Then, June held out her hand for me. I got to my feet and heard several gasps and excited murmurs. I got up on the stagewith her and knew that the crowd was seeing their favorite characters come to life.
A bookstore worker put a chair beside June for me. I sat beside her and held her hand. “This is Jesse,” June said, and the crowd’s reaction got louder. “And I’m June,” she said. Her eyes shined as she looked at me and said, “We met at Harmony Ranch, during a clinical trial for teenagers with stage four acute myeloid leukemia. And that’s where we fell in love.” June explained our story, and by the time she was done, there wasn’t a dry eye in the house.
Another reader stood up. “It feels like you’re approaching the end of Write Me for You. I…” The reader’s voice hitched. “I’m not sure I’m ready for it to end.”
June nodded—I knew she felt the same way.
“InWrite Me for You, June is writingJesse and June’s Happily Ever After; in real life, you are writingWrite Me for You.” The reader tilted her head. “Which story feels more real to you?”
June thought about the question, then said, “Both.” She looked at me. “Long ago, Jesse talked to me about parallel universes, that maybe stories that we write in this life are happening in another. That’s why I decided to write the book, to explore what would have happened had our cancers not been receptive to the trial’s treatment.”
“Jesse?” the reader asked, addressing me too. “What do you think?”
“I think that, as the reader, you can decide which version of our story is true. Jesse and June’s love inWrite Me for Youis powerful and perhaps more beautiful because they don’t have time. Everything is bigger and brighter as their time together is more condensed, finite, limited.” I inched closer to June, pain in my chest just talking about us not having the time we do now. “InJesse and June’s Happily Ever After, their love is sweeterbecause they have time to live and share more experiences.” I smiled and fought the heavy emotions that were rising up my throat. “They will get the wrinkles, the gray hair, and get to be the older, aged couple on the porch.” I leaned over and kissed June’s cheek. June met my eyes, and I spoke directly to her. “I see us as living both lives simultaneously.” I winked at the audience. “What happens in the end, well, that’s up to you.”
The applause was loud, and June dropped her forehead to mine. “I am obsessed with you,” she said, and I laughed.
“Ditto.”
June stood for hours and signed her name and spoke to her much-loved readers. When she finished, the agent she had been emailing with for a few months spoke to her for an hour more, discussing her future in the publishing industry. I sat and watched it all, feeling like the luckiest guy on the planet.
When the store began to prepare for closing, I stood up and walked up to June. Her eyes were bright from all the excitement, but I could see my girl was tired.
“We’ll leave you both for tonight, but we’ll see y’all tomorrow?” Emma said.
“Sounds like a plan,” June said.
Emma hugged my girl, then said, “I am so, so proud of you, June.”
“Thank you for all your help,” June said.
With one last wave, we got in the car that was waiting for us outside. In the back seat, I cupped June’s cheek and kissed her. I tried to show her just how proud I was with my touch. I was so proud of how powerful her words were and just how much she was changing people’s lives.
“Never lose this,” I said when I pulled back. “Never lose this happiness I can see on your face right now. Your purpose, the reason you write, the reason you survived—it makes the world a better place, Junebug.”
“I’m happy because of you,” June said. “You told me at the ranch to write you for me, and I did, and you have changed my life—in every single way that matters.” June wrapped her arms around my neck. “I love you, Jesse Taylor. So very much.”
“I love you too.”
Those words just didn’t seem adequate enough, so I planned to show her instead.
I lay in the hospital bed; June lay beside me. I stroked her hair, and I felt the nerves build within me. Finally, on a deep breath, I reached into my bedside table and pulled out my sketchpad.
June lifted her head from my chest, clearly wondering what I was doing. “You want to draw?” she asked, and I shook my head.
June frowned.
I placed the sketchpad in front of her. “I want you to look through it.”
She was confused, but when she opened the first page, her confusion morphed into love. “Jesse,” she said, and ran her fingers down the picture of us at the ranch, sitting in our egg chair.
“Keep going,” I said, and June turned the page. It was us smiling and holding our diplomas at the ranch’s graduation. Next was June beside me after my first Longhorns game.
June choked on a sob when she turned to the next picture, which depicted us in this room, me on chemo and June holding my hand, looking up at me like I hung the moon.
“Jesse, what is this?” she asked in awe.
“Us,” I said. “My own version of the story of us. You have your words; I have my sketches.”
