by Mari Carr
“I just…” She paused as she considered all the things she’d been thinking of when she was supposed to be listening to the doctor.
“You just what?”
“I thought I had time. Time to do so many things.”
“Like what?”
The list flowed easily, because it wasn’t a new one. “Like get married. Have a family of my own. Adopt a really badly behaved dog. Sing karaoke loud and off-key. Travel to Paris and Harry Potter World. Dance my ass off in some nightclub and see the ocean…just once. And I really—” Her voice broke. “God, I really want to eat chocolate cake with my bare freaking hands on my next birthday. And I want to eat the whole cake myself. I don’t want to share it.”
“When’s your birthday?”
“October second. Close, but no cigar.” It was an attempt at a joke. It fell short.
“How old will you be?”
“Twenty-seven. Guess if there’s a bright side, I don’t have to worry about hitting the dreaded thirty.”
“You don’t have to do that on my account.”
“Do what?” she asked.
“Joke around about something that’s not funny just to lighten the mood. You don’t have to be afraid of being real in front of me. I think if there was ever a time to drop all pretense and be yourself, it’s now.”
She sighed. “Yeah. You’re right.”
“So tell me who you are. Three things—your best qualities.”
She grinned. “Only three?”
Padraig laughed. “I like a woman who knows her own worth. So what are they?”
“It’s hard to rattle off a list like that without sounding cocky.”
Padraig shook his head. “I disagree. Society always seems to focus too much on the negative. Probably be a better world if we gave people more credit for the things they do well, do right.”
“Fine. We’ll take turns. I’m a hard worker.” She didn’t add that she’d had to be to survive. “What about you?”
“I’m a good listener.”
She nodded. “Yeah, you are. I’m an amazing cook.”
“Really?” he said. “I think I’m going to need you to prove that to me sometime.”
Mia picked up her wine with her free hand. She didn’t want to let go of the link between her and Padraig. She took a drink, liking the way the red wine warmed her from the inside out as it slid down her throat. “Your turn,” she prompted.
“I have a great sense of humor.”
“Oh yeah?” she teased. “You really want to go with great? Not just so-so or fair? Because you need to keep in mind, I’ve heard some of those corny jokes you tell at the bar. ‘Great’ seems to be reaching.”
Padraig barked out a loud laugh, and she realized he never held back when he found something funny. He laughed with his whole body. “Damn. I know I told you to be real, but maybe we should reconsider that. You need to dial it back a notch, woman.”
Mia giggled.
“You’ve really never seen the ocean?” he asked.
She shook her head. “Born and raised in Chicago, as you know. Solid Midwest. Never any money for a big trip like that. Then I moved here in November. Planned to drive to the coast this summer.”
“It’s definitely worth the trip.”
She sighed, wondering if she’d be well enough come summer. “Yeah,” she replied, though her tone reflected her disbelief.
He squeezed her hand. “You’re going to see your next birthday, Mia. I’m sure of it.”
That damn hope that he kept poking and prodding reared its head again and for three whole seconds, she believed he was right. However, like every other emotion she’d experienced that day, it was brief. Fleeting.
“I always felt like my list was life goals. Now…now they seem more like a list of regrets.”
Padraig’s expression sobered. “Don’t give up, Mia.”
“I’m scared,” she whispered, admitting the one thing she hadn’t been able to shake all day. The excruciating, bone-shaking terror.
“I know.” Padraig wrapped his arm around her shoulders and for the second time that night, he let her cry out all her fear, all her agony, against his strong chest.
Rather than try to stop—as she had out on the street—this time, she just let go. Let it all come out in a mess of tears, loud sobs, and curses.
“It’s not fair. It’s not fucking fair!”
Padraig held her through it all. Not letting go even when the storm calmed and the numbness returned.
Mia closed her eyes, exhausted, Padraig’s words the last thing she heard before she fell sleep.
“I’m here now. It’ll be okay.”
4
March 29
Padraig stood at the railing, looking out across the water. He’d remained at Mia’s until just after dawn, holding her as she slept. Then he’d laid her down on the couch, tucked her in and left a note with his phone number on it, asking her to call him later with the details about her doctor’s appointment.
The wind had died down a bit from the previous night, but not even the bright sun could penetrate the chill in the air. After leaving Mia’s apartment, he’d started to head home. However, he walked right by the pub, too keyed up and anxious to consider sleeping. Padraig did his best thinking while walking, so he’d spent the better part of three hours, zigzagging his way all over Baltimore as he’d tried to gather his thoughts, tried to find logic in something that didn’t make sense.
Twenty-six-year-old women didn’t die.
And while he knew that wasn’t true, he knew it should be.
Padraig was perfectly aware of the old adage that life wasn’t fair, but sometimes it went beyond unfair and straight to complete and utter shit.
He’d spent exactly twelve hours with Mia. Just twelve. And when he thought about her dying, it felt as if he’d been kicked in the gut. Probably because he wasn’t that much older than her, and he definitely wasn’t ready to die.
Like her, he had a list of things he wanted to do, and his list mirrored quite a bit of hers. Marriage, family, pets, travel. Even with the simpler things that were easier to accomplish. Mia wanted to dance in a club. He wanted to run in a marathon.
