Her smile shrinks, eyes zeroing in on mine. Seeing too much by far. "Are you okay, Anthony?"
"Yeah. You want to come in?"
"Um, yes. If that's okay?"
"Of course." I push open the door to illustrate just how okay it is. Ace is a tail-wagging, excited storm of a dog at my feet, pushing his nose against my leg. I bend down and give him a solid pat hello. "Good dog," I murmur and shut the door behind them.
Summer stands in the middle of my living room and takes it all in. I feel my stomach sink as I look at the place through her eyes.
I distinctly remember planning to tidy up yesterday. Dr. Johnson had derailed all those plans. His words had lured me back to a dark place with no way out.
I shove my hands into the pockets of my crumpled slacks and watch as she walks around the living room. The old marble mantlepiece. The leather sofas. The box of takeout on my coffee table and the half-empty bottle of scotch.
It's clean, at least, thanks to the house cleaners. But evidence of my life is everywhere.
"This townhouse is old," she says.
Not what I expected.
I clear my throat. "Yeah. Late nineteenth century, I think."
"Have you lived here long?"
"Yes. My grandparents lived here for a time when I was a child. We visited a lot. They moved to a different property a while back and neither my parents nor my brother wanted this place." I shrug. My mouth is running. With the headache and the darkness hanging over me like a cloud, the filter is gone. "I've always liked this street."
"It's a lovely area of New York. Very quiet."
"It is."
"You've got three stories for yourself?"
She turns, smiling at me from across the room. The sunlight through the windows gilds her, the tan of her skin a beautiful contrast against her yellow sundress. "Doesn't that get lonely?"
I clear my throat. "Sometimes, I suppose. But I like my privacy."
"You sure do." She crosses the space and reaches for me, her arms wrapping around my waist. "Are you sure you're okay?"
"Don't I look it?" I ask. Take a tendril of her hair between my fingers.
"No," she says. "I'm here to listen if you want to talk."
I step out of her arms and head toward the kitchen. Turning my back on her hurts, but spilling out the truth hurts more. It feels like a flood inside me and the gates are already weak.
"Want something to drink?"
"Yes, sure."
I open the fridge. Close it again, and hope she didn't see. It's pitiful. I can't remember the last time I ate anything in this place that wasn't takeout, and for the past two weeks, I've spent more time at hers than mine.
Her place. I wish we were there now. Pizza and that stupid elephant lamp and Ace watching us from his sprawl on the opposite couch.
"Water's okay?" I ask. Stupid, Anthony.
"Of course." There's a rustling sound as she sits down by my kitchen table. "The weather is beautiful outside. It's ridiculously warm, really. We could go to the park later?"
"Good idea." I hand her the glass of water. Retreat to the kitchen counter and lean against it.
To think there'll be a time when I won't be able to see her, sitting right there in front of me, so beautiful it feels like my heart is being torn out of my body. The world creates beauty like this, and then takes my eyes away from me.
The cruelty of it is ripping me apart.
She puts her glass down. "Anthony?"
"My eyes are getting worse."
"Oh. It's progressing?"
"Quicker than the doctor had thought."
It's there, then. The look of pity and sorrow in her eyes. I can see it and it hurts like a freight train. That I'm the one causing her this. That I'm someone to be pitied. Both and neither, all wrapped up in one.
"Do they have a timeline?" she asks.
I shake my head and look past her to the beckoning sunlight beyond. "Nothing concrete, but he said a couple of years, most likely. Could be two. Could be eight. But it's not decades, at least."
"I'm so sorry, Anthony."
The soft-spoken words grate. I don't want to be someone she's sorry for. I want to be someone she can trust, someone she can turn to. A man she can see a future with.
Fuck, I haven't let myself think of the future in a long time. But I want it now, with her. I want it so bad it's like acid on my tongue. And I can't have it.
"It might be easier for you if we end this now."
"What do you mean?" she asks.
"It might be easier for you if you don't get too invested in this before I'm out of the picture. Ending it now as opposed to in a year or two."
"Anthony," she says, with infuriating calm, "you're not dying."
I have to smile at that. It's humorless, like me, like the pathetic existence I have to look forward to. "I might as well be. My way of life is dying. My career. My interests."
"You bought the house in Montauk as a getaway," she whispers.
"Yes, well, I suppose I should start learning where everything is. It'll be a prison soon enough."
She shakes her head. "Is this why you told me once you had no interest in relationships? In love?"
The words slip through my teeth like nails beneath a tire. Puncturing something on their way out. "I'm not going to be a burden on anyone, Summer. I refuse."