The Lies That Bind(15)

My thoughts race as I think of eye color—the fact that a brown-eyed person can have a recessive blue-eye gene. “He has the gene,” I say, praying, “but what about the actual disease?”

“He has both,” Grant says. “He has the gene. And the disease.”

“Shit,” I whisper. “I’m so sorry….How long has he had it?”

“He was officially diagnosed two years ago,” Grant says. “June of ninety-nine…But he had symptoms before that. Symptoms that we knew all too well…shaky hands, stumbling on stairs, falls…”

“Is it possible…that he just has a mild case?”

Grant shakes his head. “It doesn’t really work that way. It’s a degenerative disease. It progresses….”

    “Always?” I ask.

“Always,” he says. “For everyone.”

“But it can progress slowly, right? For some?” I say, grasping at straws.

“I guess that’s a matter of your perspective….I mean, life is fast even when it’s long….And things can drag, too….” His voice trails off.

I nod, trying to decipher the answer. Is he being philosophically vague because he doesn’t really know what the future holds? Or because it’s already so bad that he doesn’t want to talk specifics? I play it safe and wait for him to speak. Several long seconds pass before he does. “It’s different for everyone. But when it picks up, it picks up fast…at least it did for my mom—and it seems to be tracking that way for Byron, too. That’s why we’re going to London.”

“Oh,” I say, putting everything together. “For treatment?”

“Yeah. We got him in a clinical trial,” Grant says. “At King’s College Hospital.”

“That’s great,” I say, trying to sound upbeat though I’m on the verge of tears.

“We’ll see. First I have to get him to actually go. He keeps wavering. He’s stubborn as hell.” Grant shakes his head, a slight smile on his face.

“Why’s he wavering?”

Grant sighs and says, “He thinks it’s futile…and a waste of time and money….He doesn’t want to be a burden.”

“On you?”

“Yeah,” he says. “I mean, he won’t come out and say that. But he just makes all kinds of excuses.”

“Is the trial…really expensive?” I ask tentatively.

“Yeah…especially when you add in travel and stuff,” he says. “And he’s between jobs so he doesn’t have health insurance. Not that a study in the UK would probably be covered….So anyway. That’s my sob story.” He gives me a tight-lipped, strained smile that is as heartbreaking as tears, then says, “So…did my tragic tale scare you away yet?”

    “No,” I say. “Quite the opposite.”

“So you still like me?”

“C’mon. Of course I still like you,” I say, staring into his eyes. “I like you more.”

He lets out a brittle laugh, as if to deflect, then blinks a few times and says, “I find that a little hard to believe. But if you say so.”

“It’s true,” I say. “The more I know about you, the more I like you.”

He takes my hand and squeezes it.

“Thank you for sharing all of that with me. For trusting me…”

“I do trust you,” he says. “But I don’t want to drag you down with all of this heavy shit—”

“You’re not dragging me down,” I say, cutting him off.

“I hope not,” he says. “Because I gotta tell you, Cecily…meeting you has been the only bright spot in my life for what feels like a pretty long time.”

“Really?” I say, equal parts touched and sad.

“Yeah,” he says. “Really. But I want to be a source of light for you, too.”

“You are,” I say.

“Well, I hope so.” He hesitates, then says, “Do you remember what you said the other night? About timing?”

“Kind of,” I say, trying to recall my exact words.

“You said that the whole ‘bad timing’ line is a cop-out.”

“Oh, yeah,” I say. “I think it is.”

“Well, I loved that,” he says. “I really loved that.”

I stare into his eyes, feeling a warm, tingling buzz that isn’t from the wine. At least not only from the wine. “Why?” I finally say.

“Because I really do worry about our timing,” he says, one arm draped on the back of the sofa, the other encircling me. “But I like you, Cecily. I want to know you.”

    “I want that, too,” I say as our eyes lock and my vision blurs.

And then it happens. He puts one hand on my cheek, then lowers and tilts his face toward mine until we are just inches apart. Less than that. When he closes his eyes, I do the same, waiting, spinning, falling harder by the second. Until finally, finally, I feel his lips softly graze mine. Time stands still, and I can’t breathe. I can’t move. I can’t think. All I can do is listen to the crackling of the fire and my heart pounding in my ears. Then we kiss for real—a long, deep, hungry kiss—as I feel myself fall all the way.