Page 77 of Lessons in Lemonade

“What do you mean you went out with a guy? When?” Jealousy and betrayal slip in, and I scoot my chair back a bit to cross my right ankle over my left knee.

Her eyes drop to the table, which tells me she went out with someone recently and she knew it was wrong. Even so, she wants to tell me anyway, so I do what I told myself I was going to do: I keep my mouth shut and listen without overreacting.

“Sorry,” I tell her, shaking my head. “Keep going.”

Her eyes come back to mine, only this time the emotion present is loud and clear: fear. She’s afraid to tell me, afraid of what I might think of her.

“Three days ago.” Her cheeks tinge pink.

Pursing my lips, I feel my jaw clench. I’m not necessarily angry at her as we both know she wasn’t looking for a relationship or to hook up with anyone; it’s that she did it anyway knowing if I found out about it, it would most likely hurt me.

“Don’t worry, I knew it was wrong—and everyone told me it was wrong.” She smooths out the napkin over her lap. “But I saw the pictures you’ve been posting and it looked like you were moving on with your life, so I wanted to do the same. I just wanted things to get back to normal.”

“Did they?” I ask her, needing to know if she’s looking to regain her version of normal from before me, or if she’s wanting to make a new normal with me.

“No. Within five minutes, I was openly crying on the sidewalk, and I ruined the poor guy’s night.” She reaches for her wine and takes a sip.

Part of me wants to be happy about this because she wanted me and not that guy, but the larger part of me—the part that wants her to just to be happy—has my brows pulling down.

“Meg,” I say softly. “I don’t want you crying. Not over this, not over me.”

“I couldn’t help it.” Her eyes turn glassy behind the candlelight, and she sets her wine down. “I can’t help it now. I didn’t want him—I don’t want anyone but you. I missed you. I missed you so much.”

“And I missed you.” Dropping my leg, I lean forward and lay my hand over hers on the table. The contact between us is nice, and she flips her hand over so we’re palm to palm. My fingers trace the inside of her wrist. “Trust me, there was no moving on, at least not like you’re thinking.”

“What does that mean?” she asks, looking genuinely curious.

“Nothing.” I shake my head. I want to tell her about my time back in Tampa, how utterly miserable I was, and then the interesting turn of events that occurred over the last week, but not yet. “I hear you when you tell me you’ve made these promises to yourself, but I need you to explain where and how I factor into all of this.”

I do want this, more than anything, but only if she wants me in the same way.

And that is what I need to hear from her tonight.

She-Crab Soup

WHY IS THIS so hard?

For weeks, I have been dying to talk to him, to pour my heart out to him, and now that he’s here in front of me looking like the best thing I have ever seen, I’m nervous.

It’s not like I think he’s going to judge me. When it comes to me, he’s the most open and accepting person I know. It’s just that these are my inner thoughts, the places I rarely go to, because if I do, I’m not keeping promise number one. I’m letting the cancer fears get to me.

Staring down at our hands, I ask him a question I’m certain I already know the answer to.

“Have you ever known someone to die of cancer?”

The words linger in the air and he doesn’t respond right away; instead his fingers tighten on my arm and my eyes rise to find his. Warmth and love shine from them—they have since the moment our eyes collided across the garden—and it’s this, having him here, openly wanting to know me that makes this easier than I ever thought it would be. Don’t get me wrong, it’s still so hard, but for the first time, I want to talk to him. I want to tell him.

“No, but I imagine you have,” he says quietly.

I nod and think about the three funerals I went to within two years of my diagnosis.

When you are going through the experience of treatment, support groups, and counseling, it’s comforting to be surrounded by a community who understands and is there to help. You meet people and make friends, but as much as it’s embraced and discussed, the aftermath of surviving and the guilt that comes along with personally knowing those who don’t is something I’m certain I’ll struggle with for the rest of my life.

As for the funerals, the poignancy evoked by being so close to what could have been and still might be my reality . . . it sits too close to the heart. Mortality stares you in the face, and there’s no escaping it.

“I’m sorry you lost people you cared for,” he says as he leans forward and slides his hand up my forearm, his thumb swiping back and forth over the crease in my elbow.

I nod again and swallow to try to hold onto my composure. It’s not just because of the topic, but because I’m discussing it with him and he’s displaying empathy in the way that I need versus sympathy. It’s easy to see when people feel sorry for you, but he wants to share this with me, and that’s what I keep reminding myself.