Page 19 of The Heartbreak List

“Gray, maybe we should—”

He takes my jaw in his hand and stares into my eyes. “I love you, Indy. And I want to marry you. However long we have…whether it’s decades…or a few months…I want to call you my wife. In sickness or health. I know how much it means to you.”

I clasp my hand over his and rub my cheek against his palm. It does mean a lot to me. That’s why it’s still on my bucket list. Because my values haven’t changed all that much. My childhood was happy, and I had great role models in my parents. A relationship like theirs is something I’ve always wanted for myself. It’s what I’ve found with Gray. I want to marry him, even if our lives together have almost run their course. I wish we could have babies together too. “Of course, I want that too.”

He claims my mouth in a bittersweet kiss as he stands. His hands on my waist, he lifts me to sit on the counter before he inches back. “I’ll grab the cake.”

He collects the pink box from the top shelf in the fridge and two forks from the cutlery drawer before sitting beside me.

When he flips open the box, I dig into the moist, springy cake and tear off a forkful. Thick white chocolate icing oozes from inside the rectangular treat.

Gray makes a choking noise as I pop it in my mouth. He’s more restrained as he takes his own bite. But then he takes another forkful. “Do you know what this reminds me of?”

I raise a solitary brow. “Other than eating dick?”

“I’m scared for my manhood if this reminds you of blow jobs, babe.” He chuckles as he reaches under the counter to cup himself. “No. That bakery we found in Michigan when we were looking at schools.”

“You told me it didn’t matter where I went to school.” The memory is a warm bubble in my chest. We’d stood under the awning, and the whole world could have passed us by. We were so into each other. “You’d come visit me every weekend.”

“Because I knew I couldn’t get through a week without seeing you.” He takes my hand and rubs soothing circles over my knuckles with his thumb. “I was already completely smitten.”

We fall into reminiscing about the early days while we eat cock cake from a pink box. There are so many emotions—good and bad—tied up in our memories. We cry and we laugh, and we smile, and we kiss. And then we cry some more because in the end that’s all I’ll leave him with.

Memories of what we were. Dreams of what we could have been.

Chapter Seven

Indy

Iraceoffthetrain and through the heavy foot traffic. My bag bumps against my hip as I power walk down the sidewalk.

I asked Theo to come with me to get a tattoo and he went out of his way to set it up for me. But I didn’t consider the role chemo would play in what I can and can’t do. I didn’t google that shit until I was sitting on the train.

The hard candy I’m sucking on to help with the nausea is almost a puddle of apple flavoring on my tongue as I turn the corner.

He’s waiting up ahead, leaning against the tattoo shop with his hands in the pockets of his leather jacket and one foot resting on the brickwork behind him. He’s wearing a shirt again. And he’s so chill. Like he has nothing better in the world to do than hang out with a dying girl.

I can’t imagine that’s true though.

“Sorry I’m late.” I press my hands to my knees as I try to catch my breath.

“Hey.” He shoves away from the wall. “Are you okay?”

“Mmhmm.” I nod, but it takes much longer than it should to recover. Being sick has done a number on my strength and stamina. When I finally manage to breathe at a normal rate and stand up straight, I check out the parlor through the big windows.

It’s all open space from this angle. There are several dark leather couches in the waiting area and the walls are covered in tattoo designs and art. A long wooden counter separates us from a man with a turquoise mohawk who is tattooing a woman’s arm.

It’s scary and thrilling and I wish these nerves in my belly were because I’m about to walk in there and get my first piece of ink. “I’m sorry, Theo. I can’t do this.”

Because chemo and tattoos don’t mix. I can’t even dye my hair as long as I’m on treatment. Not that it matters. I’ll probably lose my locks anyway. But the tattoo… I was ready. I’d stood in front of the mirror after my shower this morning, imagining ink on different body parts. I’d finally settled on an arm piece. Not too big, not too small.

“It’s the chemo, right?” Theo bumps my shoulder gently with his own. “You can’t risk infection.”

“Yeah.” I turn away from the window. “How did you—”

“Google.” He rubs the bottom of his nose with his thumb. “My grandma had cancer a million years ago, and I remembered my parents rattling off a list of things they didn’t want her doing. Mainly drinking and smoking. Which were two of her four favorite vices. The other two were Sudoku and cussing up a storm.”

“Your grandma sounds fun.” I glance at him out of the corner of my eye.

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