The Fall in Love Checklist

by Sarah Ready

  “You’re here,” I say. Tears start to fill my eyes. I blink them back. Everything will be okay now. Shawn’s here and I’m going to be okay and everything will be fine.

  Jack looks between me and Shawn. Frown lines form on his forehead. His gray eyes narrow. I want to tell him to go away. I don’t like him witnessing this moment. My mind’s mostly cleared from the anesthetic and I’m embarrassed about what I said to him.

  “Did you speak with the surgeon? What did he say?” I need to know. I have to know that I’m in the clear. That everything can return to normal.

  Shawn clicks his tongue against his teeth. Something he does when he’s annoyed.

  “I have no idea. I was on the phone with the office. I’m grinding non-stop on that multi-level parking bid.” He sighs and kneels at the edge of my bed. Then, he finally really looks at me. His face leaches of color.

  “Jeez,” he breathes. He grimaces and his mouth twists like he wants to spit out a mouthful of milk that has unexpectedly curdled and soured on his tongue.

  My chest twists. I wince. My hands flutter above my bandages. Suddenly, I feel naked and vulnerable. The gauze and hospital gown don’t feel like enough cover. I tug the paper-thin hospital blanket over my torso.

  “Okay?” I ask.

  Shawn glares around the shared room. The sleeping man. Jack and the girl. He stands stiffly and scowls at the chair Jack is sitting on not two feet from my bed.

  “Excuse us.” He pointedly looks at Jack. “Could you move?”

  Jack gives me a long, measuring stare.

  “Certainly,” he says in a slow honeyed drawl.

  I turn my head.

  My mouth is dry. I try to swallow the lump in my throat.

  Shawn grabs the curtain on the ceiling runner and yanks it closed. I can no longer see the others. No sleeping blue-veined man. No mischievous otter girl. No Jack. I shake my head. Shawn’s here. I smile up at him.

  “Thank you for being here,” I say.

  It’ll be okay now. Shawn’s just shocked. It’ll pass.

  He’s efficient in everything he does. He’ll get me home, help me recover from the surgery. Then, we’ll be married. This cancer thing is a quick blip. That’s what Shawn said. Plus, the doctors think this surgery will take care of it. No problem. No worries. I cut down the anxiety that tries to rise. It will be fine.

  Shawn runs a hand through his blond hair. My mother always said his angelic good looks were the perfect counterpart to my English rose beauty. He starts to talk, then stops. Looks down, then up again.

  I shift nervously.

  “What is it?” I ask.

  “I can’t do this,” he says.

  I stare at him. I’m not sure what he means.

  “God, look at you,” he says. “Look at you.”

  I look down at myself. There’s dried blood. Some sort of ointment. Bandages. An ugly blue gown. An IV taped on. My hair is in a limp bun. I don’t know what my face looks like.

  “Is everything okay?” I ask.

  He’s pacing the few feet of space at the end of my bed.

  I try to sit up, but a tight stabbing pain stops me. I sink back down and take shallow breaths until the pain passes.

  “What am I doing?” Shawn mutters.

  My mouth is horribly dry and his pacing is starting to worry me. “May I please have a glass of water?” I ask. My voice is small.

  He sighs. “Look. Daniella. I can’t do this. I’m not up for this. All this.” He waves his hands at me.

  I try to swallow. Can’t.

  “It’s okay. You don’t have to. I made casseroles to last for at least two weeks. And I sent your suits to be dry cleaned. The house cleaners were in, I had the carpets done…”

  I drift off. The expression on his face is pained.

  There’s a hard thud behind my rib cage.

  “Shawn?” I ask. It comes out as a croak.

  He flinches.

  “Look. I don’t love you.” He glances at the gap in the curtain, like he wants to be anywhere but here.

  His words crash around me, but I can’t catch ahold of them. Like I’m trying to clasp water and every time I close my hand it shoots away.

  “What?” I ask.

  I shake my head. He keeps on.

  “It’s not the cancer, it’s me. The cancer has nothing to do with it. I don’t love you and I don’t want to marry you.”

