CHAPTER ONE

May 13, 1989 / January 11, 1993.

***

“Ra'Shelle! Congratulations! I am so proud of you!” I scream.

At five-eleven, Ra'Shelle is tall for a woman; but I’m taller, even in flats. I wrap my arms around her and pick her up off the ground.

“Sam?” she chuckles. “What are you doing here?”

“I came to see you graduate obviously.” I set her back down. “How does it feel?”

“Damn good. Really damn good.”

I touch Colin’s shoulder. “You too?”

“I’m ready to take a long nap,” he says, unzipping his graduation gown.

“Tom talk to you about Jonas yet?” Ra'Shelle asks.

“Girl, don’t even start that shop talk on me. It’s your frickin’ graduation!”

She laughs. “Okay. You’re right. You’re right.”

A man my age strolls up to Ra'Shelle. His sepia skin is several shades lighter than my ochre tone. His dark eyes, and close fade nearly take my breath away. I’ve never had a reaction like this to a guy, but there’s something about him.

“Congratulations, Colin,” he says in a low, sexy voice that makes me weak. “Fantastic speech, Ra'Shelle.”

“Thanks, man,” Colin responds.

“Couldn’t have done it without you,” Ra'Shelle adds.

“Psh,” he says with a shrug. “I didn’t do anything.”

“Psh,” Ra'Shelle mocks. “If it weren’t for you, I’d still be stuck in World Civ.”

He laughs and flashes an incredible smile. Who even is this guy?

“Sam,” Ra'Shelle says, “this is Layne DuMar. He was a TA when Colin and I started, but now he’s a bigwig history professor.”

“Not a bigwig,” Layne says, extending his hand. “Although I do know enough history to teach a class on the actual term.”

“Layne,” Ra'Shelle adds, “this is Sam Lawrence. She’s Regional VP at my work, Ledger Fashion Industries.”

“It’s a pleasure to meet you,” Layne says, shaking my hand.

His touch makes me nearly lose my balance.

Ra'Shelle knowingly smiles at me. The woman has the observational skills of a hawk. “Sam opened LFI’s office in Minneapolis.”

“Unfortunately, I live there now,” I say.

“Unfortunately?” Layne asks.

“It’s too cold,” I say, shaking my head.

He chuckles. “Perhaps you should move back.”

“Perhaps I should.”

Ra'Shelle places her hand on my shoulder. “Layne, I’m sure Sam has never had a tour. Care to show her around my alma mater?”

“I’d love to,” he says.

“He’s amazing,” Ra'Shelle whispers. “You’re in good hands.”

I follow him as we casually stroll through campus, and he points at buildings and tells me about them. I swear I could listen to this man talk about anything. “Tell me about yourself,” I finally say.

“Not much to tell. I’m a history professor, and I spend an absurd amount of money on Chinese takeout. You?”

“I…” I’m having trouble thinking of a single fact about myself. “Since I moved to Minneapolis, I’ve started knitting.”

“Scarves for the cold?” he asks with a half-smile.

“You already know me so well.”

“When are you flying back?”

“Monday.”

“That doesn’t leave us much time. Maybe instead of showing you brick buildings, I should take you to dinner.”

“I’d love that.”

He stops walking, turns to me, and searches my eyes. “Do you believe in love at first sight?”

Chills run through me. “Do you?”

“I didn’t,” he says, “until I met you.”

“Do you say that to all the women?”

He shakes his head. “Just you.”

When our lips touch, my knees buckle, and he has to catch me with his arm around my waist.

I wrap my arms around his neck, and the world fades away.

And in that instant, I know one thing: This will be one helluva romance.

***

Thirty-two weeks.

For thirty-two weeks, I’ve watched his heartbeat, listened to the respirators, stared at his closed eyes.

For thirty-two weeks, I’ve heard him congratulate me on my promotion every time I pull into my parking space, and all I want is to hear his voice outside of my head.

For thirty-two weeks, I’ve sat in a courtroom being accused of being a gold-digging whore, no one caring that I didn’t know anything about the money.

For thirty-two weeks, I’ve given my financial documents and dignity to the parents of my fiancé and listened to their lawyer criticize me for spending money on food delivery to the hospital.

For thirty-two weeks, I’ve never bought groceries.

For thirty-two weeks, I’ve listened to people tell me to get some sleep, that I’m losing weight, that I look exhausted.

For thirty-two weeks, I’ve been fighting my base instincts not to revert back to my adolescence, not to give into addiction.

I’ve kept myself in check. I’ve tried to maintain the cool, fearless Sam. The quick-witted, cheerful Sam. But with each day that he stays in bed, I watch her slowly die.

His best friend, Paul, got Ra'Shelle’s best friend, Joan, pregnant, and now we’re all tangled in a weird web that I wish I could leave. Nine months ago, I didn’t even know Joan, and now she’s here nearly every day. She and Paul talk about baby stuff, and I’d like to be the bigger person, but their happiness makes me queasy. Why can’t they just let me wallow in my misery?

I shouldn’t envy them. Nine months ago, I was happy too. I was engaged to a handsome, down-to-earth college professor with a witty sense of humor and a contagious smile. He didn’t expect me to be anything other than who I am. We were fools in love, and at the end of the semester, he would have been in Minneapolis with me.

Just a few more days, and he would have been with me.

I told people it wasn’t a whirlwind romance. It was just romance. I know who I am. He knows who he is. Somehow, we found one another. It was serendipity. I don’t give a damn about fairy tales, but this one almost was one.

It still could be, if he would just wake up.

**

I close the notebook and place the pencil on top of it. I try to eat a burrito that Paul had brought a few hours ago, but I toss it in the trash after two bites.

I hold his hand and listen to the rhythmic machines. “So, today, I had to have lunch with Jill. All those damn cats. She just got a new one because Fuzzy died. She’s so artistic, but her creativity definitely doesn’t extend itself to cat names. Fuzzy was like 16 or 19 or 23. He was old for a cat, but obviously that doesn’t help with the grieving. So she adopted Poofy. I’m surprised she’s never had a Poofy before. Oh well, her life I guess. You know what she brought?… Mashed potatoes. I know! With hot sauce and pepper of course. Her taste buds are so weird. When I met her, I thought she was pregnant, but it’s been years now, and there has been no baby. She’s just a strange, interesting person.”

I sigh and stroke his fingers with my thumb. “I guess that’s all I have for the day. The rest is too depressing. Let’s read, shall we?” I take his favorite book, 'Flowers for Algernon,' from the table and turn the worn pages to 278, where I’d stopped last night. “Downhill. Thoughts of suicide to stop it all now while I am still in control and aware of the world around me…” I read for several hours until my eyes refuse to stay open.

I gently hold his fingers and place my head on his bed. “I love you, Layne. Wake me if you need me.”