Love in the Time of Cynicism

by Jani Berghuis

  I nod breathlessly, excitement rattling in my chest. I’ve been here for longer than I would’ve ever thought possible and the idea of getting to see him is immediately the only thought alive within my tired head.

  I gather up the few papers I’ve collected during my time here and Dr. Sleepy-Annoyed-and-Handsome leads me to the elevator I’ve heard dinging for the past thirty six hours. It opens at a swipe of his doctor card and we ride in his mildly irritated silence to the third floor which, unsurprisingly, looks exactly like every other floor. Green and white with soothing paintings at regular intervals. The only difference is a bird cage at the end of the hall with manic yellow canaries chirping like life in a hospital cage is the best one ever.

  Dr. SAH knocks softly on the last door in the hall before walking in.

  “Cordelia Kane,” Rhett beams like nothing is different. He’s pallid and tired-looking, his body reined in by an IV dripping through the back of his hand and a heart monitor attached beeping incessantly to his right. His flawlessly tanned skin is like that of a ghost and his lips are viciously chapped. His left ankle is wrapped in a tight ace bandage. The change is shockingly drastic and my heart falls at the shift.

  The doctor makes a swift exit with an awkwardly mumbled goodbye, the door cracked behind him, and I sit on the side of Rhett’s hospital bed. I take his hand in mine and he traces circles on the back of my hand like he would on all the days we spent together. His touch still sends shivers up my spine, but now I can’t stop myself from wondering how many of these touches are left.

  I fill the quiet with the first question that comes to mind. “What happened to your ankle?”

  He laughs, the sound strained but full. “Some crazy bitch dragged me up the stairs while I was unconscious.”

  “That sounds awful.”

  “I imagine it was.”

  I pause, hesitant to continue this conversation. But I know everything has to be put out there for us to stay together. “Why’d you stop taking your antidepressants?”

  He shrugs limply, shoulders sagging back an instant after they lift, and shuts his eyes as if my question has hit with physical force. “Everything was so good with us and I felt so…calm. Like I never have before. And then…I just felt lost inside myself because of everything.” He opens his beautiful eyes again and smiles reassuringly. “Don’t worry your absolutely stunning little head, though. The doctors here are A plus and put me on some new, fast-acting pills. All better.”

  I nod though of course he’s only trying to make me feel better. We’ll have time to talk later, I promise myself as exhaustion ebbs at my body.

  “I hope you don’t really think-” I stop, swallow, and start again, “You’re not going to hold me back, Rhett. Yes, I’m going to New York at the end of the school year, but that doesn’t mean you can’t come with me.”

  “Except it does,” he argues. “Because my parents aren’t going to let me move away after this, not even eight months from now. I’ll probably be on house arrest for the next few months.”

  “Is this why you forced some doctor to bring me up here?” I try to be angry and fail miserably as I stand up. “To tell me we can’t be together? Because that’s not going to work for me.”

  The beeping on his heart rate monitor increases and he reaches for me with the hand not trapped by the IV. “Don’t be like that, my love. I want to be with you. More than anything. And I made that doctor get you because I knew you would’ve waited for me and didn’t want you staying here longer than you had to.”

  I wait to reply for a moment and shuffle the papers in my left hand. “How about we don’t think about the future until it comes?”

  “That sounds perfect,” he agrees. “I assume this would be a bad time to kiss you?”

  I shake my head and press my lips briefly to his. “I love you.”

  Rhett smiles and runs a few fingers through my fast-fading orange hair before asking, “What did you bring in here with you?”

  “Oh, these?” I wave the few sheets of lined paper in front of him and shake my head. “The hospital workers were so freaked out by my constant presence that they sent this power suit-wearing counselor to talk to me about ‘dealing with things.’ She made me write about a future where I was happy with everything, then asked me a load of questions about it. An hour well-spent, in my mind,” I explain sarcastically.

  His eyes flit to the papers in my hand, then to my lips and finally my eyes as a small smirk plays over his pale, chapped lips. “Read it to me?”

  “Too embarrassing.”

  “Please?”

  “Fine.”

  He smiles broadly like I’ve given him the best gift.

  And even as the words I penned shakily a few hours ago trip from my lips, I know they can never be true. Because I’m going to work at my dream job in a few months in a land far enough away that I’ll never have a reason to visit. Because Rhett will be stuck here on suicide-watch through college, probably commuting daily back and forth from UTex or Baylor or any other horrible place he’d never elect to attend of his own free will getting a degree in business or something else he can use to waste his life.

  The words are impossible, but I still wish they’ll come true because of the light in Rhett’s eyes, reflected in on my own with love I’ve never felt. This boy who waltzed into my life wearing a leather jacket and reading poetry by a woman he shares more kinship with than I could’ve guessed at first glance and without a care in the world is the reason I want everything on these few papers to be true.

  Epilogue – Years Later

  There’s a girl in a small, cluttered apartment curled on an old couch and staring out at the blotchy snow that blankets the city around her. She’s still getting used to the look of the fluffy white clinging to everything and the biting cold. Hell, she couldn’t even zip her jacket with one hand (a local skill) until a kind secretary helped her on her first day.

  Her hair is cropped short around her chin, the color of red velvet cupcakes fresh from the over. There’s a steaming mug of coffee warming her hands. She’s taken up drinking caffeine during the many light nights at her labor-intensive job. The youngest staff writer in the history of The New Yorker. Every day is a dream, spent checking out up-and-coming bands or coffeehouses and immersing herself in the local culture of the most famous city in the world.

  Today, though, the girl has finally finished a beautiful book gifted to her by her mother, who has no time to read and sends letters about her baby at least once a week. The girl, nearly twenty, has given herself the day off from everything she might have to accomplish. Phone off, sweatpants on, tea boiling.

  The day unravels around her until the door of her tiny apartment opens and shuts.

  His voice calls out, giving her goosebumps, “My love, are you home already?”

  She stands, already smiling at the thought of seeing him, and walks light on her feet to her boyfriend. They’ve been together a long time, since high school. Though they’ve been through horribly hard times together, they’ve managed to pull through because that’s what love does.

  He kisses her deeply and the familiarity of his lips on hers is a comfort through every storm.

  Suddenly, her lifetime love drops on one knee and reaches into his back pocket.

  There’s a ring in his hand and a promise on his lips.