Page 118 of Electric Touch

“I want that too.”

He closes the distance between us and he takes my hand. “But. There is a but… Right? I need you to help me understand. I got my head around the whole one-night stand thing. I overreacted to that. I know there is something else. Something I need to hear about.”

I nod. “We should probably sit. I need to sit,” I say, pulling back my chair. This will be a hard conversation for me.

He raises a brow, but grabs the chair and brings it around so it’s close to me. He grimaces at the wet jeans stretching over his thighs, but waits for me to talk.

“For the last eight months, I’ve been doing the things on the list. Here,” I open a drawer and take out the copy I keep here. It’s a photocopy of Ariella’s original handwritten list. For some bizarre reason, I thought I needed a copy of it everywhere. That is just my neuroses. I pass it over.

Nash takes the paper, eyeing me before reading. He takes a few minutes to read it all. His brow is creased, then his head comes up, his expression clears for a moment as if he is getting it.

“This is a bucket list,” he says. It’s not a question.

“Yes.”

“People only do bucket lists when…” he straightens up, realising what it means. “What the fuck, Adrestia?” I see the panic rising.

Over the years, the phenomenon of a bucket list has evolved. People making them to ensure they are doing fun things, not taking life so seriously. Ensuring they get to see all the world offers. Which was what I told Nash I was doing. They’re not always for the reason they were originally thought up.

This one is for the original idea. Dying wishes.

“It’s okay.” I hold up a hand.

“No it’s not,” he gets up and his chair flies back behind him and hits the wall. He’s shaking his head frantically. “Adrestia, tell me you’re not…” he drops on his knees in front of me, he looks broken.

“I’m not,” I fall on the floor in front of him and grab his hands. The panic in his eyes is palpable and I hate that I’m messing this up all over again. I cup his cheek, about the only touch I dare risk right now. “I’m not,” I emphasise the word.

My heart breaks just thinking about it, never mind having to explain to someone else. Someone who isn’t family.

“I don’t understand,” Nash lifts the hand holding the list and stares at it again. Then his eyes flick back up to mine. I’m still holding his cheek.

“Ariella,” I say quietly, inhaling and breathing out slowly. This is harder for me than anything else I’ve ever had to deal with. Saying the words out loud is something I’ve avoided doing for the last eight months. Even with family, we don’t say the words aloud.

“What about her?” he whispers, but I can see it in his eyes. He understands.

“My sister. She’s dying.”

Without warning, tears spill over my cheeks. It’s been so long since I’ve let myself cry for her. I’ve bottled everything up for months, taking each day as it comes. Telling myself to enjoy every moment with her and not think the worst.

It’s how the list was born.

“Ariella won’t get to do these things,” I indicate the list, sniffling. I take another long inhale to calm myself. “It’s not a traditional bucket list in that sense. But they are all things she came up with. I said I would do it all. All the things my sister won’t get to do.”

“Adrestia,” he breathes out.

He drops the list and pushes up off the floor, pulling me up and wrapping his arms around me. We’re both still wet and cold, but I don’t care. I lean my ear against his chest and put my arms around his waist. His heart pounds frantically against my cheek. Despite the cold and wetness, our bodies pressed together like this quickly warm. I pull myself together and stop crying, but cling on for a little while longer.

“We found out eight months ago,” I say into his chest. “She has amyotrophic lateral sclerosis, ALS. It’s a motor neurone disease.”

I feel him nod, letting me know he’s heard of it, and he lets out a stuttering breath.

“They say she can live between two to five years. It’s very rare people live longer.”

“You don’t have to talk about it.”

I pull back and look up at him. “I do,” I say sadly. “I don’t talk about it with anyone. Mama, Hank, my friends. Especially not Ariella. The only way I communicate with anyone about what is happening to her is via the list. It’s become this thing that I have to finish before…”

He brushes another tear from my lower lash before it can fall. “I’m sorry,” he whispers.

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