Thinking About Forever

1. Monday

Chapter 1

Monday

I 'm sitting at my desk, working through emails, when my favorite charge nurse and longtime friend pops her head into my office.

“Hey, Jules, we just got a call from downstairs. They’re sending up an eighty-two-year-old male with suspected congestive heart failure. He had a minor fall in his apartment, waiting for the CT and X-ray reports. He has an aide who got him here right away. COVID negative, BP is low, sats are not great, but he’s holding steady. The guy has got some spunk. Admitting doc wants at least forty-eight hours observation before we discharge. Everyone is slammed. If you could do his intake, that’d be great. His power of attorney is on the way.”

“Got it. Thanks, Christine—I’ll be there shortly," I reply.

The door is almost closed when her head reappears.

“Hey…how are you doing today?”

“I’m good.”

“Really?” She scrutinizes me.

I wait to see if any old familiar feelings make their way to the surface before I answer. Nothing.

“Yes, really. I’m fine. Thanks for asking.”

“You sure?”

“Yes.”

“Want to talk about it?”

“Nope.”

She looks relieved. “I was hoping you’d say that. See you on the floor.”

Once she’s gone, I glance around my office, watching the early afternoon light stream in through the windows. If I look hard enough, I can catch a glimpse of the Hudson River in between the skyscrapers.

I've only recently redecorated after spending the better part of five years with a hodgepodge of hand-me-down furniture, decorations I swiped from vacant offices, and a few personal items. Last year, after telling a patient struggling with depression that “your space matters, what you see every day matters,” I decided to take my own advice and give my office a much-needed makeover.

Now, every morning when I walk in, I’m greeted by gray-blue walls, a sleek acrylic and glass desk, a well-loved and very comfortable navy love seat, and my chair—a mid-century modern antique I’d found and had reupholstered in a soft blue linen. A large woven area rug sits in the center of the room, and a few low-maintenance plants are scattered around, an attempt to liven up the place. My heavy textbooks from grad school are stacked neatly on two large bookshelves on the far wall along with a wide variety of fiction, nonfiction, poetry, and other works I reference often in my clinical work and enjoy in my personal life: Michael Singer, Morgan Harper Nichols, Viktor E. Frankl, Lao Tzu, Mary Oliver, Anne Lamott, and dozens more.

The one framed photo on my desk is of my dog, Murphy.

I grab the frame and smile at his happy, goofy face. I turn it over and unclasp the prongs. I pull off the backing, then peel away the layers.. Behind the photograph of Murphy is another—one I’ve kept in the frame but safely tucked out of sight for over two years. I pick it up cautiously and decide I’ll allow this single, solitary moment to feel sorry for myself.

I flip it over and see myself, Murphy, and my ex-husband, Nick.

We’re kneeling next to Murphy in the backyard of our old house. The sun is setting, and we are caught midlaugh. Murphy’s pink tongue hangs out the side of his mouth. It is one of the last happy photos I have of us.

I sigh, and a wave of disappointment washes over me.

My eyes wander to the painting displayed behind my chair, my first fancy art piece, meaning it wasn’t purchased at HomeGoods. It’s a mixed media abstract full of bright pinks, oranges, blues, and greens, a contrast to my neutral office walls. It’s one of those paintings that presents itself differently every time you look at it—my own personal Rorschach test. I love when my patients offer up their interpretations during therapy sessions. Today, it reminds me of another piece of art that hangs in my living room—a similar piece by the same artist but in much more muted tones, pensive and solemn. I applied the same motto of “my space matters” to decorating my apartment in Midtown. I’ve lived there for eight months and have finally adjusted to life with just me and Murphy.

I glance down at the calendar on my desk. Today marks exactly one year since my divorce from Nick was finalized, though our separation began the year before. And things had been steadily going downhill for months and maybe even years before that. Only recently have I felt like I’ve worked through most of the all-consuming existential dread I experienced when I realized my marriage was a complete and utter failure.

