Page 9 of The Heartbreak List

“Since I was eighteen.” She adjusts the lapels of the jacket over her lap. “That’s not… it’s not about him. Or us. Or the wedding.”

“Okay.” I take a seat beside her and wait. Whatever she needs to say, whatever she needs to get out… I can sit here and wait and listen. Sometimes the only thing that helps is having someone who has an inkling of what you’re going through to confide in when you’re staring into that abyss.

She picks at the quick around short, oval nails but eventually wrings both hands together and places them in her lap. Her chest rises slowly and falls even slower. “I have a brain tumor. It’s inoperable.”

“Oh.” There are no words. There is nothing that she would want to hear or that could help. A familiar ache swells in my chest. I shouldn’t be on this roof. I shouldn’t be the one she’s talking to. But if I have to be here… if I have to be the one… then all I can do is listen.

“The doctors…” She sniffles. “They’re putting me on radiation and chemotherapy. They keep using words likestaying optimisticandpositive outcomes.”

“That’s encouraging, right?” I hunker into my shoulders. “That means they have hope.”

“It means they want me to have hope.” She snorts softly under her breath as she shakes her head.

“Perhaps it’s not as bad as it seems.” I’m grasping at straws. She was on the ledge. Considering jumping. Of course it’s bad. Her fiancé must be devastated. My jaw tightens at the hinge. He must be worried sick. Must be beside himself.

She giggles but it’s strained.

Two weeks ago, she was so carefree. She’d smiled and laughed and talked absolute shit with me during our weird bathroom stare down. She’s more reserved tonight.

“We’re strangers.” She wraps her hands around her ankles and hugs herself into a ball. “So you don’t know that I graduated with a Master’s degree in finance. That I’m supposed to start working at the biggest risk management firm in Chicago.”

I stare at my hands. Rub one thumb over the joint of the other. “Sounds… interesting.”

She sniffles as she wipes her cheeks. “I’m aware of what people think about my chosen profession. That calculating risk is boring.”

“Well, I wasn’t going to say anything.” I cup the back of my neck and squeeze. “I’m a bartender five nights a week. There are people out there who think serving drinks isn’t a career at all.”

“Yeah.” She expels an emotionally laden breath.

We fall silent and I consider trying to talk her into calling her fiancé. It’s the least I should do. Make sure she gets off this roof. Gets home safe. And I’ll pick up another groupie and another bottle of Jameson on my way out. But I don’t do any of it. I don’t even bring it up. “So you calculated the risk, huh? On the tumor?”

“I’m not the kind of person who likes not knowing.” She drags the tendril of hair that’s fallen over her face back behind her ear. “I’ve spent my life planning my dream future. From the career in risk management to getting engaged to the right guy and planning a picture-perfect wedding. I’ve even picked out the neighborhood we’ll live in. The school our two children will go to. What kind of dog we’ll have.”

“And your fiancé… he’s on board?” I nudge her gently.

“Of course he is.” Her tone is sharp, but then she puts her head in her hand and groans. “Does it even matter that we’re on the same page when there is no future? I planned my entire freaking life, but I didn’t factor in dying at twenty-five. And there is nothing I can do. Everything is… out of my hands. I have six months, maybe. I’ve spent my whole life preparing for a future that I won’t ever get to experience.”

“Hey. Hang on.” I gingerly put my hand on her back in an attempt to comfort. I don’t want to scare her if she doesn’t like touch, though. “You know the statistics. And that’s smart.”

“It’s scary.”

“That too. But it’s not everything, Indy. Sometimes statistics don’t matter half as much as we think they do.” Sometimes we’re the outlier. “Otherwise, my life would be completely different.”

“W-what do you mean?”

“Nothing.” I grit my teeth. “All I’m saying it that perhaps you’re the statistical exception.”

“I want to believe that.” She wraps her arms around herself and starts to rock. “I have so many things that I want to do that I haven’t accomplished. Some of them didn’t even matter until I realized I would never…” She starts to cry.

We sit on that picnic table for a long time, side-by-side, while she cries. Grief never gets easier. I don’t think it matters whether you’re grieving for yourself or someone else. It hurts everyone it touches.

Eventually she wipes the wetness from her cheeks. Sniffs. “I’m sorry. I ruined your night.”

Oh God. She thinks she ruined my night? I haven’t had a decent night in three years. It’s all a distraction at this point. “Don’t even worry about it.”

“But I did ruin it.”

“Nah.” I stand and then step down from the seat while I card a hand through my hair. “Besides, rescuing a damsel in distress was on my bucket list.”

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