Love Your Life(73)

    I hear him open the boot and rummage around. Then the boot closes again and he’s back in the driver’s seat, holding a bulky parcel.

“This is for you,” he says, placing it on my lap. “It’s a present. I wasn’t sure when to give it to you, so…Anyway. Careful, it’s heavy.”

He’s not joking: Whatever this is, it weighs a ton.

“What is it?” I say in astonishment.

“Open it. You’ll see.”

Shooting him bewildered looks, I peel off layers of brown paper, then bubble wrap, and finally tissue paper, to reveal—

“Oh my God,” I breathe. My throat is suddenly tight. I can’t believe it.

I’m holding the pebble tower. The one we made on the beach in Italy. It’s somehow been stuck together in place and mounted on a plain wooden plinth, and it’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. As my eyes run over the stones, I’m back there for an instant, under the dappled shade of the olive tree, intoxicated by sunshine and romance.

“I appreciate that we don’t have quite the same taste in art,” says Matt wryly. “So I’m not sure if you’ll like it. I like it—”

“I love it.” I swallow, my eyes hot. “I love it so much, Matt. It’s perfect. And it’s us, it’s a souvenir of us….How did you do it?” I swivel my head incredulously. “How is this here?”

“I sneaked back,” says Matt, looking pleased with himself. “The next morning when we were writing those scenes. Hired a car, drove to the beach.”

    “You said you were writing in your room!”

“Yup.” He grins. “That was a white lie. When I got there, the stack was still there. I numbered them in pencil, brought them back, found a sculptor online….No big deal.”

“It is a big deal,” I say, stroking the smooth surface of the pebbles. “It’s a huge deal. Thank you so much…” My voice wobbles. “Matt, I don’t know what to say. I’m sorry I shouted. I don’t know what got into me.”

It’s surreal. A moment ago we were yelling at each other—and now I’m almost in tears, because no one has ever done something as lovely for me as this.

“I’m sorry too,”?’ says Matt gruffly. “And I also wanted to thank you for something. The other night, when you were making me smell all those aromatherapy oils? I’ll confess, I was skeptical. I thought it was bullshit. But that oil you made me for the office…”

“You like it?” I look up eagerly.

“I put it on my temples at work, like you said. I rub it in. And it’s good. It makes a difference.” He shrugs. “Makes me feel more chill.”

“I’m so pleased!”

I stroke the pebble tower again, and Matt reaches out to touch it too. Our fingers graze and we smile a little warily at each other.

“I never thought I was the kind of guy who would use aromatherapy oil,” says Matt suddenly, as though speaking with some effort. “Nor bring a load of pebbles home from Italy. It never would have even crossed my mind till you said you wished you could take them. But I’m pleased I did both. So…” He hesitates, searching for words. “Thanks for expanding my horizons, I guess.”

    “Well, thanks for making my wish come true,” I say, my fingers curled tightly around the pebbles. “That’s a pretty impressive superpower.”

“I don’t have superpowers,” says Matt, after a pause. “I won’t pretend I do. But…I would like to take you on a date.”

His face is square-on to mine, his eyes dark and earnest. This kind, complicated guy, who might not be vegetarian or perfect or get on with everything in my life but is thoughtful to a degree I could have never predicted. And still super-hot. And it’s not his fault if he likes weird art.

“I’d love to go on a date with you,” I say, and touch his hand gently. “I’d love to.”



* * *



—

As I let myself quietly into Nell’s room, she’s lying in a hunched, curled-up position I recognize, and I bite my lip.

Nell once said to me, “Pain is the least romantic partner you can have in your bed. Fucker.” A few minutes later, she said in a strained voice, “It’s like some total bastard’s hammering my joints with a mallet,” and ever since then, that’s how I’ve envisioned it. I’ve seen pain leach the color from her face. I’ve watched it diminish her, drawing her into a private space, just her and her tormentor, till the drugs kick in. If they do.

“Hey,” I say softly, and she turns her head briefly. “How’s the fucker? Taken anything?”

    “Yup. Getting there,” says Nell, her voice shortened by the effort of talking.

I can tell she’s bad, because she’s not trying to read. Her hands are swollen, I notice. They often are. Her skin goes blotchy; her fingers go numb. Often she can’t use an iPad, and even a remote control is a struggle.

But I don’t refer to any of this. We have a shorthand, all of us, based on Nell’s basic aversion to talking about her illness, even when she’s unable to move. This doesn’t go down too well with medical professionals, but the four of us are used to it. And I know that “Getting there” means she doesn’t want to talk about it.