My marriage to Nick fizzled out with little fanfare and even less fight. The fact that it was so amicable in the end made me question if any of the early years of our love were even real. How did we go from being so confident that we’d spend the rest of our lives together to apathetically dividing household items on a shared Excel spreadsheet? I can’t decide what would have been worse—the way we did it or perhaps passionately duking it out in court and ruining each other until the bitter end. Both are depressing, but the indifference I felt was crushing.

The only friction in our otherwise amicable mediation came over custody of Murphy, our three-year-old, sweet but slightly manic black Lab-hound mutt. I probably still have those emails. I impulsively type a few keywords into my inbox search bar.

I find them easily.

My fingers hover over the mouse. Is this going to be helpful or hurtful? One of my own therapeutic phrases echoes in my head. Fuck it . This is the only moment today I’ll allow myself a pity party, so why not go all in?

I click them open.

50/50 custody seems like a logistical nightmare. Maybe I can stop by occasionally and see him if I’m not traveling for work, or maybe he can stay with me a night or two, Nick wrote from his work email.

This is absurd. He’s a dog, Might I also remind you how anxious he gets when I’m not around. Unless you want him whining, pacing, and staring out the window every time he’s with you, it’s probably best for all involved if he stays with me. You can visit if you want.

His response came three days later. Fine. You can keep him. Let’s just be done with this.

Our entire relationship summed up as this . It stung.

In my lower moments, I take the majority of blame. If I’d noticed him drifting sooner, paid closer attention, if I had done more—whatever more was. If I'd somehow dulled parts of my personality that annoyed him or changed parts of myself entirely to suit his needs, if I could’ve just “kept him close,” as my aunt unhelpfully suggested, maybe I wouldn’t be thirty-eight and divorced.

It isn’t a fair summary, as Nick certainly contributed to the demise of our union, if not overtly, then by his abysmal, nonexistent participation. I've spent the better part of these past two years combing through my memory, looking for anything that might give me a hint as to where it all went wrong, as if it was one specific moment.

The idea of a debrief felt essential to me. If I couldn't learn a single thing about myself or glean a tiny life lesson, it all felt even more hopeless. Like our relationship was truly just a colossal waste of time. A waste of over a decade of my life. A waste of my precious and fleeting youth.

Eventually, with the help of my therapist and lots of self-reflection, I landed on the fact that the pandemic was ultimately our undoing. Saying that out loud still seems like a cop-out to me, but the series of events that contributed to our downfall may have never amounted to anything had they remained separate events at any other point in history. But collectively, and amid a global pandemic, it all proved to be insurmountable, starting with a hasty exodus from the city to the New Jersey suburb of Morristown in the early weeks of lockdown. It was there we found ourselves trapped in Nick’s childhood home with his parents, his sister, her husband, and their four-month-old baby. It wasn’t ideal, but we weren’t alone in our plight.

In the first weeks of government-mandated isolation, I noticed how much our relationship had been built on a foundation of socialization, of being with other people. When that was yanked away overnight, the silence and forced stillness we were thrust into was jarring. Without all the usual trappings and distractions of life, elements of our relationship I’d never noticed before were laid bare and impossible to ignore.

I saw how much we depended on others to make us feel whole. Nick and I both loved spending time with our friends, individually and as a couple. Dinners, brunches, concerts, a coed softball league, trivia nights, sporting events—these were an integral part of our lives and our relationship. When I think back, I can hardly remember any moments that consisted of just the two of us for any substantial amount of time. Even vacations were group events. There were always other people to bounce off of, to change up and influence our dynamic. Even in the absence of our friends, we always had New York City with its pulsing energy and its colorful people to be another ever-present, living and breathing part of our relationship.

In Morristown, I saw traits of his that I'd always known were there amplified like one of those toys you submerge in water that grow to ten times their original size overnight. He seemed selfish, stubborn, and not particularly self-aware in any meaningful way. He seemed more than content to let me fill in the gaps in his life and follow along with his plans, without any thought of me or mine, without any consideration of what I might want or need. I guess it was then that the first fissures of resentment appeared.

