Chapter 3 - “The life you want.”
“That sounds easy.”
“No.”
His eyes held mine.
“It sounds difficult.”
I looked toward the hospital window.
Six days ago, I had been saving everything for later.
Now later might exist.
But only if I was willing to risk the present.
“I want treatment.”
Evelyn started crying immediately.
I laughed.
“Could you give me five seconds before becoming emotional?”
“No.”
Lucian stood.
“I'll let the doctor know.”
“Lucian.”
He stopped.
“Thank you.”
He looked at me for a long moment.
Then nodded.
Treatment started that afternoon.
It did not feel triumphant.
I was exhausted.
Nauseated.
Cold.
Then too warm.
Evelyn stayed until I made her go sleep.
Lucian remained.
At midnight, I woke to find him sitting beside the window reading from my blue sketchbook.
“You stole that.”
“You left it on the table.”
“That isn't how ownership works.”
He held up Gabriel's portrait.
“You were good.”
“Was?”
“You are good.”
I looked away.
“I haven't painted properly in months.”
“Why?”
“My hands shake.”
“So?”
“So I can't paint the way I used to.”
He studied me.
“Is that the only way you're allowed to paint?”
I glared.
“Do you enjoy being irritating?”
“Frequently.”
He closed the sketchbook.
“Gabriel would've liked that drawing.”
“He did.”
“What?”
“I gave him a copy.”
Lucian froze.
“He had it?”
“Yes.”
A strange expression moved across his face.
“After he died, I found a drawing in his apartment.”
My chest tightened.
“A man holding terrible coffee?”
“Yes.”
I laughed through tears.
“That was mine.”
Lucian looked toward the dark hospital window.
“He kept it above his desk.”
I swallowed.
For six years, something I'd made had lived in a room I never knew existed.
Maybe that was what art was.
Pieces of yourself surviving in places you never saw.
The first treatment cycle lasted three days.
On Day Four of my supposed final week, I was still alive.
That became absurdly important.
At midnight, I texted Lucian from the hospital bed.
Technically, I have three days left according to the original schedule.
He replied from the chair six feet away.
Stop texting me when I'm in the room.
I smiled.
You looked busy.
He looked up.
“Amelia.”
“Yes?”
“You're impossible.”
“So I've been told.”
He almost smiled.
Then his phone rang.
The shift in him was immediate.
“Moretti.”
He listened.
His eyes sharpened.
“When?”
Pause.
“Send it.”
He ended the call.
“What happened?”
“Nothing you need to worry about.”
I stared.
He closed his eyes briefly.
“Old habit.”
“Very old.”
He walked over.
“The hospital found the source of the chart error.”
I straightened.
“What?”
“The mismatched scan belonged to another patient with a similar medical record number.”
I swallowed.
“How did you get that information?”
“I didn't.”
He held up his phone.
“Your doctor contacted me because you listed me as an emergency contact yesterday.”
I stared.
“I did?”
“You were exhausted.”
Evelyn had gone to Boston for one night to collect clothes.
The nurse had handed me a form.
I'd written Lucian's number without thinking.
“Oh.”
His expression softened.
“You can change it.”
“I know.”
He sat.
“The hospital's review indicates it was a clerical error during image transfer.”
“So no conspiracy.”
“No.”
“You sound disappointed.”
“I prefer problems with people attached.”
“Because people can be interrogated?”
“Because systems are harder to threaten.”
I laughed.
Then sobered.
“What about the other patient?”
His expression changed.
“They've been contacted.”
“Were they told the wrong thing too?”
“I don't know.”
I closed my eyes.
Somewhere in New York, another person might be receiving news that changed their life.
That was the thing about mistakes.
They never belonged to only one file.
On Day Five, I asked Lucian to take me outside.
“Outside where?”
“The ocean.”
He frowned.
“You're in the middle of treatment.”
“I know.”
“The doctor—”
“Already said I could leave for four hours if I remain nearby.”
He studied me.
“You planned this.”
“Yes.”
“Manipulative.”
“Efficient.”
He actually laughed.
We drove to Rockaway Beach before sunrise.
No limousine.
I insisted.
Lucian's driver used an ordinary black SUV.
Evelyn came too, wrapped in three layers and carrying enough snacks for a family of eight.
The beach was almost empty.
Cold wind came off the Atlantic.
I wore a wool hat and leaned heavily on Lucian's arm.
At first, I hated needing the help.
Then I remembered what he'd told me.
Needing someone and belonging to them aren't the same.
So I leaned.
We stood near the water.
The horizon slowly changed from gray to pale gold.
Then pink.
Then orange.
Exactly like the unfinished painting.
“Oh,” I whispered.
Lucian looked at me.
Not the sunrise.
Me.
“What?”
“I understand what I painted wrong.”
“What?”
“The water.”
He followed my gaze.
“The reflection isn't the same color as the sky.”
“No.”
The ocean held darker tones.
Broken light.
Movement.
It reflected without copying.
I laughed.
“I've been trying to make it match.”
Evelyn looked between us.
“This sounds metaphorical.”
“It isn't.”
Lucian said, “It definitely is.”
I nudged him.
Then the sun rose.
For several minutes, none of us spoke.
I had spent years imagining meaningful moments as something dramatic.
Instead, one of the best moments of my life involved freezing toes, cheap coffee Evelyn bought at a gas station, and Lucian complaining about sand inside his shoes.
On the drive back, I fell asleep against his shoulder.
When I woke, his hand was covering mine.
