Page 71 of When Lemons Give You Life

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Lisa

I pop the smart corduroy trousers in a bag, rubbing the ribbed brown material between my fingers. I went to five different shops before deciding on this pair. Griff probably won’t know the difference between these and the el cheapo ones from Best&Less, but they’re what he would have once chosen himself, and are a small way I can show him dignity.

I check my watch. Frank will be here soon.

I’ve stopped counting how many times we’ve made each other cry with laughter since our first date. Somewhere between the burnt garbage bag, two late-night movies, and a string of rambling phone calls, I’ve been feeling . . . lighter. A little less frayed at the edges. Less like I’m constantly catching up. At least in the moments when I can distract myself enough to ignore my health crisis.

I don’t know exactly what Frank and I are; we haven’t rushed to define it. But I know this: I feel more like me lately. Maybe I’m starting to believe I don’t have to hide so much to be worthy.

Tonight will be the second time he comes over. I’ve ditched the garbage-bag trick and used a laundry basket instead—covered it with a towel so it looks like a normal pile of washing. Like me, in my “normal person” disguise. But I’ve also left a few things out. A jacket on the couch. Dishes in the sink. Nothing dramatic, just . . . real. And somehow, real feels okay. I’ve even managed to put lipstick on. But I can’t find my hairbrush, so I’ve embraced the punk-rock look.

I catch my smile in the mirror. All of this has been a good distraction from my kidneys. I’m choosing denial, and honestly? Life’s too good to burst the bubble—not until I absolutely have to.

Frank is ten minutes early, a skill I deeply admire but will likely never possess. In high school, my friends coined the phrase “Lisa time”: it runs half an hour behind the rest of the universe. Maybe if Frank and I end up together, we can average out and be just twenty minutes late? That feels romantic, in a logistical kind of way.

His hug smells like coffee and something earthy. I press my ear to his chest, the perfect height to hear his heartbeat. It stills my brain.

“Hey, you,” he says, brushing back my hair.

I look up. “Hi.”

“Place looks good.”

I follow his gaze to the oven. “I know what you’re thinking,” I tease, nudging him.

He raises his hands. “I didn’t say a word! And that laundry basket—that’s just towels, right?” His eyebrows lift in mock suspicion.

My cheeks betray me.

We burst out laughing, and he pulls me into his long arms again. People say love feels like butterflies in your tummy, to me it’s more like kangaroos.

I step aside and gesture to the coffee table, where I’ve laid out an old dog-eared music book. “It belonged to Beau. A few of the pieces he collected from his travels. I took them hoping I could learn to play some for Griff, but much as I’d love to be able to learn to read complex music, I think they’d be much better in your hands.” I pause.

He crosses to the table and runs his hand across the battered cover, flipping through the pages. “Lisa . . . this is . . .”

“I didn’t know if it would be weird,” I say quickly. “You don’t have to—”

“It’s beautiful. Thank you!”

I bring over two glasses of rosé. He pops the book in his backpack, settling onto the low brown couch, his poor knees shooting up at a 45-degree angle. We sit close, legs brushing. Definitely kangaroos.

I lean in. Our lips meet again like we’ve known each other for years not weeks. His fingers thread through my hair. It’s . . . dizzying.

Then—clatter.

“Oops, sorry, Lisa! I’m such a klutz.” Frank grabs the fallen wineglass, dabbing a stack of letters with a handkerchief from his pocket. He squints at one. “Was this important?”

I glance at the soggy paper. Crap. The ultrasound form. I lunge for it, too late. “It’s nothing. Don’t worry. Want more wine?”

I leap to my feet, and he gently touches my leg. “Lisa . . . Why do you need a kidney ultrasound? What’s PKD?”

The kangaroos in my belly transform into an octopus, limbs flailing. “It’s nothing,” I mumble. “Just a routine test. Totally forgot about it.” I lie. It littered my daydreams and nightmares like an inextinguishable fire.

His eyes dim. “I wish you’d let me in.”

“Polycystic kidney disease—PKD,” I blurt. “It’s genetic. That form was for a scan.”