Page 31 of That's Not a Thing

“Yeah, well.” I stop, reminding myself that I didn’t call to fight about the way he abandoned me years ago.

Apparently, he still wants to discuss it, though.

“Look, there is so much to say about what went down before the wedding. Let’s not go there. It was a really shitty time for me, and I’ve been working my way out of it ever since, digging and clawing my way back, and now there’s this.”

I notice he doesn’t even say “the disease” or its name. I also notice that he doesn’t apologize for anything that happened between us.

“So we’re calling a truce to focus on the health stuff. Okay, I can deal with that,” I say, looking toward the lone window in my apartment, out into the dark of the Manhattan night.

“Of course, you can,” he says, his voice suddenly lighter. “You’re Meredith Altman, savior of widows, orphans, and now dying men.” Wesley always took note of my desire to help the downtrodden, commended me for it. “Speaking of which, what’s your job now?”

“Ugh, don’t get me started,” I say, picking up the Harrison, Whittaker ID card that’s sitting on my desk and running my fingers idly over the grainy picture of myself on the front.

“Did you go corporate?” I can hear the incredulity in his voice. “You did, didn’t you? You sold out to the man?” He says it like he’s just teasing, but I know better—he’s disappointed in me.

“For now,” I hedge, and then change the subject back to his situation. “Can you tell me a little more about your prognosis?”

“What are you doing right now?”

My eyes wander over the ID card still in my hand, the papers strewn about the dilapidated wooden desk that I’ve had for nearly a decade.

“Um, just finishing up a little work. Nothing. Why?”

“Meet me for a drink? Just to catch up a little. Your beefy fiancé won’t mind, right? Not when I’m a dying man and all.”

I look down at the sweats I’m wearing and the ratty T-shirt, which, embarrassingly, is actually one of Wesley’s that I’ve saved. I’ve worn it so many times that I don’t even think of it as his anymore, despite the fact that the name of his high school baseball team, the Irvington Bulldogs, is plastered across the front. Before I can stop myself, I begin contemplating how to turn his suggestion into a reality. I put my hand up to my hair, which still feels smooth, acceptably neat. I decide that if I change quickly, throw on some real clothes, a little mascara and gloss, I can be solidly presentable in time to meet him somewhere.

“Um, sure,” I say, thinking that yes, actually, Aaron probably would mind—he would probably mind a lot—but maybe I don’t have to mention that.

“The piano bar on Seventy-sixth Street?”

It’s a place we used to go every now and then, and it’s also so utterly uncool, full of lonely senior citizens, I don’t have to worry about bumping into anyone we know.

“Perfect. I can be there in twenty minutes.”

We hang up, and I’m suddenly running around the apartment like I’m on fast-forward. I throw on a pair of skinny jeans—ripped ones, so it looks like I’m keeping things casual, not trying too hard. Never mind that it’s a great pair of ass-lifting pants and definitely a strategic decision in an eat-your-heart-out kind of way. I pick out a long-sleeved, V-neck sweater to go with them. Conservative, but it shows off my collarbone, an attribute of which Wesley was always particularly fond.

As I race about, brushing my hair again, picking out a pair of small crystal earrings just to brighten up my face, I try to decide whether to tell Aaron about this development. Ever. I want to be honest, to treat him and our relationship with the respect they deserve, the respect he has earned. But I’m not sure how I can explain the fact that I blew off my date with him tonight using the excuse of too much work yet somehow had time to get out with Wesley. At least I know Aaron is already sleeping, so I can wait until the morning to figure out what to share with him. I add a little blush, a spritz of perfume, a booster of deodorant under my arms. I throw my keys into my purse, pick up my phone, and head out.

Ten minutes later, I’m walking down the steps toward the entrance of the piano bar, which is half a flight below street level. It’s dark inside, full of rank cigar smoke and red velvet lounges that look they’ve been around since long before the Bee Gees made things like velvet cool. As my eyes adjust to the dim red lighting, I see Wesley waiting at the bar, wearing jeans and a dark leather jacket, chatting with the bartender. I take the stool next to him, placing my small bag on the counter and giving the lanky bartender a polite smile.

Wesley turns toward me, and I expect his green eyes to light up, the way they always used to. Instead he is subdued, his face unreadable, like the other day at the soup kitchen.

“Hey, what can I get you to drink?” he asks.

“Whatever you’re having,” I answer, eyeing his clear, fizzy beverage.

“That’s a club soda. Alcohol messes with my meds.” He swallows conspicuously once, and then again, and I wonder if it’s because of the awkwardness of the situation or if it’s a symptom of the disease.

“Oh. In that case”—I look toward the bartender, who’s waiting to fetch something for me—“a vodka soda with two limes, please.” I definitely want a drink to deal with this conversation. I adjust myself on the stool, turning toward him. “So, fill me in.”

He regards me silently for a moment, as if he’s choosing his words carefully. “I’m dying,” he says. Flip. Irreverent, as he shrugs.

“Stop it,” I admonish him, resisting the urge to swat at him and fiddling with the strap of my purse instead.

“Well, I am. The upside is that I already have a buyer lined up for the restaurant, at a definite profit.” He watches me while he talks and I wonder what he’s noticing, what has changed about me.

“You’re selling it already?”