Plus, early on in our exile to the Jersey suburbs, my role as one of six directors of clinical social work at New York Grace Hospital was deemed nonessential, and I was moved to full-time remote work. So, I joined the work-from-home warriors and sat at the kitchen table with Nick and my brother-in-law from the hours of nine to five. Our workday was promptly followed by several happy hours, and even more hours scrolling on our phones, bingeing TV shows, and overall feeling like our brains were slowly but surely melting out of our skulls. Which was not beneficial to either of us, individually or as a couple.

But, the scrolling paid off when Nick found a fixer-upper on Zillow with great bones on a half acre lot a few miles from his parents’ house. Before we knew what we were doing, an offer had been made and accepted. The closing date was set for two weeks later, and we officially moved out of the city to the Jersey suburbs.

Despite our team effort in doing a home reno, I still felt the growing unease that something was wrong with our marriage. These are crazy times, everyone is struggling. I'd repeat these phrases to myself frequently to quell the rising unease. Rumors of vaccines being rolled out were everywhere, and it felt like normalcy was just within reach. It was easy to believe that all the problems in our relationship were merely symptoms of the problems in the world, and once the world was good, we would be, too. An ambiguous finish line emerged, and I felt positive once we got there, Nick and I would return to the same people we were before the pandemic, happy and in love.

I was wrong.

One random night a few weeks before the separation, Nick once again opted to watch TV in our bedroom rather than on the couch with me, and I thought I’d never been so lonely. I couldn’t think of anything worse than feeling lonely in a relationship, lonely while sitting a few feet away from someone I vowed to love and cherish all the days of my life.

It felt like a wake-up call, and I jumped into crisis mode, unearthing all my old textbooks from grad school and getting to work. I spent weeks consuming every article and podcast I could find about relationship slumps and asked many hypothetical questions of my colleagues who worked with couples.

I told no one about the dire state of our marriage. Not only was I embarrassed it had gotten to this point, but I did not feel equipped to handle the myriad opinions that would come my way if I confided in anyone. I worried they would judge Nick or me or us. But the isolation I felt quickly gave way to full-blown resentment, and I realized I was turning bitter—something I never thought I'd be. And yet I still had glimmers of hope that my pragmatism and sheer determination would be enough to pull us out of the hole we were in. It had never failed me before. I was committed to fixing us, though I wasn’t sure what exactly needed to be fixed.

Finally, after many covert attempts to reconnect with Nick, including one humiliating dalliance into role play that I didn’t think I’d ever recover from, I asked him point blank if he was happy in our marriage.

To which he replied, “I love you, but I don’t think I’m in love with you anymore.”

This was a particularly low blow for me, as Nick and I had spent years laughing at the clichéd ways in which relationships ended.

A year before the pandemic, I came home from work and said, “One of the guys who works in my HR department is getting divorced. Guess why?”

Nick ticked off a list of our usual guesses. “He was sleeping with his secretary? Wait, wait, that’s too obvious. What about, he was staying with her ‘for the kids’ but then realized the kids knew exactly how miserable they both were? Or is it our favorite, he loves her but he’s not in love with her anymore?”

“The first one!” I said. “But he doesn’t have a secretary. It was a woman he met at Equinox.”

“Ha!” Nick exclaimed. “I knew something was up when he showed up to that work dinner with the botched Just For Men hair color correcting look. Another one bites the dust."

How jaded we were to think these lowly relationship issues would never affect us. And then there I was, standing in our newly purchased, renovated, and decorated home at our beautiful soapstone kitchen countertop that took me three trips to a quarry to pick. Nick sat at the barstool I picked out, dressed in the same pair of ratty sweatpants that he’d been wearing for months, his COVID beard patchy and light blond, all suddenly so repulsive to me, and listened to him tell me our marriage was done.

