Chapter xxxii
xxxii
THE NEXT NIGHT WHEN I DROPPED THE KIDS OFF AT Darren and Courtney’s, I tried to figure out what Courtney knew, but her face didn’t give anything away.
“See you next week!” I waved to the kids as they walked inside.
“Bye!” they chorused.
As I walked back home, feeling their absence in the quiet that surrounded me, my phone buzzed in my pocket. I pulled it out, and there was another message from Dax: I was thinking: Was the Rio character inspired by your photographer friend?
I smiled involuntarily. I loved that Dax put that together. So few people knew I had based that character on Gabe. There was never a reason to talk about it, to tell anyone. But it was true. I thought again about the conversation I’d had with the kids about making choices. And I decided to make a different one.
You might be the only person who’s ever figured that out , I wrote back.
Do I get a gold star? came back quickly.
Sure , I answered, adding a gold star emoji to my message. There you go!
I’ll treasure it , he replied.
The conversation ended, but I realized I didn’t really want it to. That as much as my head was terrified of letting Dax in, my heart wanted to. I decided to dive into uncharted waters, hoping against hope I wouldn’t drown— or take anyone else down with me.
It’s late over there , I said, opening up the conversation again.
Having trouble sleeping , Dax responded.
I took a deep breath. Want to talk about it? I typed.
He didn’t respond for a moment. Then I saw the dots starting and stopping and starting and stopping. I put my phone back in my pocket and continued the walk home. Just as I was heading up the steps of my front stoop, my phone vibrated again.
Actually, that would be really nice was all it said.
I wondered what he had typed and deleted, what he had almost said but didn’t.
I’ll give you a call in a minute , I typed from my stoop.
Butterflies fluttered in my stomach. I took a deep breath, unlocked my door, and, after hanging up my coat, sat down on the couch and called Dax.
“Lucy?” His voice was deeper than I remembered, but maybe it was just because he was tired.
“Hey,” I said, trying to calm down the butterflies. “Are you okay?”
“It’s just been a rough day,” he said. “I took a kid off one of the migrant boats yesterday, and he a fever and a nosebleed. I could tell from the dried blood on his clothing and under his nails that this was far from his first. And he was pale and tired. I asked his parents how long this had been happening, and they said it had started while they were in Tunisia. They thought maybe it was something in his diet while they were traveling. I looked at him more closely, and something in my gut said he had leukemia, just like Zachariah. I sent them to the island hospital for a rush CBC test. The results came back this morning, and I was right. I had hoped I wasn’t, but … deep down I knew. So this morning I went to the hospital and, along with the island pediatrician, told his parents that their seven-year-old had cancer and that the Red Cross would process them quickly and helicopter them to the hospital in Palermo. I was as upbeat as possible, but after they left for the Red Cross center, I was so sick about it. And I just keep thinking about Zac, about the treatment he had to go through that Nasser will have to go through, how sick it had made him, how sick Nasser will be. The images keep flashing through my mind and it’s just … it’s hard to sleep,” he said.
My heart ached for him, ached for Nasser and his family. All I wanted was to put my arms around Dax. I knew that would mean more than any words I could find. But we were thousands of miles apart. “I’m so sorry,” I told him. “I wish I could hold you right now.”
“I wish you could, too,” he said, his voice gravelly.
I scrolled through my mind for phrases, for stories, for anything I could think of that might offer a small bit of comfort.
“I think a lot about destiny,” I said to him. “About the idea of fate. And I wonder if you were meant to be there for Nasser. If another doctor might have missed the signs, might have ordered a different test or tried antibiotics first, might have delayed his diagnosis. Maybe it was meant to be you, there, to give Nasser the best chance possible.”
I heard Dax take in a breath, then let it out. “I like that perspective.”
“It might not make it any easier,” I said, “but maybe at least the pain might be purposeful.”
“I can take the pain if it’s purposeful,” Dax said. “If me being here gave Nasser a better chance at life, then I’m glad I was.”
My heart squeezed for him, Gabe. He seemed so broken, but so brave; so sad, but so smart. And, I knew, so alone.
“You are a good man, Dax Armstrong,” I said to him.
I heard him laugh. “You are a good woman, Lucy Carter Maxwell. Thank you for that.” Then he yawned.
“You ready to go to sleep now?” I asked.
“Mm,” he said. “I think so. I think now I’ll be able to. Good night, Lucy.”
“Good night, Dax,” I said.
We both clicked off our phones. I sat on my couch a little longer, thinking about him, thinking about our night together. And then I closed my eyes and relived that night in my mind. His kisses, his fingers, the warmth of his body, the softness of his lips, that heat of him inside me. For the first time in a long time there was another man in my heart, Gabe, another man who had found the way into my soul.