I’m in bed hours later, staring at my cellphone. I have gotten the strangest message from Charlotte, my ex. It’s a real blast from the past. Although we ended things around eighteen months ago, so I suppose not that long ago really. We didn’t end badly. In fact, I broke it off when it became apparent we wanted different things. But there was never any anger, hatred, or resentment from my side, and it’s clear from her message that there’s none on hers, either.
Davey,she writes.I just heard. I’m so sorry. Can I come see you?She goes on to tell me she had no idea—none at all—and she’s “devastated” that: (1) I have cancer; and (2) I didn’t tell her.
I stare at her message for quite some time before consideringhow to respond. I don’t want to be rude, but I don’t really owe her this kind of news. We aren’t part of each other’s lives now. But once we were. It’s easy to remember how she was back then. She was a tornado. Everything was fast. I kinda liked that about her. Back then we worked together well, until we didn’t. She shared my “do-or-die” attitude. Maybe a little too much. No hesitations—just make a decision and go with it. I think I’m still like that. I was like that about moving to London.
At the end I felt like we were on different paths, though there was no “one thing” that broke us up.
Maybe it would be nice to see Charlotte. I reply that she should come over tomorrow and that she can bring ice cream. Ice cream is the only thing I can eat that doesn’t taste like metal. Even the carbonara I made—my favorite—might as well have been pasta coated in paint. I hit reply again and sayplease,because I don’t want to turn into the kind of guy who has so much on his mind he’s run out of room for manners. It’s not OK to expect people will forgive me.
—
When Charlotte arrives the next day she looks completely different from when we dated. I’m kind of impressed. I look different too, though in the sense that I look like shit. Although I wasn’t really expecting to blow Charlotte away with how good I look, I’ve put a baseball cap on to hide my hair, or lack thereof, but I’m in my uniform of jogging pants and T-shirt. They’re clean but it’s not a good look.
“Davey!” she cries and throws her arms around me, holding me close. There’s no preamble. No awkwardness. She smells good. Like vanilla cupcakes.
“Hey,” I say into her hair, waiting for her to break off. But she doesn’t. She pulls back, her hands still on either side of my shoulders, scrutinizing my face. I wait and then look away from her gaze when it goes on a little too long.
“I’m sorry,” she says, shaking her head and laughing that kind of tinkling giggle she has. I smile—I forgot about that. Is she apologizing for holding on to me for too long or because I have cancer?
“Davey, it’s been so long.”
I nod. “It has. How are you?”
She enters the house holding a brown paper bag. “I just stopped at the store to buy ice cream. As requested. Is pecan still your favorite?”
“Oh yeah.”
“I remembered,” she says smugly and produces it, along with two plastic spoons.
We sit at the kitchen table, the windows thrown open as the warm air surrounds us, immediately sharing the tub of ice cream as she lifts the lid, discards it next to us.
“So tell me everything,” she says. “Tell me how you are. How your treatment is going—everything.”
I clench my jaw. I really didn’t know what to expect from seeing Charlotte again. I remember this…this force of nature now. “I don’t really want to talk about it,” I say.
“Oh, OK. Why?”
I laugh. Same old Charlotte. Although prettier. Actually much prettier. She’s got some eyeliner flicky-thing going on that makes her eyes really pop. And…I can’t work it out. “You did something to your hair.”
“I got bangs, and I get it colored now.”
“Yeah,” I say slowly. “It’s kinda red now. I like it.”
“Thanks.” She shrugs and then tries again. “Chemo that bad, huh? Seeing as you’d rather discuss my hair.”
“It sucks. Big time,” I reply, dipping my spoon into the tub. And because there’s no getting around it—she’ll work on me until I fess up, so I may as well get it over with—I tell her everything. She listens quietly, nodding in all the right places, and then whenI tell her, tentatively, that I’m not going to finish my final chemo, Charlotte doesn’t even bat an eyelid. I wait for her to digest this fact alongside her ice cream, but she looks at me, expecting more. And when I don’t speak she says, “Do what you need to do.”
“Really?” I sound as though I’m asking permission from my ex-girlfriend, but I think I’m just stunned.
“Sure. You know your own body, right?”
“Yeah,” I say.
“Good. Then don’t do it. If it hurts and you hate it, and you feel as though you can’t do any more, that you’re done—”
“I do,” I leap in. “I do. I’m done. I can’t do this anymore.”
“Then stop. Do what’s right for you.”