I couldn’t help but laugh at the absurdity of it all. Soon I was crying, but I did notice something that felt like relief the moment he said it was over. I took that as a sign we maybe weren’t meant to be, and instead of taking a minute to let the weight of reality sink in, I was hell-bent on making this uncoupling as healthy and mature as possible for both of us.

We got lucky when the pandemic ended, and the real estate market soared. We sold our little fixer-upper for three times what we bought it for and split the earnings equally. It felt like hitting the lottery, and the money gave both of us a nest egg to restart our lives. I took that as another sign that maybe we weren’t meant to be after all.

That was it for us. Nick moved to Hoboken, and I found my place in Midtown. We started our lives apart, waiting for the final divorce paperwork to process. The Hudson River between us seemed an appropriate divider, symbolic, even poetic. Him over there, me over here, close enough to touch but not quite, like those crushingly lonely nights I had on the couch with him in the next room.

He eventually stopped asking to see Murphy, which felt like another blow. I was never more grateful that we had not had children together. When I was honest with myself, I could never quite picture him as a dad, not for lack of trying. The times I attempted to conjure up the image of him rocking a baby in a nursery or walking through the park with a baby strapped to his chest, his face would strangely disappear, and it’d be like looking into a void.

I grab my coffee mug and feel the warmth in my hands. I take a long sip and think about that uncomfortable memory. Kids are another topic that will not help my current melancholy mood. I know my clock is ticking. I’m thirty-eight, and most of my friends have at least two kids by now. I do, however, have twenty-one eggs on ice at the office of Dr. Melinda Goldburg, a reproductive endocrinologist on the Upper East Side, after my mom badgered me incessantly about it for months.

As soon as I broke the news to her about Nick and me splitting, she said, “You’ll have plenty of time to be sad about that, but for now you better go get some of your eggs frozen while they’re still good!”

I wasn’t surprised by her directness, but at the time I was not in a place to even think about potential children. I was mourning my marriage, and even more so my friendship with Nick that had been such a constant in my life . Eventually, in my weakened state, my mom broke me down, and I scheduled the appointment.

I have to give her credit. Despite the inconvenience of the shots, ultrasounds, and the retrieval itself, I felt a calm settle over me knowing my eggs, “geriatric” but still viable, are waiting for me someday. It feels like an insurance plan for my future. A future I can finally imagine.

* * *

A new email pops up, yanking me off memory lane and back to reality. It’s from my best friend, Meredith. Just a question as the subject line: Margs tonight? To celebrate?

I laugh. She is the only other person besides Christine and maybe Nick who would be tracking this day. She is the best friend a girl could have. I type back a quick response. Maybe next week. I’m fine. Love you.

I take one last look at the picture of me, Murphy, and Nick. I toss it in the trash and put the frame back together. Pity party is officially over.

I stand up and switch out my shoes, trading the comfortable sherpa-lined clogs for heels, and smooth out my linen pants and sleeveless blouse. I grab my badge off the keyboard, clip it to my belt loop, and head into the hallway. I swipe onto the unit and stop by the nurse's station, which is always buzzing with the best people in health care.

“How’s it going this afternoon, everyone?”

“Oh, good. The usual. Room 413 ripped out his NG tube again. The nursing student got sprayed with bile and almost lost her lunch.” Dave laughs.

I look at the nursing student in her clearly borrowed oversized scrubs. “I wasn’t expecting it, that’s all,” she says sheepishly.

“It happens to the best of us.” I offer a sympathetic smile.

“The new admit is in room 416,” Christine hands me his chart.

The critical care unit in our hospital is a step down from the ICU and a step up from regular patient rooms. A lot of the time, the job of this unit is stabilizing and observing before moving a patient to a different level of care. My role, though mostly administrative nowadays, is to assess the patient's needs, both medical and mental health, and offer support in any way possible: care coordination, discharge planning, grief counseling, and individual therapy.

