She squeezed her hands together, because pinching herself felt too cliché. If she was thinking about things like clichés, then it couldn’t really be happening, right? Also, the pillow on the chair across from her needed plumping. And she was hungry. Grilled cheese, maybe? So she probably wasn’t stuck with a fatal disease. She probably wasn’t dying.

Words from the computer floated in her brain. Final treatment. Terminal. No cure. Breathing becomes impossible. Three to five years. Quality of life.

Three to five years.

Last week, they’d gone sledding with Sebastian. Jen told her they were trying for another baby, and they got so silly, talking about celebrity baby names. And sure, Lauren had gotten out of breath laughing. But so had . . . yeah, no. She was the only one.

For a second, that moment came back to her, the warmth of her sister’s house, the cocoa, the laughter . . . the way she couldn’t seem to fill up her lungs with enough air.

Because her lungs were filling with fibers.

Oh, Jesus. Oh, God.

“Let’s go to bed,” Joshua said, and she jumped at the sound of his voice. It was two o’clock in the afternoon, but he was right. Bed was the only option. They stripped down to their underwear and got in under the puffy duvet, then wrapped their arms around each other so tight it hurt.

They were both shaking.

No words. Not then. Neither one of them was crying. Not then. Not yet.

The truth sat in the room with them, dark and heavy, waiting to be let into their lives, their bed.

She would die young. Josh would be widowed.

She was not going to get better.

She had a terminal disease.

She had really wanted a baby instead.

23

Joshua

Month eight, letter number eight

October

Dear Josh,

I hope you’re doing well, sweetheart. Eight months is a long time. I hope you’re feeling happier and more energized these days.

So this month’s task is pretty straightforward. Do something for your professional career, and try something you’ve been scared of doing.

You’ve got this. I believe in you.

Love, Lauren

Well. That was a pretty crappy letter, if he was being honest. He’d gotten changed and poured a half glass of wine for this? He stalked around, his bare feet silent. Pebbles lay asleep on the couch, oblivious to his mood.

“A shitty letter, Lauren,” he said out loud. “Sorry, was I taking too much of your time?” Was she too busy to write more than a few sentences? Was he getting to be too much of a responsibility, and she only had a few Chicken Soup for the Soul platitudes to toss his way?