She threw up her hands. “You’re the one who just punched a hole in our wall and didn’t return my calls for seven hours. Should you be lecturing me about how I should handle my own diagnosis? Just because you’re a super-genius doesn’t mean you know how to do this. No one does.”

The conversation was going off course, and Lauren’s throat locked down. Being Princess Butterflies and Rainbows (a new name, and one she kind of liked) . . . that was her thing. She clung to that. It was her defense mechanism.

“Josh, I think we should talk about it if you can . . . if we should . . .” The words were a lot harder to say out loud. “Sit down, honey. Come on. It’s me. Let’s talk.”

They sat. The puppy put her paws on Josh’s knee, and he scooped her up, not smiling.

“Honey,” she said, “if you can’t handle what’s coming, then maybe we should . . .”

He looked at her, alarm in his eyes. “What?”

“Maybe we should separate. If this is going to be too hard for you. I would understand that, because I know how much you love me. And if seeing me die—”

“Don’t say that!” he yelled, and Pebbles jumped off the couch with a reproachful look.

Then Josh clamped his arms over his head and sank onto the couch and just . . . fell apart. Big gulping sobs racked his body. In that moment, Lauren’s heart broke all over again. She pulled his hands away from his face and wrapped herself around him. After a second, he hugged her back so hard she could hardly get a breath in.

“Don’t leave me,” he said against her neck. “Don’t leave me. Don’t die, Lauren. Don’t leave me.”

He just kept saying that over and over.

“Oh, honey,” she whispered. “I’m so sorry.”

Being Princess Butterflies and Rainbows did put up a shield—but she was noticing that the shield was from everything. Maybe the terror was kept at bay, but nothing else was let in, either.

For months, she’d been worrying about Josh after her death. She hadn’t worried about him in the here and now, when she could actually do something about it. “I’m sorry, honey,” she said again. “I’ll do better. I won’t make jokes anymore.”

He pulled up, his hair crazy, eyes wet. “No. I . . . I know you need to. And I do, too. Just not all the time. Sometimes I need . . .” His voice broke.

“Sometimes you need to punch a wall.”

He nodded. “Sorry about that.”

“We can get a punching bag for the gym downstairs.”

He looked at the floor. “Lauren, I . . . I don’t usually . . . I call it a red-out. When I lose my shit like that. I’m sorry I scared you.”

“I understand, honey. We’re going through a lot.”

He nodded and swallowed.