Page 66 of A Wedding in a Week

Can I be with Marc?

That’s what I want, is what I’ve already promised. Lukas is the only person who doesn’t know that, and him asking for us to be together like this, practically begging, seems another nail in a heart-failure coffin.

I curse Dad’s faulty genetics—hate them with a passion that leaves my eyes burning. “You’ve got bad news—”

I don’t get to add because your heart is failing, and you don’t want either of us to be alone without you.

Lukas shouts, “Stef!” before I can, each of his next words staccato. “Can you be with Marc right now? Are you close by to him?”

I must have covered some distance blindly because I’m almost at those goldfish-bowl windows.

I grind to a halt across the street before I reach them.

“Yeah.” It’s my turn to sound hoarse. “I’m close to Marc.”

Lukas is breathless again in my ear. “Thank fuck.”

He’s so raw, I add another confession. “I love him.”

Lukas should laugh.

Should poke fun.

Or he should tell me to be strong for Mum and Marc, if this is headed where we’ve all dreaded, but all he says is, “Pass him your phone.”

That surprises me into taking a few more steps, enough that I see Marc in profile, gathering his laptop and standing, finally his turn to fight for the spot he wants so badly.

There’s no way I can disturb him.

No way.

It doesn’t matter that I’ve promised to carry his load, Marc getting this chance to do it for himself is more important. It’s his line in the sand. His proof of self-worth that I can’t steal.

“I can’t pass him my phone. Not right now. He’s just about to—”

Lukas doesn’t shout again. He almost whispers, “Please,” and I’ve no idea why that single word propels me, but I must stagger into Marc’s line of vision.

Even though I know this is Marc’s one big chance, I raise a hand, or try to. It’s constricted by my sling, the movement abortive, as dislocated as this conversation.

“Is it…?”

I don’t even know what I’m asking Lukas.

All I know is that Marc comes when I beckon, abandoning the interview he set his heart on—his one real chance to stay here on his terms—and comes to me without hesitating.

The door closes behind him and he darts through traffic. “Has something happened? Is it your Mum?” Marc couldn’t be any closer to me, his eye contact searching. So is the gaze of who I guess is the practice manager, his nose almost pressed to the plate glass, frowning.

Marc only has eyes for me.

“Fuck, did John come off the coast road?” His face falls like I almost did over that edge.

“No. No, they’re both fine.”

“Shit.” Marc sags, coming to the same conclusion as me. He touches the centre of his chest. “It’s Lukas. It’s his heart, isn’t it?”

Lukas must hear that. “I’m fine. Pass him your phone, Stef,” he orders, no longer sounding raw or shaky. His voice steadies, and so do I because this is a different reminder, not of my brother’s terror before his heart procedure. I’m on a Penzance street, not back in my bedroom being woken at dawn, but Lukas is the same calm, cool, and collected as when he tested my range of movement, showing me he’d make a brilliant doctor one day.

He is already.

---