  He says the last in a rush. Then he stops pacing and stands at the bottom of the bed, staring at me. There’s a desperate pleading look on his face.

  “You…but…” I swallow.

  I finally catch his words.

  And I know he said he doesn’t love me, that he doesn’t want to marry me, but what comes out is, “But what about the casseroles?”

  The fifteen casseroles I baked and froze. Who’s going to eat them? There’s taco casserole, tuna casserole, hamburger casserole, tater tots casserole…

  “Look. I’m sorry,” he says.

  I look. And look. A heavy weight bears down on my chest and settles in.

  “I’ve known for a while now. It’s obvious. We don’t fit. To be honest, Daniella, you’re boring. Other women have interests. Passion. They’re alive. You never argue, you’re never spontaneous, you don’t have any opinions, you think barbeque sauce on chicken is taking a risk.”

  “A risk?” I ask. My throat is burning dry. I’m so thirsty.

  “Look. Think of it from my perspective. Would you be attracted to someone who doesn’t have any career ambitions, or hobbies, whose idea of weekend fun is bleaching the whites, dusting the china, and going to a charity brunch? Look, it’s not the cancer. See? I don’t want to be saddled with a hothouse flower the rest of my life.”

  A sharp jagged pain runs down my side. Spots start in my vision and I realize that I need to breathe. I suck in a hard breath. It hurts, like shards of glass.

  “May I please have some water?” My throat is killing me.

  Shawn shakes his head. “Daniella. Did you hear anything I said?”

  The room is tilting again and there’s a ringing in my ears.

  “Daniella?”

  I nod. “Yes?”

  “Look. I’m sorry. I can’t do this right now. I have to go. They need me at the office.” He sends me one final unhappy look, then turns and leaves.

  3

  Dany

  * * *

  I stare at the swinging curtain.

  I close my eyes, then open them.

  The curtain's still shifting back and forth. It has fish on it, like a seafood casserole curtain.

  I stifle a hysterical sob.

  Maybe I’m still in surgery. Maybe I’m having post-anesthesia hallucinations. Maybe I’ll wake up and Shawn will say that he’s decided to whisk me away for a whirlwind wedding and a tropical honeymoon. In Fiji. Or Turks and Caicos.

  The curtain shrieks on its runners as it slides open.

  The man, Jack, has a small plastic cup of water. He holds it out to me.

  I stare at the white cup in his dark hand. I just look at the darn cup. I can’t turn away. I follow the curve of his fingers, the line of his wrist and the muscle of his forearms up to his biceps, his shoulders, his face. I look into his gray eyes. I didn’t dream this. I see the reality of it reflected in his eyes. In the plastic cup he’s holding out to me.

  It hits me then.

  Everything at once.

  I had a double mastectomy. My fiancé doesn’t love me. He dumped me. And three strangers witnessed it all.

  Tears burn in my eyes.

  “Here,” he says. His voice is gentle.

  He puts the water on the stand next to me.

  His eyes are full of, I don’t know, knowledge, understanding, something…

  And that something makes me ashamed. I feel naked and ugly. I don’t want him to look at me like that. With what…pity? Anger rises in my chest. And I’m glad for it, because anger is a thousand times better than tears.

  “You deserve bet
ter—”

  “Please go,” I say.

  “I’m sorry—”

  “Go away. Please.” Because even when humiliated, I still say please like a lady. Even that makes me angry. I’ve always been kind, good, done everything right, and what has it brought?

  This.

  I grab the cup of water and swallow. It slides down my burning throat and cools the fire.

  “Thank you. For the water,” I say.

  He gives me a smile, there’s a dimple in his left cheek. “You’re welcome.” His politeness hurts. “And you deserve better.”

  I lash out, like a wounded animal.

  “My fiancé’s a good man. He’s merely confused and scared. We’re getting married in three months.” My voice is firm. Shawn will come around. I have to believe this right now. I’m hanging on by a thread. I won’t let myself think otherwise. He doesn’t believe those things he said. Shawn loves me. Or at least, he has respect and affinity for me. And isn’t that what all good relationships are built on?

  Something like disappointment shows on Jack’s face.

  I turn my head away. I’m not wrong.