She wanted to see her next birthday, and now…he wanted to see her on that birthday. To watch her blow out the candles and plow through the cake, using nothing but her hands.
When he considered that, his path seemed very clear. Very straightforward.
And the idea that had kept him out of bed, walking the streets ’til dawn, took root. Held fast.
“Guess that settles that,” he murmured to the water, the anxiety he’d been suffering all night suddenly vanishing.
Despite his lack of sleep, there was a spring in his step now as he walked back to the pub. He’d made up his mind.
Padraig hadn’t made it a few feet inside before he spotted his dad behind the bar, unpacking a box of liquor, restocking the shelves.
Dad turned, giving him a quick up and down. “Out early or in late?”
“The latter,” he admitted as he sank down on a stool across the counter from his father.
“Ewan said Finn finished up your shift for you last night. Out with that new girl? What’s her name? Brooke?”
Padraig shook his head. “No. Not Brooke.” His father’s question reminded him that he needed to add one more thing to his to-do list. Call Brooke and break things off.
His response caught his dad’s attention. “No? Thought you liked Brooke.”
“I did. Do,” he corrected. “But it’s not going to work out between us.”
“Why not?”
“Because…” Padraig took a deep breath. “I’m marrying someone else.”
Dad frowned. “Who?”
“Mia Curtis.”
“Who the hell is that?”
Padraig had anticipated the shocked response. After all, he’d just announced he was marrying a complete stranger. Regardless, Padraig’s mind was made up, and he wouldn’t be swayed. Which me
ant he needed to make his family understand.
“She’s a regular here at the pub. Moved to Baltimore about four months ago. Usually sits there.” Padraig pointed to Mia’s usual stool. “Reddish-blonde hair, green eyes, pretty, quiet. Roots for Chicago.”
Padraig should have led with the sports information. Dad was pretty good with names and faces, but he was Einstein when it came to remembering who everyone who’d ever darkened the door of the pub rooted for.
“I know who you mean. Didn’t realize the two of you were dating,” his dad said, obviously still confused.
“We aren’t.”
Dad put down the bottle of bourbon he’d been holding throughout their conversation and rested his palms on the low counter behind the bar. “Maybe we should take this from the top, because I’m missing a few hundred pieces. You’re marrying a stranger—”
“Mia,” Padraig added.
“You’re marrying this woman you barely know, whose name is Mia, because…” Dad paused, waiting for Padraig to fill in the blank.
“Because she’s dying.”
Dad never missed a beat. “Keep going.”
“She came into the bar last night, and I could tell something was wrong. She was visibly upset when she left, so I asked Finn to cover for me while I followed her to make sure she was okay.”
Dad nodded approvingly.
“She broke down just outside. The wind was brutal last night, so we walked to the Daily Grind, talked for a while. About everything—our families, our jobs. And then, she dropped the bomb. Said she has an inoperable brain tumor. Six months to live.”
“Jesus,” Dad muttered. “Poor little thing.”
“I walked her back to her place and we talked some more.” Padraig recalled his promise to Mia. “I was hoping Mom would go with her to her next doctor’s appointment. She went alone yesterday, and I’m not sure she heard much of anything else the guy said after he told her she was dying. Figure Mom might know what questions to ask, and suggest another doctor so Mia can get a second opinion.”
Dad rubbed his chin. “I’m sure your mom would be happy to. In fact, when you tell her what you’re telling me, I suspect she’ll insist on it.”
“She’s got nobody, Dad,” Padraig said at last. It was that part that bothered him the most. If, God forbid, he’d received the same diagnosis, Padraig would have been surrounded by no less than fifty friends and relatives, all ready to support him, care for him. “She’s new in town and estranged from her mother, who sounds like a pretty nasty person.”
“Paddy. You’ve got a heart as big as California. You always have. But, son, you can support this woman as her friend. You don’t have to marry her.”
“She, uh…she had a list of things she always thought she’d do before she died. First thing on it was to get married.”
“Did she ask you to marry her?” Dad asked.
Padraig shook his head. “God no. She doesn’t even know I’m thinking about it. Knowing her, she’ll turn me down flat. I’m going to have to take some time, help her work her way through the rest of her list and then, hopefully, I’ll be able to convince her.”
“Convince who?”
Padraig turned, surprised to see Pop Pop standing behind him.
“You’re here early.”
“Breakfast special is the Full Irish. You know I never miss that.” Pop Pop also never missed gossip. He’d arrived just in time to catch the very end of their conversation, and his curiosity was piqued. “So who are you convincing? And what are you trying to get them to do?”
“I’m going to ask Mia Curtis to marry me.”
Dad sighed and muttered something incoherent.
“I thought your girlfriend’s name was Brooke?” Pop Pop replied.
Padraig wondered if it wouldn’t be easier to call a family meeting and give them this news all together.
“Brooke isn’t my girlfriend. We’ve only gone out on a handful of dates.” Padraig looked from his grandfather to his dad. He’d spent his entire life emulating these men, trying to be like them. He didn’t doubt for a second they would understand why he wanted to marry Mia. He just needed to do a lot better job explaining it.
