Page 95 of 72 Hours of You

“I do have some ideas, though,” he says, the pink light of his clock mixing with the sunset colors in the sky. “You’ve been … inspiring.”

“Oh my god, you’re not going to try and write your own poem, are you?”

Peter laughs. “Nah. I’m a reader. Not a writer. You won’t have to be subjected to my innermost thoughts.”

“Actually,” I say, stopping in the middle of the sidewalk. “I do want to know your innermost thoughts. I want to know everything.”

A guy in a purple boa offers an “Excuse me” and walks in between Peter and me, but we keep our eyes on each other.

“Okay,” Peter says. “Here goes. My innermost thoughts are all about this girl. This girl who annotates Heidegger in the cafeteria, and who kisses me under waterfalls and has really weird taste in music.”

He looks down at me, his green eyes sparkling with something almost like a challenge, and even under all that pink he just looks so beautiful. He looks too good for this shitty world. I stand up on my toes and kiss him, my fingers on his hair, his cheek, the back of his neck.

He pulls away, his slightly red lips breaking into a smile. And then he puts his arm around me and we keep walking, together.

At 10:15 p.m. Peter taps his phone and turns it around to me. “Man, we’ve really been here all day.”

46:21:11

I nod.

“We should probably head back to Grand Central, unless you want to miss the train again.”

“Maybe I do,” I say.

“Syd, I know you’re probably still processing all that stuff I said before.” He runs his hands through his hair. “But you’re not responsible for me or anything, just because I might or might not have a life-altering, debilitating disease.” He waits for me to laugh, but I can’t force myself to do it. “Geez, tough crowd. I’m telling you, Syd, everything’s going to be okay.”

“Okay.” I feel like an asshole, not telling him, making this choice for him. But I still can’t get myself to say the words.

“Okay,” Peter says, as if that settles it. He holds my hand again and starts to walk toward the train station. But I don’t move. He turns back to me, our arms stretched. “What’s the matter?”

“Just … can’t we just stay?”

Peter looks at me, following my eyes to the top of his head, but I cough and look down. “Please, Peter. Let’s just stay a little longer.”

He smooths out his hair. “Okay.”

Fifty-Seven

WE FIND A TWENTY-FOUR-HOUR DINER and grab a turquoise booth in the back corner by the kitchen.

We order hash browns and milkshakes—chocolate for me and mint chip for Peter. We trade stories about growing up, and I try to remember the way he tells each one. Because I know I’ll never hear them again. I’ll never get to roll my eyes at him and say, “I know. You’ve told that story a hundred times,” when he tells me about how his dad exploded a deep fryer trying to make a turducken four Thanksgivings ago. And when we talk about what we want to do in the future, about what our dreams are, I push my fingernails into the palms of my hand, making myself smile and nod and laugh when I’m supposed to.

At five in the morning Peter’s eyes start to close. I put my hand on his knee under the table and shake it. “Peter. Peter.”

His eyes shoot open.

39:15:08

“You fell asleep.”

Peter takes off his glasses and rubs his eyes. “You say that like it’s an accusation.”

“Don’t fall asleep.”

Peter slides his glasses back on. “Sydney.”

“What?” I look down at the peeling leather, pulling a chunk off and rolling it between my fingers.