Don’t Make Me Turn This Life Around by Pagán, Camille (top novels of all time txt) 📗

salary I drew from the foundation I ran, he could afford to take off another day each week. But business was booming and his boss relied on him, so he’d been flying right up to the legal limit.

“It’s okay,” he said, pouring himself a glass of water. He looked back at me and smiled again. “Any day in the sky is a good day.”

“Any day we’re alive is a good day,” I said, mostly to myself. “Did you eat already?”

He drained his water, then nodded. “Grabbed a sandwich at work.”

“There are leftovers if you decide you want something more,” I said. He still hadn’t mentioned my appointment, but I figured he would as I retrieved a bottle of sparkling wine from the fridge. It had been in there since New Year’s Eve; neither Shiloh nor I was big on booze, and we had fallen asleep long before the ball dropped. But if there were ever a time to pop that cork, this was it.

“I’m good,” he said as I grabbed two glasses from the cupboard. “But don’t let that stop you from having a drink if you’re in the mood.”

I frowned—had he actually forgotten? The twins didn’t know about my tests because I hadn’t wanted to worry them. But Shiloh and I had discussed it as recently as that morning. “Then skip it, but first let’s toast,” I said, filling each flute halfway. I watched the bubbles settle, then finished filling my glass to the top because this was a big occasion, and as Dr. Malone had pointed out, it was cause for celebration.

“Does this mean you got the grant?” said Shiloh as he took the flute I was holding out for him.

He was only human, I told myself, even as I felt nascent tears pricking my eyes. I blinked several times and pushed my lips into a smile. “Try again.”

“D’oh!” he said, slapping his forehead. “Your test results. I can’t believe I forgot.”

He looked so genuinely embarrassed that I immediately forgave him. “Thank you,” I said, raising my glass. “Here’s to no evidence of cancer.”

He brought the edge of his glass to mine and smiled at me. “Here’s to you, cutie. I wasn’t worried, but this is still a huge deal. I’m so happy for you. For all of us.” He looked at me for a moment, then added, “I don’t know what the girls and I would do without you.”

“Thank you,” I said. He’d just said all the right things, but as I took a sip of my wine, I didn’t feel any better than I had walking out of Dr. Malone’s office that morning. She’d pointed out that it was normal to expect the worst—which explained why I’d had to struggle to keep my mood afloat the last month or two. But what was my excuse now?

He put his glass down, then wrapped me in his arms as if to reassure me that his memory lapse had meant nothing. If that was his aim, it was working.

“I was going to hit the hay,” he said, nestling his face in my hair. “Wanna join me?”

For what was possibly the first time that day—really that week—I felt a spark of excitement. But that had always been Shiloh’s effect on me. While he was unflaggingly kind, preternaturally calm, and wise beyond his years, much of my attraction to him came down to chemistry. There was something about being with him that made me feel alive in a way nothing else could. Even a quick roll in the hay would hit the restart button on my mental state.

We skipped flossing and brushing our teeth and hopped into bed in our underwear, which in and of itself felt like returning to a land before children. “Hello, stranger,” I said, curling closer to him. Then I slipped my hand beneath the duvet.

Well, okay, I thought. We weren’t spring chickens anymore; it could take a while to get clucking. Anyway, he was kissing me and seemed like he was into it.

But there’s a while—and then there’s a while. “Are you not in the mood?” I finally whispered.

“I’m fifty-five, Libby,” he said quietly.

“I’m sorry,” I mumbled, my cheeks burning. Age hadn’t been an issue last year. Three months ago, even. But this was the second time this had occurred in the past several weeks. And as it happened, we’d only attempted to make love twice during that time period, which meant we were zero for two. “I just thought when you asked me to come to bed with you . . .”

He sighed deeply, then kissed my forehead. “I didn’t realize how tired I was. It was a tough flight back and I’m just really fried.”

“Oh . . . I didn’t realize that. Let’s forget this happened.”

“Thanks, and sorry.” He kissed me on the lips this time, but it wasn’t enough to take away the sting. Maybe he sensed that, because he added, “Next time. Promise.”

“Don’t worry about it,” I said, pressing my lids closed. It was one thing for him to have forgotten about my appointment. But to have no interest in intimacy . . . Well, that was another thing entirely. We’d met on the way to Vieques, a tiny island off Puerto Rico’s east coast that I’d fled to after my cancer diagnosis; he’d been the pilot on my flight and had saved us both from crashing after a bird flew into the plane’s engine. And though I’d been planning to forgo treatment—having seen my mother suffer through chemo and radiation only to die anyway made me resolve to avoid the same ordeal—being with Shiloh had transformed everything, really, right down to my will to live.

Sex was what made us us. Who would we even be without that?

We’d be me and my ex-husband—that’s who. I’d loved Tom dearly; still did, in fact. But when I’d tried to tell him I had cancer, he’d misinterpreted my distress and revealed that—surprise!—he was gay. Though it took a while to get over his having lied to me for nearly two decades—we’d begun dating