  The teenage girl on the bed clears her throat.

  I look over.

  “Not that it’s any of my business, but your fiancé’s a total dick.”

  “Sissy,” Jack says in a low voice.

  “Seriously. It’s awesome he dumped her. Now she knows what kind of loser he is. Better now than in the future. She can move on with her life. It’s all good.”

  I shake my head. It’s not all good. None of this is all good.

  “Seriously,” she keeps on, “your life’s better without him. Wouldn’t you rather be on your own, rocking life, loving your bad self, than be ‘loved’ by the dick?” She air quotes the word loved.

  No, my heart cries, I wouldn’t.

  “Sissy, enough with the D word,” says Jack.

  “Whatever,” she says. “We’re growing here. You can’t make popcorn without some banging around.”

  “Sissy,” says Jack.

  “Who has popcorn?” the older man in the corner says. He props himself up on his veiny arms.

  “No one,” says Sissy.

  “But is there casserole?” asks the man.

  “Dude. Seriously. You did not just go there,” says Sissy.

  I consider burying my head under the scratchy hospital pillow. If I did, maybe they’d all go away.

  Before I can, my mother rushes in, her gold bangles clanking and the scent of Chanel No. 5 chasing her.

  “Oh, darling, darling,” she says. She bends over and quickly air kisses my cheeks. “I ran into Shawn. What did you say? What did you do? The poor man said the engagement is off. He’s in a state. A state. I told you this could happen. I told you.” Her hands wave in the air like small nervous birds. The heavy bejeweled rings glitter in the lights.

  “Hello, mother.”

  “You look absolutely awful. Awful. Poor Shawn. It’s hard when you care too much. No wonder he was in a state. No wonder. You didn’t do your hair. Your nails. No polish. You look awful. Awful, Daniella. Can you imagine how that made him feel?”

  “Awful?” I ask.

  Sissy snickers. Dick, she mouths at me.

  Jack clears his throat. My mother turns to look at him. Clearly, she’s surprised. She didn’t take the time to notice that this is a shared room.

  “Ma’am,” he says.

  She tilts her chin and sizes him up. I’ve been her daughter long enough to know that she’s estimated his net worth within one half of a percent and deemed him unworthy in less than three seconds flat.

  She turns away. “Excuse us, if you please.” She snaps the curtain shut. “I saw the doctor. The biopsy will be back soon. You’re moving to a private room for three nights. Oh, darling. Poor Shawn. Poor, poor man. Didn’t I tell you to reassure him? Don’t worry. He’ll see reason. Your father especially wants this marriage.”

  “Mother,” I say. I’m tired. Suddenly, I’m exhausted. “He broke the engagement because…he said I bore him.”

  She stops her fretting and looks at me. “You bore him?”

  I nod. “Do you think I’m boring?”

  “Darling. What I think doesn’t matter.”

  She does.

  “You’ll get him back. Five years together is nothing to sneeze at.” She starts to tear up. “Don’t worry, darling. I know just the thing. A makeover. We’ll get through this little hiccup. It’s the cancer, of course. Some men aren’t cut out for illness. But it’ll be over soon and then we’ll have a wedding. A beautiful wedding. Lots of tulle. Remind me to order more tulle. Rose pink. Not carnation pink, carnations are vulgar.”

  She pats my hand again. I take in a lungful of her perfume.

  “Regardless, a makeover is just the thing. Add a little shine and glamour. Men don’t actually care about personality. It’s the packaging that matters. We’ll glitz you up. No matter what’s on the inside, your outside will be the opposite of boring.”

  I close my eyes. Maybe I could go back under anesthesia?

  “Darling?”

  “I’ll speak with him when I get home.” I say. “I’m sure he’ll have changed his mind. He hates casserole, apparently. It was a misunderstanding.”

  My mother squeezes my hand. “Didn’t I mention? Shawn sent your things over. Said it’d be better if I took care of you during the recovery. But, darling, you can’t stay. Your father and I are having a sort of second wind to our marriage. Lots of hanky panky happening. Lots of middle-of-the-day whoopie. We did it on the fax machine the other day. The fax machine. I’m sorry, sweetheart. You must, you absolutely must find another place to convalesce.” She looks down at me and tsks at my limp hair.

