Life and Other Near-Death Experiences(47)

“What?” he said. “I had to figure out where you were staying without tipping you off because I knew you’d try to talk me out of coming. Turns out that there aren’t many pilots named Shiloh in Puerto Rico. It took me all of three minutes to track him down. He met me at the ferry to help me get over here.”

Shiloh smiled thinly as I gave him a bug-eyed stare.

“Great,” I said flatly. “Mind if I borrow him for a second?” I said, grabbing Shiloh’s arm and pulling him into the bedroom.

“Cutie, chill out,” Shiloh whispered when we were alone.

“So you didn’t tell him?”

“Give me some credit. It’s not my place.”

I exhaled.

Shiloh looked at the door, then back at me. “You do have to tell him, you know.”

“I know.”

“I’m serious, Libby.”

“So he can talk me into treatment?”

His eyes held mine. “That wouldn’t be the worst outcome.”

“We already know the worst outcome, and my body’s hurtling toward it at warp speed.”

“You don’t know that.”

“But the doctor said—”

“I know what he said. But you didn’t get any of your follow-up scans, did you? Did they look at your lymph nodes yet? Run DNA tests?”

“You’re surprisingly knowledgeable for someone whose last brush with disease occurred around the same time as the Iran-Contra affair.”

“Enough with the jabs, Libby,” he said, too calmly. “Your brother is in the other room waiting for you, and the longer we’re in here, the more curious he’s going to be about what’s going on.”

I almost hit him. Almost. But then my lower lip started trembling and a fog of sadness rose through my chest and head, emerging as tears.

“Now what am I supposed to do?” I whispered.

“You go out there and spend time with Paul,” Shiloh said, putting his hand on my upper back gently. “For the record, he thinks he’s here because you’re having a breakdown prompted by your breakup. But, cutie . . .”

My nickname was back. We would be okay, at least for now. “Yes?”

He wiped my eyes with his thumbs, then kissed my forehead lightly. “Tell him. Right away.”



“You’re awfully quiet,” Paul said, examining me from the other side of the kitchen island. Shiloh left right after we emerged from the bedroom, claiming he was meeting a friend on the other side of the island. “Are you still upset I didn’t tell you I was coming?”

“No, no. It’s just that I’m starving,” I twittered as I stuck my head in the fridge, as though I had not just done sick things to a can of pasta. “You know how I get when I’m hungry.” Bypassing a container of sliced papaya and a container of yogurt, I located the jug of pineapple juice. Then I reached into the cupboard for the bottle of rum I had purchased the day before.

Paul watched me as I put the alcohol on the counter. “Rum, huh? I’ve been trying to get you to imbibe since you were twelve. If I knew it was as easy as dropping you on a tropical island, I would have done that years ago.”

“An island, and a failed marriage,” I said as I poured two glasses, topping both with pineapple juice. I slid one of the glasses to him, avoiding his eyes.

Paul took a demure sip of the drink, sputtered a little, and put it back on the counter. “You’re aware that alcohol isn’t food, right? And I won’t even mention that the gap between your thighs worries me. Skinny isn’t a good look for you, Libbers.”

I glanced down at my legs and realized that for the first time since fourth grade, I could see between them. “If you say so. Anyway, how’s work?”

“Work, shmerk. It eats my life, and I secretly love and loathe every minute of it, so no change there. On to more important things: how are you?”

I took an enormous swig of my drink and ignored his question. “Why didn’t Charlie and the boys come with you? It would have been nice to see them.”

“Charlie’s filming. And I can’t take care of Toby and Max without him, especially not on a trip that involves flying. Besides, I thought it would be good for you and me to have to spend some quality time together.”

“Because you were worried I’m cracking up,” I said. My face was starting to feel hot, and I could feel my pulse quickening.

“Because I love you, you ninny,” Paul said. “Now why aren’t you happier to see me?”

“I am.”

“But . . . ,” he supplied. When I said nothing, he came around to the other side of the kitchen island and stood next to me, as though we both intended to look at the beach together. “Libs, what is it? Did you find out Tom was sleeping with someone already? Is Jackass suing you for quitting? Has Shiloh made you a member of some bizarre cult I need to know about?”

I managed a small laugh. “No, no, and no.”

“Well, then? Come on. While you would certainly be justified to be this blue over your breakup, I’m sensing that there’s something else going on.”

You know what they say about hindsight. It was moronic of me to think I could conceal the truth from the very person who made the transition from zygote to fully formed human being beside me in the womb. Yet even with Paul in front of me, sensing my deception like a dog smells fear, I was considering whether I really had to tell him. Wouldn’t he be best protected if I continued concealing my big awful thing?