“Maybe some people can tell,” I offer.

“Yeah,” she says. “Maybe some people can. Either way, you believe you feel it. That’s what’s important.”

“Yeah,” I say. “Right. I gotta tell him.”

“What are you gonna say?” she asks me.

“Yeah,” I say, turning my wheelchair back to her. “What am I going to say?” I think about it for a moment. “I should practice. You be Henry.”

Gabby smiles and sits down on the bed, taking on an affected manly pose.

“No, he’s not like that,” I say. “And he’d be standing.”

“Oh,” she says, standing up. “Sorry, I just wanted it to be easier because you’re . . .”

“In a wheelchair, right,” I say. “But don’t coddle me. If I’m wheeling through the halls trying to find him, most likely he’s going to be standing, and I’ll be sitting.”

“OK,” she says. “Go for it.”

I breathe in deeply. I close my eyes. I speak. “Henry, I know this sounds crazy—”

“Nope,” she says. “Don’t start with that. Never start with ‘I know this sounds crazy.’ Come from strength. He’d be lucky to be with you. You’ve got an extraordinary attitude, a brilliant heart, and an infectious optimism. You are a dream woman. Come from strength.”

“OK,” I say, and then I look down at my legs. “I don’t know, Gabby. I’m crippled. This isn’t my strongest moment.”

“You’re Hannah Martin. Your weakest moment is a strong moment. Be Hannah Martin. Let’s hear it.”

“OK,” I say, starting over. And then it just comes out of me. “Henry, I think we have something here. I know I’m a patient and you’re a nurse, and this is all very against the rules and everything, but I truly believe we could mean something to each other, and we owe it to ourselves to see. How often can you say that about somebody and really mean it? That the two of you have potential for something great? I want to see where we end up. There’s something about you, Henry. There’s something about us. I can just tell.” I look at Gabby. “OK, how was that?”

Gabby stares at me. “Is that how you really feel?”

I nod. “Yeah.”

“Go find him!” she says. “What the hell are you doing practicing on me?”

I laugh. “What do you think he’ll say?”

“I don’t know,” she says. “But if he turns you down, he’s such a massive idiot that I’m pretty sure you’ll have dodged a bullet.”

“That doesn’t make me feel better.”

She shrugs. “Sometimes the truth doesn’t,” she says. “Now, go.”

And so I do.

I wheel myself out of my room and speed down the hall to the nurses’ station. I ask where Henry is, and they tell me they don’t know. So I get into the elevator, and I go to the top floor, and I start wheeling the halls. I won’t stop until I find him.

It’s Saturday night. Gabby and I are watching a movie. Charlemagne is lying in her dog bed at our feet. We ordered Thai food, and Gabby is eating all the pad Thai before I can even get my hands on it.

“You know I’m pregnant, right? I should at least get a chance to eat some of the food.”

“My husband cheated on me and then left me,” she says. She’s not even looking up. She’s just shoveling noodles into her mouth with her eyes glued to the television. “I don’t have to be nice to anyone right now.”

“Ugh, fine, you win.”

The phone rings, and I look at the caller ID, stunned. It’s Ethan.

Gabby pauses the movie. “Well, answer it!” she says.

I do. “Hi,” I say.

“Hey,” he says. “Is now a good time?”

“Sure. Yeah.”

“I was thinking I would come over,” he says. “Now, if that’s OK. I can stop by.”

“Yeah,” I tell him. “Absolutely. Come by.”

I hang up the phone and stare at Gabby. “What is he going to say?” I ask her.

“I was just going to ask you. What did he say?”

“He said he wants to come over. He said he’ll stop by.”

“Which was it? Come over or stop by?”

“Both. First he said one, then the other.”

“Which one was first?”

“Come by. I mean, come over. Yeah, then he said ‘stop by.’ ”

“I don’t know if that’s good or bad,” she says.

“Me, neither.” Suddenly, I am overwhelmed by desperation. What is about to happen? “Do you think it’s possible he’s up for all of this? That I might not lose him?”

“I don’t know!” she says. She’s just as stressed out about this as I am.

“People shouldn’t be possibly breaking up with their boyfriends while they are pregnant,” I say. “All of this anxiety can’t be good for the baby.”

“Are you gonna change?” Gabby asks.

I look down at myself. I’m wearing black leggings and a huge sweatshirt. “Should I?”

“Politely, yes.”

“OK,” I say. “What do I wear?” I get up and head to my room, thinking of what to put on.

“How about that red sweater?” she calls up the stairs. “And just jeans or something. Super casual.”

“Yeah, OK,” I say, peeking my head back out to talk to her. “Casual but nice.”

“Right,” she calls to me. “Also, fix your bun. It’s falling over.”

“OK.”

The doorbell rings when I’m putting on mascara. I feel so fat lately. No telling if it’s because I’m actually fat, just think I’m fat, or both.

“I’ll get the door!” Gabby says, and I hear her run up the stairs, away from the front door and toward me. “Before I do, though . . .” she says when she’s standing outside my room.

“Yeah?”

“You’re amazing. You’re smart, and you’re loving, and you are the best friend I’ve ever had, and you are just the best best best person in the universe. Don’t ever forget that.”

I smile at her. “OK,” I say.

And then she turns away and runs down to get the door. I hear her greet him. I come out of my room and down the stairs.

“Hi,” I say to him.

“Hi,” he says. “Can we talk?”

“Sure.”

“You guys take the living room,” Gabby says. “I was going to take Charlemagne for a walk anyway.”

Ethan bends down and pets Charlemagne as Gabby grabs the leash and slips on a pair of shoes. Then she and Charlemagne are out the door.

Ethan looks at me.

We don’t have to talk about anything. I can tell just by the sorrowful look on his face what he’s here to say.

It’s over.

All I have to do is get through this. That is all I have to do. And when he’s gone, I can cry until I’m a senior citizen.

“We can sit down,” I tell him. I am proud of how even my voice sounds.

“I can’t do it,” he says, not moving.

“I know,” I tell him.

His voice breaks. His chin starts to spasm, ever so slightly. “I’ve thought, for so many years now, that I just needed to get you back, and everything would be fine.” He’s so sad that I don’t have any room to be sad.

“I know,” I say. “Come sit down.” I lead him over to the sofa. I sit so he will sit. Sitting helps sad people, I think. Later, when he is gone, when I am the sad one again, I will sit. I will sit right here.

“I messed this all up. We never should have broken up in college. We should have stayed together. We should have . . . we should have done this all differently.”

“I know,” I say.

“I’m not ready for this,” he says. “I can’t do it.”

I knew this was what he was going to say, but hearing the words still feels like I’m being punched in the lungs.




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