Page 117 of The False Flat

Then he kissed me, a slow, steady kiss that lingered on my lips even as his mouth trailed down my neck and chest. He groaned when he made it to the top of my bra, his hands replacing his mouth as he gently ran a finger over the lacy black fabric. My heart stretched in my chest, underneath his touch. I didn’t need anything to hold me together, but I wanted those hands on me, on every part of me, as I let every part go. His palms followed the curve of my sides until his thumbs rested on the barely there waistband across my hips. My whole body warmed when the tips of his fingers circled my waist and then dropped to graze my inner thigh.

He moved to my eyes, his gaze so heated the whole room caught flame. And then he pulled me to my feet, and as he lifted me off the ground and into his arms, he whispered, “I’ve wanted to do this for a very long time.”

I flicked my tongue against his earlobe as he carried me across the hall to his bedroom, unconcerned that we might run into the owners of this house.

And behind that solid, wooden door, under a flannel comforter and beside rustic cabin decor, we lived in the only moment we had, the only one we were promised, the only one anyone can ever be promised.

Twice.

CHAPTER 47

LIFE REALIZATION #21: I MIGHT BE CAPABLE OF HOMICIDE

Over the next couple of weeks, I tried hard not to think about losing the one thing I so desperately did not want to lose, which took constant redirecting as Grant underwent a flurry of tests, lab work, and minor surgical procedures to improve his chances of chemotherapy success. We found out that his cancer wasn’t “resectable.” In other words, it couldn’t be cut out because the tumor involved his liver’s artery and vein. We were told to prepare ourselves for a long and potentially ugly battle. Though, according to the doctors, he was doing surprisingly well. I hated the word “surprisingly.” It meant they hadn’t expected him to do well.

But if anyone was going to kick cancer’s butt, it was Grant.

“I need you to prepare yourself, Penelope.” Grant had turned to me, crinkling the thin white paper on the exam table we were both sitting on, with an expression so severe my stomach flipped. “It’s possible I’ll lose the one thing that defines our relationship.” He leaned over as my chest vibrated with worried anticipation, and then he whispered, “The stache.”

I let out an exasperated sigh and nearly shoved him off the table.

The oncologist had laughed. “Some people lose their hair on FOLFIRINOX, some don’t.” Like so many medical terms we’d been forced to learn over the past few weeks, this was yet another horrid acronym.

Grant had grabbed my hand and squeezed. We were getting through it one step at a time, and with Devina’s help; she understood what it was like to go through cancer treatment. She’d beaten the odds, and she constantly encouraged us both.

I wouldn’t say I was doing well, but I coped in the ways that suited me particularly: riding my bicycle religiously and using numbers in two ways. First, I’d turned most of the hospital staff into various digits; then, as Devina had suggested, I made spreadsheets and lists, documenting Grant’s treatment schedule with precision and accuracy, and learning about pancreatic cancer.

“There will be times you’ll feel helpless,” Devina had told me, “but education and organization are your friends. You’re a businesswoman. Lean into your strengths.”

I’d done exactly that, and she’d been right. It had helped. Unfortunately, that meant learning statistics, things like only 20 to 30 percent of stage-one pancreatic cancer patients will be alive in five years.

I scared myself with the numbers. I soothed myself with the numbers. I was up and down like ocean waves. One minute, I was a confident mermaid swimming in Grant’s optimism; the next, I was a drowning diver, ready to be eaten by the sharks, the facts that defied the optimism.

When someone’s time has a known end, you tend to cling tighter than before, which was what we were all doing today, preparing for a Saturday-morning group ride together.

The November air had a bite to it, chilling us until we’d started moving. Erin, Beau, and Deanna had joined our regular riding group. I’d tried to cancel this particular ride because of the dark circles painting the skin under Grant’s eyes, but he’d wanted to go. And I wouldn’t deny him what he wanted, not now, because I didn’t know when he would stop asking. I’d tasked myself with watching him in such a way that he didn’t know I was watching him. So here we were, in the cold, staring at a long, flat road ahead, surrounded by trees and patches of grass and relative quiet.

“Let’s talk wedding plans as we ride.” Deanna rubbed her hands together.

“Yes, let’s!” Erin said.

Beau rode back toward William and Grant, and I wanted to follow.

“I don’t want a big wedding, you guys.”

Deanna’s plans had grown in size and number ever since she’d heard about my proposal.

Her eyes glittered. “But—”

“No. Grant and I agreed. A simple ceremony back at Chuck’s cabin the week before Christmas. Only family, except Chuck and Celia because it’s their cabin and Chuck’s ordained.” I was apparently weird for thinking a wedding was a private thing, love shared between two people. I didn’t understand why everyone wanted to make a public spectacle of it.

The road was mostly deserted, so we were able to fan out a bit and keep a conversation going.

“There are so many other people who are going to want to be there. What about Erin, Mere, Key—”

“Don’t make Pen feel bad about not inviting me,” Erin said. “If they invite one person, they have to invite them all. To spare feelings, they have to do it this way.”

“Thank you for understanding, Erin,” I said, hoping it would prompt Deanna to do the same, but she only huffed.