Sometimes that looks like making sure they have walkers or wheelchairs to take home, sometimes it’s providing support and psychoeducation for the patient and their loved ones, and sometimes it’s as simple as holding a hand.

I knock twice before I walk into the room and see my new patient, a short and stout white man with wiry white hair that forms a horseshoe around his head. He's wearing big horn-rimmed glasses and has a chin that sticks out a little like Jay Leno’s. He is cursing under his breath at the remote that controls his hospital bed. I smile. I love the geriatric population.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Johnson. I’m Julia, one of the social workers here at the hospital. How are you settling in?”

“I’d be better if you could tell me how to raise this damn bed so I can get out of here. I’m fine. I told the fellas in the ambulance I was fine, I told the people downstairs I’m fine, and I’m telling you again up here, I’m fine! I just had a little flutter. I think I overdid it on the decaf.”

“Hmm ... I’m not sure you can overdo decaf, but I’ll take your word for it. Let me help you sit up. How are you feeling?” I ask, adjusting the bed.

“Like I said, I’m fine. I’ve been fine. Rita, my aide, is a worrywart, and I don’t like being in these places. The food is terrible, everyone is in my business, and I can’t get any sleep!”

“All valid points, Mr. Johnson. How about I hang here with you for a little and ask you a few questions that might speed up the process of getting you out of here? I’ll be honest, though. All the doctors have agreed you need at least two nights of observation to make sure that heart of yours is doing everything it should. So, we should at least prepare ourselves for forty-eight hours together. Hopefully I can help make it as painless as possible for you.”

He replies with a grunt. “Well, all right.”

I sit on the swivel stool next to his bed. “So, Mr. Johnson, tell me a little about yourself.”

“First of all, stop calling me Mr. Johnson. I’m old but not that old. Call me Sid. What do you want to know?"

"Whatever you want to tell me."

"Well, all right. I grew up in Allentown, Pennsylvania. Do you know where that is? I’ll tell ya, it's the heart of the Amish country. I got stuck behind horses and buggies on my way to school, and I’d visit the farm stands every week of the summer to get produce with my mother. If I was good, she’d let me get a whoopee pie, do you know what that is? Those Amish are some of the best damned bakers in the world. They use the real stuff, real butter, real sugar, real cream—none of this low-carb, low-fat bullshit Rita keeps telling me to eat. Now, let me tell you, if you could get me one of those whoopee pies, I might stop complaining.”

“Believe it or not, I have had a whoopee pie, and I agree with you. They are delicious,” I say. “Who helps take care of you? Though it seems like you do a pretty good job taking care of yourself, you mentioned an aide. Anyone else?”

“Rita? Yes, she’s my aide, or what I like to call my paid friend. My son is a worse worrywart than she is and has insisted Rita come check on me every damn day. He spends his money like he’s got a forest of trees full of it in his backyard. I keep telling him he better save it for a worthwhile investment, like a nice piece of property, or better yet, spend some on a good steak dinner for a nice young woman. I swear I’ll die before that boy settles down.”

“Okay, so it sounds like you have a son who cares a lot about you. Does he ever help with your day-to-day needs?” I try to assess what type of aftercare Sid might need.

“Sons. Plural. I have two sons, Matt and Eric. Eric died of lymphoma when he was sixteen. But he is still my son."

"I'm so sorry to hear that, Sid."

"Thank you. I promised myself I would still tell people about him even though losing him was the worst thing that ever happened to me. It nearly broke me. Some would say it did. It broke my marriage, that’s for sure. We couldn’t survive a loss like that. My wife could never get over it; she wanted to stay in bed and pretend the world didn’t exist. That's a story for another day, but I knew that feeling. Feeling like there was no point in living in a world without Eric, but we had Matt. Matt was eighteen and just trying to figure out how to be an adult. Yes, he was old enough to vote, to enlist himself in the military if he wanted, but he was still a boy to me, and he needed a parent. He lost his brother and his mom for all intents and purposes. I had to step up. And I am damn proud of him. Even if he is hardheaded.”