  I hear fake gagging from the other side of the curtain. My friend the teenager is vocal in her opinion of my life.

  “Mother,” I say. There’s pleading in that one word. After college, I stayed at my father’s company as the donations coordinator, and my few friends from school left for jobs in New York or Chicago. The only person I’m close with in Stanton is Shawn. I isolated myself without realizing it. I made a life that circled entirely around him. The realization hits hard.

  “You look awful, darling,” my mother repeats. “You really should take better care of yourself. How can anyone love you if you don’t take care of yourself?”

  “I don’t have anywhere to go,” I say. I choke on the realization.

  She tsks. “Don’t be selfish. Your father and I deserve our special alone time. You only live once.”

  I stare at her. Shocked.

  “But I had major surgery, I was just…”

  “You’ll find something. Don’t fret, it creates an unbecoming wrinkle on your forehead.” She smooths my hair down.

  I don’t know what to say.

  And that’s when it finally, truly hits. I’m post-surgery. Maybe cancer free, maybe not. I’ve been moved out of my home. Dumped. No fiancé. No wedding. My parents don’t want me to stay with them. I have nowhere to go. No friends to depend on. No doting family. Nowhere to lick my wounds in peace. This isn’t a misunderstanding. It’s a disaster.

  4

  Jack

  * * *

  I pretend not to watch as the attendant rolls Daniella from the recovery suite. We don’t speak. No goodbyes. Why would there be? We’re two strangers who met in a hospital room and shared…nothing.

  Lie.

  “Jack’s in looove,” says Sissy. “L-U-V looove.”

  I scrub my hand over the back of my neck.

  She has that special kid sister knack. She can sense exactly what you’d like to hide, or bury, or never admit to anyone and wave it in the open.

  It doesn’t matter that we only met six months ago and we’re both new at this sibling thing. She’s a natural.

  “Oh ho ho,” says the man in the corner. “This show needs popcorn. I haven’t had this much fun in years. Rarely get out of the house, don’t ya know? I’m starving.�
�

  I walk over to the man and hold out a wrapped breakfast bar. “I’ve got a granola bar. You allowed to eat?”

  “No,” says the man. He grabs it and cradles it in his lap. “Thanks, son.”

  “You’re welcome,” I say.

  I walk back to the folding chair by Sissy’s bed.

  “Looove,” she starts in again.

  “Yeah right,” I say.

  She smirks. “I could see the back of your neck all blotchy red. And that dopey look on your face. Dude, it’s love.”

  I sigh. Unlike most guys, I believe in love at first sight. I believe in it, and I don’t want it. I thought I could avoid it, but it came and slammed me like a wrecking ball. I’m still reeling.

  But I promised myself that I would never make someone suffer because of my love. That’s all that can come from it. Suffering.

  “She sure was a pretty princess. Good thing she got dumped by the dick. The field’s totally clear now,” says Sissy.

  “Sissy,” I say. My go-to reprimand.

  “Yeah, yeah.”

  “The field’s not clear,” I say. She grins at me, like I admitted to her theory of looove.

  But if, and I repeat, if, I gave in to my desires and pursued her, our relationship would never work out. One, her fiancé just broke their engagement. I’d be a rebound at best, or a way to make her ex jealous, or a confidence-boosting one-night stand. Two, her fiancé mentioned cancer, she might think I was pursuing her out of pity or some other misplaced emotion. She would never trust my motives—that a guy could fall in love with her at a time like this. Three, and most importantly, every time I love someone, they leave or die. End of story.

  “Remember the day we met?” asks Sissy.

  “Sure,” I say. “It was only six months ago.”

  “You had a dopey look then, too. Not a lovey dopey look. But an I’m a big brother, must protect kind of look. I was freaked out until I saw it. Then I knew I’d be okay. You’re a good bro.”

  I shake my head. “Your scheme’s not working. You’re still going to boarding school next fall.”

  “Seriously. Come on,” she says.

  I fold my arms over my chest. “It’s for your own good,” I say.