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“Alice.” He rolls his chair back slightly as if trying to create some space for me, but I hover by the door, closing it softly behind me.

“Hey. I’m sorry for barging in here like this, but I had to see you.” I try to steady my breathing, try to stop looking for dark shadows under his eyes, a paleness to his skin, any sign of the illness that has changed his life so dramatically.

“It’s ten past nine,” Owen says flatly.

“Yeah, I know.”

“You’re on a late. You don’t start until ten,” he points out.

“I know, but I had to speak to you. I couldn’t sleep last night after the way we left things.”

“I’m sorry,” Owen says, letting out a sigh. “I didn’t sleep very well either.”

I cringe, wondering if the illness affects his sleeping pattern, or whether he’s on some medication or treatment that disrupts his nights and Paul’s snoring keeping him up was just a cover story for the real reason he doesn’t sleep well.

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have pushed you to talk about your personal life,” I say.

“You didn’t. Darcy and Dana were more to blame than you.”

“Yeah, well, they’re just kids, and I’m a grown-up who should know better. I just wanted to stop by to tell you that I’m here for you, and I think I know what you’re going through.” My voice drops, softening the words, wishing I could hug him with them.

“You do?” Owen eyes me suspiciously.

“Yes. And I know you don’t want to talk about it, so I’m not here to force you into telling me, but I wanted to let you know that I know what’s going on, why you live your life under this dark cloud, and why you won’t let anyone get close to you. And I understand. Well, maybe I don’t because it isn’t me, but I want to understand. I want to help you. I want to be here for you.”

He stares at me, confusion swirling behind narrowed eyes.

“I’ve been doing some research, and I’ve been on a lot of forums trying to see what you might be going through, and I’m not sure what your exact prognosis is, but⁠—”

“Alice.”

My name stops me in my tracks, and I stare at him.

“What are you talking about… prognosis?” Owen shakes his head and scrunches his forehead.

I move a little closer, clasp my hands together, and say it as gently as I can. “I know you’re dying.”

He regards me carefully before saying, “Aren’t we all?”

“Yes, but I figured you were given some bad news and told you might only have a limited number of years to live, and this is why you won’t commit to anyone, because you don’t want to fall in love with someone and then have to leave them. And I just think you’re so brave and so strong—way stronger than I could be—and so selfless. I just⁠—”

“Alice.”

I stop talking when Owen interrupts me again. The severity on his face can only mean one thing: I’m right.

Before he can confirm my suspicions, his phone rings. He lets out a sigh and pulls it out of his pocket, scanning the caller ID, his mouth dropping in puzzlement before he answers it.

“Hi,” Owen says, and I don’t hear what is said on the other end of the line, but I can tell by the colour draining from his face and the way he grips the phone that whatever the person is saying isn’t good news.

36

Alice

Owen ends the call and leaps up, grabbing his jacket from the back of his chair and pulling out some keys from a drawer in his desk.

“I gotta go,” he says as he pushes past me and tugs at the door.

“What is it? What’s wrong?” I ask as I trail him out of the office, my heart thumping, my pulse racing. I think he’s going to just walk away, but then he stops and turns, his face so pale, his eyes full of fear. For a second, I wonder if he’s just been told he has an hour to live.