Grant and Sophia were coming back.

I didn’t know when, but I guessed we had another hour, maybe two depending on how long everyone decided to talk after dinner.

Reese asked, “When are you hoping to see Damian?”

I paused in spearing some lettuce with my fork. “Are you serious?”

He put a forkful of salad into his mouth, nodding. “Yeah.” Swallowing, then taking a drink of water, he put the bottle back down on the table. “That’s a big deal.”

I felt a heaviness settle over my shoulders. It weighed me down, but I knew this was the time. This was the moment I would say it all.

It wasn’t even about Reese. It was about me. I finally could, for some reason, so I needed to. If I didn’t now, I didn’t know the next time the words would come to me, because sometimes grief closes you up and doesn’t let you open. Sometimes grief controls you, and not the other way around.

I set my fork down and scooted all the way back in my chair, assuming my normal position: feet up on the chair, arms wrapped around my knees. But I didn’t hide my face. I watched Reese right over the top of my knees, resignation taking over me.

“When you fall in love with someone, you’re not supposed to lose them right away. That’s tragic. I mean, normal breakups—like if someone cheated or lied, I don’t know. Those would be easier, but when it’s something inside a person that takes them away, little by little, each day a tiny bit more, it paralyzes you.”

I had to take a breath.

And then, I found I could continue.

“Damian never wanted to accept what was happening to him. He wanted to deny it. He wanted to remain normal, but every day he had to make a small adjustment to keep the lie going for himself. Suddenly he couldn’t drive during busy times because it was too dangerous, not because it confused him. Not because one time he forgot how to get home, and he had to call me.”

“Where are you?”

“I don’t know.”

“We were three years in. Seven months before the wedding, he forgot my name. He stared at me with this blank look. He was terrified. I thought he was terrified about the wedding, and I teased him about it. I’d had to ask him three times to send the save-the-dates. I thought he kept forgetting them in his car because of cold feet.”

It hadn’t been cold feet.

“We lied to everyone. I told everyone he was stressed at his job, and that he wanted to put the wedding off one more year. Everyone… I don’t even know what my family said to my extended family. My sister was panicked, wondering if everything was okay, but I couldn’t tell her. Because I knew my world was falling apart, but even then I didn’t really understand. And I was stubborn. I knew something was happening, but I didn’t want to accept it. I didn’t want to lose him, not just yet. So I held on, and I lied too. I denied too. It’s easier than fully walking away, because what are you walking away from? Your future? Someone who was going to be your husband? The guy you thought would be an amazing father to your future children? The guy who could light up the room with one laugh, one look, one touch. He was mine, and then he wasn’t. The disease took him, but not right away. At first we all became roommates: Damian, me, the disease. It slowly ate at him, and he kept refusing to go in. Kept saying they couldn’t even diagnose him if it was what we thought it was, that it was pointless. That—”

I couldn’t speak. My throat was scraping against itself. I could taste the blood.

“And that’s when I lost myself.”

“Damian …” I’d whispered once in bed.

He’d rolled over and stared at me. Then flatly said, “Get out.”

“He was so cold at times. Everything was about keeping his lie going. All he thought about was ‘what-ifs.’ What if he had done this—then maybe he wouldn’t have this happening to him. What if he had done that, and maybe it wouldn’t have happened. If he’d eaten healthier. If he never drank, and he rarely drank anyway. If he’d only had a certain healthy drink. If he’d spent time with—I don’t even know. I thought at times he was trying to learn what he could do to prevent it from getting worse. But that wasn’t what he was doing. He was thinking back on his life, thinking back on what he could’ve done to have lived better. A more fulfilling life—that’s what he told me one time. He yelled at me that I didn’t fulfill him. That he didn’t want me. That he had never wanted me. That he had never been attracted to me, and he’d had to force himself to kiss me.”

I choked up, pressing the back of my hand to my mouth.

“Guys want it-girls,” he said. He refused to look at me, sitting on the edge of the bed. “You’re not an it-girl. You’re too nice. But every guy wants her, just ask them.”

My voice was hoarse. “He tried to break up with me so many times, but I never went. He broke me down, though. Little by little. And I don’t know if he did it on purpose, but the end result was that I was a shell. I had nothing in me to fight him on things, to insist we call his mother, to force him to go see the doctors, to say what was happening wasn’t normal. I just gave in. He threw temper tantrums. He told me how disappointed he was. And I took it.”

I managed to look up for a moment. “That was my mistake. I took it until I couldn’t stay in our house anymore. And once I walked out of the door, I couldn’t bring myself to go back. My body wouldn’t let me.”