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Zach is curled up on his side, and Chris is holding him. He can’t move. He is too weak, and the painkillers are too strong. At least the meds are finally kicking in. The agony is subsiding. For now. Zach knows that toward the end drugs won’t help anymore. There’s pain that will break through the strongest medications. Not today, though. For now Zach’s floating, dazed and helpless in the aftermath.
“Don’ wanna die,” he mumbles. He can barely speak. His lips are numb, swollen, from biting back screams. At least he hasn’t screamed so far. Memories drift through his mind like fluffy clouds. His mother standing in the doorway, sending him to the playground with Joe. Somewhere behind her, his father’s moans are getting louder. Children shouldn’t hear their father scream in pain. His mother’s strained face. She’s talking to the neighbor, her voice low. But Zach heard her, and he heard his dad scream, too. He wants to send Chris away. Chris shouldn’t hear him scream. But you can’t send your husband to the playground. And Chris won’t go away. But Zach can’t hide the pain anymore. It’s happening too often now. Now. Now is everything he has left, and now seems almost gone. Gone almost before it has begun. “Don’ wanna lose you.”
“Same,” Chris says softly, “Same.” He wipes Zach’s forehead with a cool, damp cloth. “Can you lie on your back now? Putting your legs up should help ...”
So simple. Put your legs up. Lessen the strain on your stomach. But when you’re curled up in fetal position, your whole body contorted with agony, that’s easier said than done. Chris seems to understand. Gently, he rolls Zach onto his back and stuffs two cushions under his knees. Zach just lies there and holds his breath, waiting for the pain to return. He stares at the ceiling. It’s very white because they just got the bedroom done. The first room they've renovated together. Zach exhales carefully. He’s imagined his unhappy ending before. Over the years, he’s turned dread into an art form to celebrate at three am. But he never thought it would begin like this. With a white ceiling and with Chris kissing his forehead.
“Tomorrow I’m taking you to the hospital,” Chris says firmly. “I know you hate hospitals. I know you’re scared. So am I. But you can’t go on like this, baby. This is not just some weird food intolerance you’re suddenly developing, and you know that. We’re going to find out what’s wrong. And then we’ll do everything we can to make you get well.”
*
When they return from the hospital, Zach’s in a daze. The world around him doesn’t feel quite real. Everything is now and now is everything. The sunshine is too bright and too warm on his skin. They are home. They’ve been planning to renovate the house for months, room by room, so it’s no longer Chris’s house that Zach moved into when they got married a year ago, but their house. Their home. The place where they want to raise a family. Where they want to grow old together, with Chris puttering around in the garden, playing with his jalapenos, and Zach taking the dog for a walk down to the orange grove. Zach thinks he can smell lemon blossoms. Well, it is spring. Lemon tree. His dad liked that song. His mom sang it to him when he was a little boy.
Zach remembers to take off his shoes. But then he just stands there, unsure what he’s supposed to do. Go to his office? Into the living room? He should call his mother. His agent.
“Zach? Zach.” Chris gently tugs on his arm. “Come with me, baby.”
Zach allows himself to be led into the living room (they want to paint it blue, the book with the color swatches is on the coffee table).
“Sit down.” Chris drags Zach to the sofa.
Zach obeys. He sits on the sofa and stares at the dogs and the dogs stare at him, until Chris returns with two cups. He puts the mugs on the side table. Then he crawls into the corner of the couch and draws Zach into his arms. He hands Zach a cup. Hot chocolate. Zach takes a sip. His hands are so cold. Noah and Skunk pile up at their feet. They seem to know it’s a dogs-on-the-couch kind of day. Princess, their new kitten, realizes that something is up, too. She climbs on his shoulder and purrs into his ear. The chocolate is hot and sweet.
“Better now?” Chris asks, concerned, after he's put away the empty cups.
Zach can’t even nod. Suddenly, the sky falls down. The weight of months, of agonizing pain and paralyzing fear and memories he never wanted to recall, comes crashing down. And Zach falls apart. Chris holds him, rubbing his back and stroking his hair. When he can’t cry anymore, Chris pulls out his handkerchief – orange today, the code for “anything, anywhere, anytime (but not necessarily anyone)”, Chris explains with a grin – and dries his tears. Finally, Zach sucks in a shuddering breath.
“I’ll be fine,” he whispers. His voice is shaking. “I’ll be fine.”
“Yes,” Chris confirms, holding Zach even more tightly. “You’ll be fine. Just fine. We’ll clear your schedule. You’ll have surgery. If all goes well, you can come home on the same day. A week later you’ll be back to normal. Okay, minus your gall bladder. I hear they give you the gallstones to take home as souvenirs. We’ll have them encased in acrylic. Coolest paperweights ever. We can give them away as party favors on Halloween. People will sell them on eBay and make a fortune with them.”
“Oh God.” Zach laughs weakly. “Only you, Chris. Only you.”
Chris chuckles and cups Zach’s face in his hands. “Only you, Zach,” he whispers. “Only you.”
When they kiss, their kiss is everything, and everything is now, but now is just the beginning.