Life and Other Near-Death Experiences(66)

Raj returned with two polished, professional-looking women, and the three of them sat down at the table like ducks in a row. They began shuffling and passing papers, instructing us to sign here, then there, and over there, again and again until I thought my hand would fall off. The fluorescent lights gave everything a halo effect, and as I was staring at the white light around Raj’s head, I began to wobble in my chair.

Before I knew what was happening, Tom was at my side. “Libby,” he whispered. “Are you okay? You don’t look so hot.”

“Too close, Tom,” I mumbled, wondering if this was a slow-motion panic attack or if I was simply going to faint again.

Tom looked up at Raj and the two other women. “Can we take five?” he asked, not waiting for them to respond. “Come on, let’s get some water,” he said, holding me by the arm and leading me back into the building’s lobby. He sat me on a bench, then walked over to a watercooler. He returned with a Dixie cup full of water, which he handed me. “Did you eat breakfast?” I accepted the cup.

“Not really,” I said. Come to think of it, I hadn’t eaten dinner, either; the cancer diet had pretty much sapped my interest in any sustenance that wasn’t forty proof or higher.

Tom jogged over to the receptionist and quickly returned with a granola bar, which I ate in less than a minute, washing it down with another cup of water that Tom provided.

“Feel better?” he asked, almost eagerly, after I’d finished.

“Yeah. Thanks.”

“Good. I know this has been really hard on you, and I hate to see you showing up here, all . . .” His eyes washed over me. “You look frail, Libby, and so tired. Even though I know you don’t want me to, I’m worried about you.”

How could I not soften, when he was being so kind and attentive? But his tenderness hurt, too, because it was just one more reminder of what we’d lost.

“Yeah, you’re not alone there,” I told him. “But let’s get through the rest of the rigmarole. Then we’ll talk. All right?”

He looked so elated that I instantly regretted making the offer. “I’d love that.”



Half an hour later, I was homeless. I had six hours to remove my remaining items from the apartment, though Natalie, the woman I sold the place to, agreed to let me leave the bed behind.

“I have the car. Do you want to head to the neighborhood?” Tom asked after we’d said good-bye to Raj. “We could go to De Luca or something.”

I shook my head; hanging out at a place we once frequented as a couple sounded about as smart as setting up camp at a nuclear plant. “There’s a diner around the corner. Why don’t we just go there?”

“Sure,” he said agreeably. He seemed so cheerful that I almost missed the combative Tom who had tried to stop me on the way to the airport a month ago.

The diner smelled of day-old coffee and bacon grease. I knew Tom was thinking of how the odor would permeate his pressed button-down and that he would change the minute he got home.

“So,” he said nervously.

“So,” I said. I looked at him—really looked at him for the first time that day. His skin was as unblemished and unlined as it had always been; not a hair on his head was out of place. Yet his eyes were dull, ringed with purple, and his clothes seemed to hang from his frame.

“How are you feeling?” he asked as the waitress tried to hand us menus. I waved them away, and asked for coffee, toast, and a side order of bacon for good measure. Tom ordered tea and a bagel.

“Oh, you know. Fabulous.” In fact, I was deflated, like my body had sprung an oxygen leak. But my stomach wasn’t hurting, and I no longer felt as though I were going to fall in a heap on the floor, which was about as good as I could hope for. “I fell in love with someone,” I blurted.

Tom blinked, attempting to process what I’d just said. “What? Seriously?”

“Seriously.”

“When? Was it that guy you used to work with?”

I let out a strange little laugh. “Ty? Oh, no. It’s someone you’ve never met. His name is Shiloh. I met him in Puerto Rico.”

“Wow. That’s . . . that’s wonderful.”

“Really.”

“I mean it. You deserve to be happy.”

“Sounds like you’ve been talking to your therapist.”

“O’Reilly, actually. He and Jess said it’s not right. Me trying to hold on to you.”

“They’re not stupid.”

“No, they’re not. I mean it, Libby. I am sorry. Really, really sorry.”

Here was where I told him it was okay. Where I asked myself, What would Charlotte Ross do? and promptly forgave him. Except I couldn’t.

“I didn’t know, Tom,” I said.

“What—what do you mean?”

“When I came home that day, I was upset about something else. I had no idea about you being gay. Would you even have told me if you hadn’t thought I already knew?”

He looked down at his hands. “Um. I don’t know.” He lifted his head and met my eye. “I hope so. That’s why I went into therapy. But no, I wouldn’t have told you that day. What were you going to tell me, when you came home upset?”

“It doesn’t matter now,” I said, fighting the urge to run out of the diner, possibly into oncoming traffic. Yet I did not want to have to speak about this with him ever again. “Were you—are you—in love with O’Reilly?” I asked.