I smile at his love, pride, and the weight of his loss. “Is Matt your power of attorney? Does he help you make major medical decisions?”

“Yes, he insisted on that, too, but I can make my own damn decisions.”

“Okay, well, when he gets here maybe we can talk about what we can do to help support you when you get out of here.”

I see Sid’s eyes dart over my shoulder, and his face breaks into a wide smile.

“There you are, my boy. Took you long enough!”

He turns back toward me with a twinkle in his eyes. “This is my son, my power of attorney, Matthew.”

I spin on my stool and see a man in the doorway: tall, at least six three, a bit lanky but with broad shoulders and a full head of incredibly thick, wavy dark brown hair. He takes two steps into the room, and I get a better look. He is dressed in well-worn dark brown pants, scuffed boots, and a plain black T-shirt. He has a sleeve of intricate and colorful tattoos cascading down his muscular right arm and a black backpack slung over his shoulder. He looks vaguely familiar, but I can’t quite place him.

One thing is for sure, he is gorgeous.

“Jesus, Dad, if you want to see me, all you gotta do is ask. We don’t need the theatrics.” He walks to the other side of the bed and bends down to give his dad a kiss on the cheek.

“Matt, this is Julia, my nurse.” Sid gestures toward me.

I lock eyes with Matt and see his are brown and soulful, topped by a furrowed brow that makes him appear contemplative. His mouth is full, with lips almost too perfect to be on a man. My eyes go right to them. I worry I am staring and snap out of it.

“Close, Sid, but sadly, I am not a nurse. In fact, I am terrified of blood, so don’t expect to see me here during any procedures. I’m Julia Anderson, one of the social workers here. I was just coming to check in on your dad and make sure he was settling in okay. Nice to meet you.” I reach out to shake his hand.

“Matt Johnson.” He leans over Sid’s bedside, his hand reaching toward me. We shake and I glance down, noticing how elegant his hands are. Baby soft skin, warm. They are easily twice the size of mine.

“I’ll let you two catch up, and I’ll be back to check in on you later, all right, Sid? Matt, he is on Dr. Patel’s service. She is fantastic, very thorough. Christine is the nurse in charge on this shift, so if you need anything at all, grab her or tell her to get me. I’m here until six and happy to help in any way I can.” I stand to leave.

“Thank you,” says Matt, his gaze still on mine. I stare back, caught off guard by him, the intensity I feel radiating off him.

"You're welcome."

* * *

I walk out of the room in a daze, past the nurse's station. I am almost out of the unit when I hear “Psssssst” coming from behind me. Dave waves me over to where the entire unit of nurses and nursing students are all huddled around a computer screen.

“Ummm, Julia, did you know that room 416’s emergency contact is Matt Johnson ?” he practically squeals. He turns the monitor, and I see Google images of the man I just met plastered all over the screen. Him walking down the street, him on a red carpet, him on stage playing a guitar, him smiling for a fragrance campaign. If possible, he is even more beautiful in person than in these photos.

“Holy shiiiiiiiiiiit,” Beth, an OG nurse, sighs. “What I wouldn’t do to get my hands on him. How long is his dad here?” She clicks into Sid’s chart. “I need this eye candy. I need it . We deserve this.” She leans back in her chair.

"Who is Matt Johnson?" chimes the nursing student.

"Are you serious? How old are you?" questions Dave.

"Dibs on that room!” shouts someone else.

I can't shake the zap I felt in the room with Matt, and I now wonder if it’s simply the effect he has on people, like everyone twitterpated at the nurse's station right now.

“Okay, okay, people, yes, he is gorgeous, but he is here with a patient, and as such, we will treat them both with the utmost professionalism," scolds Christine from the other side of the station.

