“We have christened just about every horizontal surface there is, and quite a few of the vertical ones, too.” He smirks, and for a second he’s the old Adrian, wry and provocative, and horny all—the—damn—time.

I laugh through the tears. “Exactly. You being in the guest bed isn’t going to make a difference.”

“Yes, it will.”

“You promised me we’d do this my way. This is my way. Here. Together. Our room, our bed.”

He grimaces, and after a few minutes, whatever it is, it passes.

He squeezes my hand, and that’s all there is to say.

I’m glossing over the details of taking care of him, especially as he gets too sick to do certain things for himself. Or loses control over things. He wants to hire a hospice nurse, but I tell him I’m professionally insulted by the suggestion. I’m a nurse, dammit. It’s what I do.

No, he’s not my patient, he’s my husband.

I’m going to take care of him my damn self. No matter what it requires.

The last days are slow.

An hour passes like taffy being stretched out.

Sometimes it begins to feel like I’ve always been here, like this, with him. Sitting in our room, on the bed next to him, holding his slack, cool, dry hand. Pretending to read a book and really just listening to him breathe.

It’s slow, his breathing. Rattling.

I call the doctor, and he comes, and his face confirms it.

There’s no one to call, no one to tell.

When we first met, in college, we bonded over the fact that both of our parents died young, and we were only children. The Lonely Club, we jokingly called it. Orphan humor—you wouldn’t get it, unless you get it.

So tThere’s no one to notify that the end is nigh. He tells me he’s made arrangements through his attorney to inform his publisher and agent and all those people, after he’s gone. He doesn’t want anyone to know till after.

So…there’s no one to tell. Not now.

Except Tess. She comes—she packs a bag and moves into our guest room.

She cleans for me, reminds me to shower once in a while.

Tries to get me to eat, but it seems pointless.

Even going to the bathroom is too much time away from his side.

He wakes up. Takes my hand. “I love you, Nadia.”

I can barely get the words out. “I love you more, dork.”

He tries to laugh. “I’m not a dork, I’m a nerd.”

“Oh, right.”

“I think it’s time for me to…to float away, Nadia.”

I try to say okay—my mouth forms the word-shape but no sound comes out. I nod, blink the tears away. “I love you,” I whisper. “I love you.”