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“They know,” I agree.
He shifts me in his lap, holds me with one arm, and looks down at his watch. “We should shower.”
There’s a heaviness in his voice, despite the resolution. But what he’s going to do is necessary. It’s also the second thing on the bucket list he’d written, right below telling me he loved me.Tell the people in my life about my diagnosis.Beneath that had been one that made my heart warm.Introduce Summer to my family.
So we’re doing that, and then he’ll be free to move on to some of the lighter things on his list.
Our shower is a long, drawn-out affair, sharing it as we do. The tautness in his shoulders abates with the pleasure of our joining, and his mouth is soft and gentle on mine. But it’s back in a scowl as we get closer to his parents’ summer house in Montauk.
We stand side-by-side on the sidewalk. Him, looking at a house that contains some of his best memories. Me, awed by the three-story building and its shingle-clad facade. Ace is wedged between our legs, the only one amongst us who is calm and collected.
“Well,” Anthony says and reaches for my hand. “Let’s do this.”
Epilogue
One year later
“No,” I say. “Stay.”
The six golden retriever puppies squirming at my heels don’t listen. Despite their floppy, oversized ears, they don’t listen to commands. Not yet. One day, they’ll be some of the best trained dogs, a companion to people who need their guidance.
But right now, they’re seven weeks old, and they’re a riot.
“You’re not allowed out here,” I tell them, one hand on the dog gate. “Will you stop trying to sneak past me?”
Their mother gives me a brown-eyed look from her sprawl on the dog bed. She’s the picture of tired, maternal pride.You’re on your own, the look tells me.I’m just happy they’re not playing with my tail anymore.
I make it out of the dog gate, but I’m not alone. A budding escape artist makes a mad dash for it, wiggles his way out and bounds on too-big puppy paws past my legs.
“Oh, no you don’t!” I swoop down, but he rolls sideways out of my reach, the picture of playfulness. His tiny tongue hangs out of his mouth in a way that… okay. I might have parents who’ve raised infinitely more dogs than they’ve raised kids, but I’m not immune. When a puppy hits you with that look, you melt.
So I melt.
I scoop him up and he gives a content wriggle, pushing a tiny nose against my palm. I take him with me through the kitchen and out the door to the backyard. My parents are sitting on their usual chairs under the oak tree, their two adult dogs sprawled beneath their chairs.
Anthony is in a third chair, sitting opposite them.
His long legs are stretched out in front of him, evident in his shorts. It had taken me a long time to convince him he could in fact wear shorts with my parents—no formalwear required—and here he is, tan legs on display. His hand is buried in Ace’s fur.
A pair of prescription-strength sunglasses cover his eyes. While they do nothing to stop his fading vision, they make reading a bit easier. For all the dour predictions he spouts when he’s in a bad mood, he’s not blind yet.
The doctor says the vision loss has plateaued at the moment, but we don’t know how long it’ll last.First time I’m happy if a plateau lasts forever,Anthony had said. He’s getting along better with Dr. Johnson these days.
My mother breaks into guffaws of laughter at something Anthony says. His lip curls into that half-smile, and beneath the sunglasses, I know his eyes are bemused. My parents love him.
I think he’s quietly astonished by them.
This house, with its dogs, scattered books and boisterous game nights, is miles away from the serene quiet at the Winter family’s city townhouse or Montauk residence. One time at his parents’ house, I’d seen a housekeeper comb the fringes of an oriental rug.
Combing. The fringes. Of a rug.
In my parents’ house, you’d be lucky if there are any fringes left or if they’ve been gnawed off by puppy teeth.
The puppy in my arms lets out a soft yowl and wriggles. All three dogs at the table lift their heads. Only Ace’s tail starts to wag, the others over the antics of the latest litter.
“Everything okay in there?” my mom asks.
“They’ve torn down the place,” I say. “It’ll fall any moment.”
