Page 75 of Look on the Bright Side

“Absolutely, honey. You can do this all day.” The Captain America quote always made him smile. “And don’t forget, we first bonded over puking. It’s all part of our sexy dance.”

He laughed, then retched again.

Twenty-three days after Dr.Kothari gave them the news, Justin had lost thirty-eight pounds and most of his hair. He forbade her from shaving hers when she volunteered.

“I love your hair. Don’t do that,” he whispered, his lips cracked from dehydration and the toxicity of his medications.

He had sores in his throat that made swallowing a study in agony, and his bones ached constantly. He got devastating headaches from the chemo, and the steroids made him irritable. Finally, Dr.Kothari prescribed him Dilaudid, which made him loopy.

“I love Dilaudid,” he said as they were lying in bed, watching the original Iron Man. “Let’s serve it at the wedding.” Their pinkies were linked, the most contact he could bear at the moment.

“Okay,” she said. “It’ll help Winnie loosen up. Grandpop would love it, I’m sure. Robbie’s been giving him gummies for his back pain, and Grammy already has medical marijuana.”

“But Dilaudid is next level. Can you see my mom stoned? That would be so fun. We have to get Mom stoned. Can you buy some gummies for her?” He was definitely a little high, but he was happy right now, and that was all that mattered.

“Sure,” she said. “She and I can have a girls’ night. Gummies and dancing, binge-eating potato chips…”

“You should. She would love that. She loves…” He was asleep before he finished the sentence. Hopefully, the Dilaudid would let him get a few consecutive hours of rest.

She watched Justin a lot when he was sleeping, studying his face for signs of improvement or decline. His face was gaunt now, and his eyebrows and lashes were sparse. Pretty soon, they’d be gone altogether. Something was going on with his teeth, too…they looked bigger and had a gray tinge. His skin had a yellow cast.

But he was still the boy she had loved since she was five. Still protective of her, still trying to hold the door for her, still asking about how she was holding up. “I’m sorry to put you through this, little bird,” he’d whispered just last night. “I wish we were rollerblading along the Chuck instead. I wish you didn’t have to do so much for me, honey.”

“I love doing so much for you,” she said. “Your turn will come when I’m in med school and weepy and exhausted. Or when I’m hugely pregnant and can’t see my feet.”

“I can’t wait for that, little bird. I can’t wait.”

How many times does your kindergarten crush end up your husband? How many times does the nice boy who first kissed you at age fourteen turn out to be the only person you’ll ever kiss? They were meant to be. They were Larstin, adored by everyone, held up as truth of the fairy tale.

The universe could not let them down.

THIRTEEN

LARK

After the party, Lark and Lorenzo had gone back to his apartment.

“I hope you sleep well,” Lorenzo said. “Feel free to help yourself to breakfast. I’ll be at the hospital early.”

“Okay,” she said. Scintillating conversation. But she did admire his success as a surgeon. Sunday mornings meant nothing when you were Lorenzo Santini. He would be off saving a life. Bringing hope. Being a rock star.

The bed in the guest room was wicked comfy, that was for sure, and Lark slept like the dead until seven thirty. When she went into the kitchen, there was a note on the island.

Thank you for attending last night. You looked very nice. Will be in touch.

“Wow,” she said. “A compliment!” Not the tingle-inducing type his brother had given her, but hey.

Well, she had to get back, since she was working in the ER this afternoon. Rather than sully Lorenzo’s kitchen by making breakfast, she figured she’d stop at Dunks on the way out. His coffee machine resembled a jet engine, and God help her if she messed up the settings. She packed, checked the gorgeous bathroom to be sure she had everything, then lugged her suitcase and dress bag the two blocks to her car.

It wasn’t there.

“Are you kidding me?” she said to no one. She’d been towed. Apparently, her perfectly legal spot had become illegal overnight. Or the car had been stolen. She tapped her phone—How to tell if my car has been towed in Boston—pulled up the site, entered her license plate, and sure as shit, it had been towed. For street cleaning.

“Thanks for the notice!” Lark said, exasperated. Only in Boston.

Another few taps, and she saw that her car was currently at the impound lot a few miles from here. She called the number. “Our offices are closed and our operators are unavailable,” said the recorded message.

Lark sighed. None of her siblings would be able to make it off-Cape to get her; the traffic was awful on Sundays in the summer. She’d have to take a Lyft. Another few taps on the phone and she winced. More than five hundred bucks, since it was a beautiful summer day with a lot of people heading Capeward.

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