“Mia has an inoperable brain tumor, Pop Pop. The doctor has given her six months to live.”
“Oh my.” Pop Pop shook his head sadly. “She’s the little redhead who holds up the end of the bar every now and again, right?”
Padraig nodded. There was very little his Pop Pop didn’t notice.
“So young,” Pop Pop said with a sigh.
Dad ran his hand through his hair, giving away the stress Padraig’s announcement was causing him. “Apparently, she and Padraig spent a great deal of time together last night, and now—”
“I want to help her live the life she imagined for herself when she thought she had decades instead of months. She has a list. A bucket list, I guess you could say.”
Pop Pop was quiet for a moment, so Padraig followed suit, giving the older man time to think.
“Are you in love with this woman?” Pop Pop asked.
Padraig shook his head. “No. But I like her. A lot. She’s nice and funny and stronger than she realizes. She doesn’t deserve what she’s been given.”
“You like her,” Pop Pop said, looking at him closely.
Padraig could only begin to imagine what he must look like. He’d been up all night, his eyes felt dry and scratchy from the lack of sleep. Plus, he’d spent the last few hours outside in the freezing cold. His lips were chapped, his cheeks windburned, and his hair felt frozen to his scalp.
“Death is a hard thing. I suspect she could use a friend.” Pop Pop smiled at him.
“He’s not talking about being her friend, Pop,” Tris corrected.
“No, you’re right. He wants to marry her.”
Want seemed like the wrong word for a second or two. Then Padraig realized it wasn’t. He did want to marry her. “Yeah. I do. I really do.”
Pop Pop’s grin grew, and Padraig got the feeling he’d heard more in his response than what he’d actually said. “So marry her.”
“Pop—” Dad said, but Pop Pop raised his hand to cut him off.
“You disagree?” Pop Pop asked. “Think about it. Think about what your son is proposing to do. He wants to make a dying woman’s dreams come true. He wants to ensure she doesn’t die alone. Padraig plans to fill her last months with happiness, rather than sadness. If you’re unhappy with his decision, then maybe you should have raised him to be more selfish, less empathetic and less kind.”
Dad closed his mouth. It was damn hard to win an argument with Patrick Collins.
Padraig wasn’t trying to win anything, but Pop Pop’s words still resonated with him, gave him too many things to think about. Things his exhausted mind and impulsive nature hadn’t really considered.
Satisfied that the matter was closed, Pop Pop turned back to Padraig. “How many things on her list are achievable in the time that’s left?”
Padraig had given her list a great deal of thought this morning during his walk around the city. “All of them.”
Pop Pop smiled. “Good. A person should never leave this life with regrets. So, what do you need from the family?”
Padraig knew the answer to that. “Help convincing her to let me work through the list with her. I’m basically a stranger, so I sort of need you all to help me prove to her that I’m not a lunatic.”
“You’re doing a pretty good impersonation of one,” Dad muttered.
Pop Pop waved his hand as if Padraig’s concern was inconsequential. “You’re a charming, good-looking guy, Paddy. It won’t be a problem. Besides, you’ve got a whole arsenal of relatives ready to back you up. Although, on second thought, I suspect you’ll only need Riley. She can be very persuasive.”
Dad shook his head. “Christ, Pop. I’m putting my foot down there. The poor woman is sick. We’re not siccing Riley on her unless we need to. She’s the last resort.”
“Here’s what you�
��ll do.” Pop Pop began detailing Padraig’s plan of attack as more and more family members made their way over to the bar, adding their own ideas of how Padraig could convince Mia Curtis to spend her last six months with him.
Two hours later, he finally made it to his bed, exhausted but smiling.
April 1
Mia awoke to the sound of someone knocking on her door. She glanced at the clock on her DVR. It was nearly six, but for the life of her, she couldn’t recall what day it was or if that six was a.m. or p.m.
Her initial doctor’s appointment had been Friday afternoon, and she’d ended that day with Padraig.
Ever since Padraig had left, she’d holed herself up in her apartment. She vaguely recalled texting the assistant manager at the office, telling him she would be out on Monday. But she couldn’t remember if she’d done that last night or the night before.
Waking up Saturday morning—alone—had given her too much time to think and ride on the emotional roller coaster. She was already sick of the goddamn thing. She wanted off.
Whoever was at the door knocked again. She ignored it. She hadn’t showered or eaten in days. Her eyes were gritty and sore from crying so much, and she didn’t feel like company.
“Mia. Open the door.” It was Padraig.
Friday was the last time she’d felt like a functioning human being, and it was because of him. His kindness.
At the time, she’d needed someone to talk to, and he’d offered a shoulder to cry on. Since then, she’d given up all semblance of trying. She had pulled the shades, turned off the lights and spent three—maybe four?—days alternating between restless sleep and crying. All of it done right where Padraig had left her. On the couch.
Padraig knocked again. Louder this time. She sat up, wincing. Her neck was wicked stiff, and she could still feel the dull ache left behind from yesterday’s migraine.
No. Not a migraine.
A tumor.
“Open the door, Mia, or I’m calling 9-1-1.”