"This is not our first famous person, and it will not be our last. No sneaking around to gawk, no trying to get assigned to that room. In fact, that patient room is mine and mine alone for the next three shifts. Absolutely no taking pictures, and no pervy comments—yes, I am talking to you, Dave. Let us all remember the dire consequences of violating a patient’s HIPAA rights.”

I give her a nod of gratitude. I can always count on her to keep this ship righted.

I sneak away to my office as they all continue to whisper and ogle at the computer. I stare out my window, trying to conjure up anything I might know about Matt Johnson. I know he is a wildly successful musician, a singer, songwriter, and guitar player who performs in sold-out arenas all over the world, but I'm blanking on any of his songs. I vaguely remember some controversy with him many years ago, but in this day and age, who in the public eye hasn’t been touched by that? I still feel rattled by the intensity in his brown eyes. I sit a few more minutes before moving back over to my desk. I slip off my heels and put my clogs on to start working on a project due at the end of the week.

* * *

Before I know it, it’s almost six o’clock. I change shoes and walk out to do one last round on the floor before heading home for the day. I save Sid’s room for last, and when I arrive, I find myself a little bummed to see that he is alone.

Sid, sharp as a tack, sees it on my face. “Aw, darling, don’t look so sad, he’ll be back. He just went to get me some dinner. I told you, the food here is garbage.”

“What makes you think I’m sad, Sid? I’m not. In fact, the very opposite, since I see here your numbers are staying nice and stable, which is exactly what we want to see. Maybe you’ll get your wish and be out of here before we know it.” I glance at his chart.

“You can’t pull one over on me." He narrows his bespectacled eyes at me. "I’ve been around long enough to know when a woman looks disappointed to see me. I’ve also been around long enough to know that my son is a very handsome young man. Can’t say I blame you for making those eyes at him when he walked in.”

My face flushes. “I can assure you, I didn’t make any kind of eyes, but he does seem like a nice guy who really cares about his dad.”

“You’ve got that right. And I’m the first to make a joke at his expense, but he is the greatest blessing of my life. He is considerate and kind. And even though it’s unnecessary, he takes care of me. He takes care of all the people he loves, without ever expecting anything in return. Now, I don’t know if you know this, but he’s a real whiz on the guitar. He dug one out of my father’s basement when he was six years old, and it was practically glued to his hands for the next two years. I could only get him to give it up when I promised to get him a brand new one all his own, so long as he tried his best in school. I regret discouraging him from pursuing his dreams, but you gotta understand how ridiculous it sounded when he told me his plan was to play the guitar wherever, whenever, and as often as he could. I told him, ‘That's well and great, son, but it’s a hobby. How the hell are you going to make a living like that?’ I was worried he’d wind up like the guy down there on the corner, singing for the change in his coffee cup. But I couldn’t have been more wrong. He did it. My boy did it. He made all his dreams come true,” he recounts wistfully.

My heart warms at the well-worn story of a proud parent.

“Now if only I could get him settled down before I die. That would be a big relief for me, to not worry about him and what he’ll do when I’m gone.” Sid looks at me pointedly. “Speaking of which, Julia, I notice you don’t have a wedding ring on. Does that mean you’re on the market?”

I feel my face flush again. “You don’t miss a thing, do you, Sid? I’m not sure my relationship status is the important thing here.” I try to deflect.

“It sure is, especially if you want my health to improve. Don’t you want to help a dying man fulfill his last wishes?”

I laugh awkwardly. “You’re not dying, last I checked. All these tests say you're doing just fine.”

“We’re all dying, sweetheart." He’s so earnest it breaks my heart a little. "I just want to see my boy happy and settled. Throw an old man a bone. Are you on the market?”

I stare at him, weighing my options. This curmudgeonly octogenarian is disarming.

“Yes. I am,” I admit eventually.

“Well, that’s all I need to know. I’ll take it from here. You have a good night, now, Miss Julia. See you tomorrow.”

And with that, I leave room 416 and head home in the hot, sticky summer air.