He moved it immediately.
“Sorry.”
“Why?”
“You were asleep.”
“So?”
His eyes met mine.
Slowly, I placed my hand back beneath his.
He didn't move again.
On Day Six, my blood counts worsened.
The doctors expected it.
I did not.
Expectation apparently did nothing to make fear smaller.
My temperature climbed.
Treatment paused.
Dr. Shah explained everything calmly.
“We need to let your body recover.”
“Does this mean it isn't working?”
“No.”
“Does it mean it is?”
“No.”
I laughed bitterly.
“I really miss seven-day certainty.”
He smiled sadly.
“I understand.”
That night, I told Lucian to leave.
“No.”
“You've been here every day.”
“Yes.”
“You have work.”
“It continues without me.”
“You have hundreds of employees.”
“They'll survive.”
“What if I don't?”
The words escaped before I could stop them.
He became completely still.
I hated myself immediately.
“I'm sorry.”
“Don't apologize.”
“I shouldn't have said it like that.”
“You're allowed to say it however you want.”
His voice was quiet.
I turned toward the window.
“I don't know what I'm doing anymore.”
He sat beside the bed.
“I spent one day learning how to die.”
“Yes.”
“Now everyone expects me to know how to live.”
“No one expects that.”
“I do.”
My eyes filled.
“What if treatment works and I waste everything again?”
“You won't.”
“You don't know that.”
“No.”
He corrected himself.
“You might.”
I stared at him.
“That was terrible comfort.”
“I'm not trying to comfort you.”
“What are you trying to do?”
“Tell the truth.”
He leaned forward.
“You may survive and become afraid again.”
I listened.
“You may postpone things. Fight with your sister. Leave paintings unfinished. Ignore calls.”
His voice softened.
“Living badly for a day doesn't mean you wasted being alive.”
Something inside me loosened.
I had turned survival into another test I was afraid to fail.
Lucian understood because maybe he had done the same.
“What about you?” I asked.
“What about me?”
“What have you postponed?”
He looked away.
“Many things.”
“Name one.”
“No.”
“Coward.”
His brows rose.
“That is an unusual accusation.”
“One thing.”
He was silent.
Then:
“Leaving.”
“Leaving what?”
“The business my father left me.”
I studied him.
“You don't want it?”
“I don't know.”
“That's not the same answer.”
He almost smiled.
“No.”
“What did you want before?”
He looked toward the window.
“To restore old buildings.”
I blinked.
“You're joking.”
“No.”
“Like houses?”
“Hotels. Theaters. Train stations.”
Something about it made perfect sense.
He controlled things now.
Maybe once he'd wanted to repair them.
“What happened?”
“My father died.”
“And you inherited.”
“Yes.”
“Gabriel?”
“Was too sick by then to take any responsibility.”
“So you stayed.”
“Yes.”
“For how long?”
“Fourteen years.”
I stared.
“And you're telling me not to postpone things?”
“That hypocrisy is not lost on me.”
I smiled.
Then asked, “If I live, will you leave?”
He looked at me.
“If you live?”
“Yes.”
“What kind of bargain is that?”
“A good one.”
“Why should your survival determine my career?”
“It shouldn't.”
“Then no.”
I frowned.
He continued.
“If I leave, I leave because I choose to.”
A pause.
“And if you live, you finish the painting because you choose to.”
I smiled.
“Deal.”
“No bargain.”
“Fine.”
Then, because I was tired and terrified and suddenly more alive than I'd been in years, I asked:
“Lucian?”
“Yes?”
“Have you ever wanted to kiss me?”
His entire face changed.
Not dramatically.
Just enough.
“Yes.”
The honesty stole my breath.
“Why haven't you?”
“Because you were told you were dying six days ago.”
“So?”
“So I didn't want your fear making a decision for you.”
My eyes burned.
“What if it isn't fear?”
He stood.
Came closer.
Stopped.
“Then ask me again when you're not lying in a hospital bed wondering whether you have tomorrow.”
It was the most romantic refusal I'd ever heard.
I hated him for it.
A little.
Day Seven arrived quietly.
The day I had been told would be my last.
At 6:12 A.M., I woke.
Sunlight touched the blinds.
I breathed in.
Then out.
I was alive.
No miracle.
No dramatic announcement.
Just breath.
Lucian was asleep in the chair.
Evelyn was curled on the sofa with a blanket.
I looked at both of them and started crying.
Not because I'd beaten anything.
I hadn't.
Treatment was still uncertain.
My body was still sick.
But the deadline had passed.
At seven, Dr. Shah entered.
“Happy to see you.”
“Likewise.”
He reviewed my labs.
Then sat.
“We have early imaging.”
My heart stopped.
“And?”
“Too early to call treatment response.”
Of course.
“But some markers are moving in the right direction.”
Evelyn covered her mouth.
Lucian stood.
I stared at the doctor.
“What does that mean?”
“It means we continue.”
Continue.
Not survive.
Not cure.
Continue.
It was suddenly the most beautiful word I knew.
After the doctor left, I looked at Lucian.
“Day Eight.”
He nodded.
“Day Eight.”
My phone vibrated.
A message from an unknown number.
I frowned.
Opened it.
One sentence.
If Lucian Moretti is with you, ask him why Gabriel really gave you his private number.
My stomach tightened.
I looked up.
Lucian saw my face.
“What?”
I turned the phone toward him.
He read the message.
Every trace of softness disappeared.
May you like
Not anger.
Recognition.
