Chapter 99 Maybe, we'll see
He smiles, a small, secret thing, and hands it to me. "For you."
I stare at it, my fingers tracing the grain of the leather.
"Use it for whatever you’d like," he says. "Jot down ideas for your gardener. Sometimes, a pen and paper is the best way to go. It feels more authentic, don't you think? No blue light, no blinking cursors. Just you and the ink."
I flip through the empty pages. They're terrifyingly white, a vast expanse of nothingness waiting to be filled. I look up at him, and the breath catches in my throat. In the harsh, golden light of the setting sun, I can see it clearly, his hair is thinner today than it was yesterday.
The edges of him are blurring.
The fear flares up, but I swallow it down. I refuse to let the "side effect" win.
"You're going to be there," I say, my voice suddenly thick with a fierce, desperate certainty. "At the book signings. At the official launch. You’re going to sit in the front row, and you're going to roll your eyes when I get too pretentious during the Q&A. And afterwards, we’ll go home together."
Ryan’s gaze darts over my face, searching for the crack in my resolve. He looks at me for a long beat, his expression unreadable, before he gives me a smile that's small and utterly devastating.
He turns back to the water, his profile etched against the sky.
"Maybe," he whispers, echoing himself. "We’ll see."
A man appears from the periphery, holding a charcoal-smudged sketchpad and a pencil that looks like it’s been sharpened with a pocketknife. I’d noticed him earlier, drifting between the benches and the pier, approaching people with a cautious, practiced hesitation.
A man who lives in the space between an invitation and an intrusion.
He stops a few feet away, offering a small, respectful nod. "Afternoon," he says, his voice weathered by the salt air. "I'm an artist. Well, local....mostly. I was wondering if you’d like a sketch? It’s not costly, just something to take home. A few minutes of your time is all."
I’m already opening my mouth to decline, my protective instincts flaring up. But Ryan cuts me off before I can get a single syllable out.
"Yes," he says, his voice bright and surprisingly firm. "Yes, please."
He turns to me then, arcing an inquisitive brow, his eyes challenging me to be the one who says no to a memory in the making. He looks so hopeful, sitting there with his wooden boat and his bag of books, that my heart feels like it’s being squeezed by a giant hand.
I give a slow, silent nod. "Yeah. Okay."
The artist pulls up a small folding stool and sits, his eyes darting between us with quiet focus. He doesn't see a cancer patient. He sees lines, shadows, and the way the light from the setting sun is currently gilding the bridge of Ryan’s nose.
"Just stay as you are," the man murmurs, the pencil already scratching against the heavy grain of the paper.
I stay perfectly still, my hand still resting on the bench near Ryan’s. I find myself holding my breath, watching the artist's hand fly across the page. It’s a strange, vulnerable feeling, being rendered by a stranger. I wonder what he sees. Does he see the way I’m leaning into Ryan, trying to anchor him to the earth? Does he see the "maybe" in Ryan’s smile?
Ryan’s gaze is fixed on the water, his expression peaceful, almost meditative. He looks like he’s already a part of the landscape, something permanent and timeless, like the rocks or the tide.
"Done," the artist says after what feels like an eternity and only a second at once. He tears the sheet from the pad with a crisp, decisive sound and hands it to us.
I take it first. It’s charcoal-heavy and blurred at the edges, but he caught it. He caught the way Ryan’s hand is curled near mine, and the way I’m looking at Ryan with a kind of terrified, shimmering awe.
He didn’t draw the thinning hair or the tired eyes, he drew the light behind them.
"It’s perfect," Ryan whispers, leaning his head against my shoulder to see. He peels off a couple of bills and presses them into the artist's palm with a firm, grateful nod. The man nods, gratitude clear in his expression, then moves on.
We stay where we are as the sun begins to dip, the sky shifting into something warmer, deeper....gold bleeding into orange, into something almost unreal. The kind of beauty that feels too intentional, like the world is trying a little too hard.
We take pictures.
Not because we’re trying to preserve it, we both know that’s impossible, but because it feels wrong not to. Like walking past something sacred without acknowledging it.
Ryan angles his phone toward the water, toward the sky, toward the boats slicing through light that looks almost liquid now.
At some point, he turns it toward us.
I find myself talking just to hear the vibration of his voice in response, and I laugh, genuinely and deeply, because Ryan has this way of finding the absurd in the middle of the profound.
On the ferry ride back, we don't stand at the railing this time. We find a quiet booth near the window. Ryan rests his head on my shoulder, his breathing slowing. I wrap my arm around him, pulling him in until there’s no daylight left between us. I can feel the ridge of his shoulder blade and the steady, stubborn beat of his heart. I hold him with a kind of quiet ferocity, as if I could physically shield him from the growing cold.
"I loved today," he murmurs, his voice muffled by the wool of my coat.
I press a kiss to the top of his head, breathing in the scent of salt air and him. "Me too."
The ferry lurches slightly as it hits a swell, and his grip on my hand tightens. He doesn't look up, but I can feel the shift in him, the way the playfulness of the afternoon is settling into something more weighted.
"Michael?"
"Yeah?"
"I love you."
The words aren't a surprise, but they still hit me with the force of a physical blow. They aren't a question, and they aren't a plea. They're a statement of fact.
"I love you too," I whisper, my voice thick. "More than words can manage."
I eventually reach into my bag and pull out the leather journal he bought me. I open the first page. The white is blinding under the flickering lights. I take out a pen, and with a hand that trembles only slightly, I write a single word at the very top.
Gardener.
I look at the word, then down at the man lying against my chest. I think about the glass heart and the cracks and the impossible choice.
I think about how the shards are already falling, and how I’m not afraid to bleed while I pick them up.