“When I’m gone?—”
“No,” I cut her off. “No, we’re not going to say those words.”
“Brooks. I love you with all of my heart. But you know that it’s not going to be much longer.”
Another crevice opened up in my heart and I raged against whatever god would listen. “Amara. I’m going to yell. And you know I don’t yell at you.” My voice cracked, but she ran her fingers over my hand in answer.
“When I’m gone, I want you to clean out this house. Don’t look at the boxes of bandages and scarves. Don’t look at the house that has become my comfort and your horror.”
“Amara.”
I wasn’t sure what I was supposed to say, though, and she squeezed my hand even harder. But there wasn’t enough strength in that hand. Everything was breaking inside me, and I hated myself. It should be me in that bed. It should be me wasting away, but it wasn’t. It was the sweetest girl I had ever met instead.
“I need you to promise me that you’ll try.”
“Amara,” I said again, this time the tears freely flowing.
“Find love again. It’s not fair. Life isn’t fair. I don’t know what’s coming next, and I am being so mean to you right now. But I need you to move on.”
“Don’t you make me promise that. I’m not going to. You can’t fucking ask me to do that.” Every ounce of rage at her cancer coursed through me in that moment, and I couldn’t catch my breath.
“But I can. It’s the cancer prerogative.” She smiled, but I couldn’t reciprocate. That had been our running joke between us. Because when she needed ice cream or needed me to do something that I really didn’t want to do, we mentioned the cancer prerogative. It was ridiculous, but sometimes we needed to find the humor in the hell. There would be nothing left if we didn’t.
“No. Not this time.”
“Brooks. My love. My best friend. Please. Try. Go out on dates. Find another woman. We both know that it’s just been the two of us.”
I swallowed that lump in my throat, nodding. We had both been sixteen-year-old virgins when we had gotten together, meaning the two of us had only slept with each other. And in my mind, that was how it was going to be. My one and only.
“You can’t ask this of me.”
Amara wasn’t crying, but I was. I wasn’t sure if she’d practiced this speech, or she was so dehydrated she couldn’t cry anymore. “But I can. Don’t die with me, Brooks. I need you to find that happy ever after.”
“You’re my happy ever after, Amara. That’s what we promised.”
“And I’m going to break that promise. I’m going to love you for the rest of my life. And I hate that I know it’s not long enough. Love me, Brooks. Love me for all your years. But I also need you to do something else. Live. Find someone that loves you just as much as I do.”
“That’s not going to happen.”
“It might. Your heart is so big, Brooks. You take care of your brothers. You take care of me. You have so much in you. Let someone take care of you for once. Don’t give up on life because life is giving up on me.”
Damn this woman. She’d always been good with words when I got lost in my head. And now every word cut like a knife.
“I hate you right now,” I growled.
“No you don’t.” Her smile softened, her shoulders relaxing.
I leaned over and brushed my knuckle along her too thin cheek. “You’re right. Because I could never hate you. But I love you so much. You can’t make me promise that.”
“But I’m going to make you anyway.”
Tears streamed down my cheeks, and I leaned forward, pressing my lips to her chapped ones. “I promise,” I lied.
And then I laid down next to my wife, and held her as we watched a movie, and I tried not to think of that promise.
Amara died three weeks later. And as I stood in my backyard, her ashes on the mantle inside, I swore that while I loved my wife, and would always do so, I was going to break our final promise.
Because I would never love anyone like I loved my wife. I didn’t have it in me.
