I said, waving the letter at him.
He looked up, completely unrepentant. “You absolutely drool.”
“Take it back.” I tried to sound stern. Failed completely.
“Can’t. It’s in writing now. Legally binding.”
I stared at him both in disbelief and yet charmed by his carefree laughter.
He set down his coffee and pulled me onto his lap. “You’re wearing my shirt like you said.”
His hands settled on my waist, thumbs tracing slow circles. “Though I notice you’re wearing pants, which directly contradicts last night’s letter.”
“Well, it was in writing only,” I said, throwing his words back at him. “Besides, decency is still a thing, you know.”
“We’re on a private beach. The only person who can see you is me.” His mouth curved. “And I’m very pro-making it real rather than it just being in writing.”
He kissed me and I tasted coffee and salt air and the promise of more mornings like this one.
“I really do love you,” He murmured against my lips.
“I know.” I tucked a strand of hair behind my ear. “You put it in writing. It’s legally binding.”
“I don’t know how to be more legally binding than that; we’re married,” he said as I laughed out loud.
We fell into routine over the following days. Mornings on the beach collecting shells while Michael took pictures of me pretending I wasn’t posing.
Afternoons with him reading my favorite books to me. Evenings writing letters back and forth, leaving them like treasure for each other to find.
I took pictures constantly—Michael cooking breakfast with absolute devotion, I’d even caught him watching cooking videos quite a few times. Late evenings we walked the beach, the sunset painting everything gold, our hands intertwined with my wedding ring catching the light.
My parents visited after two weeks, and instead of bringing worry and fear, they brought normalcy. Mom didn’t hover. Dad made terrible jokes about his crab legs being bigger than everyone else’s. We played cards and ate too much seafood and laughed until our sides hurt.
I took a photo of all of us crowded around the deck table, cards scattered everywhere. Dad was making a ridiculous face. Mom was caught mid-laugh. Jack had his arm around me and we both looked happy in a way that felt frozen.
This was what mattered. Not hospitals. Not fear. Not the countdown I tried not to think about. This. Us. Being a family who loved each other and knew how to find joy even when everything was terrible.
But the good moments didn’t last long.
Three weeks into our stay, I woke with a headache so sharp the room spun instantly.
It was one of the episodes—but worse. Sharper. Meaner. Like something had broken inside my skull.
“Michael.” My voice came out thin and reedy.
He was awake immediately. “What’s wrong?”
“My head.”
He had me in the car within minutes, taking us to the hospital where the doctors
did scans while Michael paced outside the room like a caged animal.
By the next day the pain had dulled, and we sat in Dr. Rivera’s office, his face looking worried and professional in equal measure.
He stared at me and his expression changed, confusion giving way to something that looked almost like hope.
“The inflammation around the tumor has decreased significantly,” he said slowly, as if afraid the words might vanish if he said them too fast. Like he was trying to make sure he wasn’t misreading the scans.
“I’d never seen something like this before, I already contacted Dr. Matthews.
She’s a neurosurgeon who’s successfully removed tumors of this size before. You need to see her immediately.”
So, naturally, we did.
Dr. Matthews was younger than Dr. Rivera, with sharp eyes and a direct manner that suggested she didn’t waste time on false hope but also didn’t sugarcoat reality.
She spread my scans across her desk and pointed to the tumor. “Well, Dr. Rivera was right. The inflammation has decreased substantially. That’s created a window we didn’t have before.”
Michael and I exchanged looks, and I felt something I thought I had forgotten how to feel.
Hope—sharp and terrifying—flickered in my chest.
“You’re a candidate for surgery,” she said. “The tumor is still aggressive, and the odds are terrible—less than six percent. It could end on that table or you could survive and we could remove enough of the tumor to give you years instead of days.”
My heart forgot how to beat properly, a less than six percent chance? It was too big of a risk.
“What happens if I don’t do surgery?”
“Days,” she said. “Maybe weeks. The tumor will regrow and eventually it’ll cause hemorrhaging or more severe seizures.”
“And with surgery?”
“You either die on the table or you potentially gain years. There’s no middle ground. I’m sorry, I don’t know how else to say this…”
The room went quiet except for the hum of fluorescent lights overhead.
I looked at Michael, he was watching me with the same mix of fear and hope. “What do you think?” I whispered.
“It’s your choice.” His hand tightened around mine, like he was afraid I’d disappear if he let go. “I can’t handle losing you at all. But surgery gives us a chance. Doesn’t it?” He smiled but it was sad.
I wanted more mornings on the sand. More letters. More time to memorize him.
I needed more time the way a drowning person needs air. But dying on that table was a real possibility—one that would take me from him sooner. Permanently.