The Cabin - Jasinda Wilder Page 0,24

and even most of my mind. But there’s a part of me that notices how he always manages to pull my attention away from the issue without answering any questions, manages to deflect away from his refusal to talk to me about what’s going on with him.

A month in Paris, I reflect, as I lie awake, afterward. He’s snoring beside me, turned to face me, one leg thrown over mine, his manhood slack and wet against my hip, hand flung over my breast.

A month in Paris is way more than a vacation.

Fear is building. Panic. Desperation.

“Don’t leave me,” I whisper to my sleeping husband. “Please, don’t leave me.”

Never. I won’t leave you. I swear on my soul.

Keep that promise, my love. Please.

The Truth Will Out

“Welcome to Charles de Gaulle International Airport. The local time is 1:43a.m.…” the message continues with announcements and information, and then everything is repeated in French.

We packed light. One suitcase each, one carry-on each, plus one extra empty suitcase each. I’ve rented a flat in the 4th Arrondissement, Le Marais: trendy, hip, close to all the best of everything Paris has to offer…or so said the travel agent I hired to set this all up. Not knowing any better, I went with her expertise. I mean, she did have a French accent, and her name was Eloise Gautier, and her office is in Paris, so it stands to reason she’d know.

She told me our flat is a top-floor corner spot, with the most romantic view of the Eiffel Tower you can ask for. I paid extra to have it stocked with hand-picked red wine and champagne, stuffed to embarrassment with profusions of roses and bouquets of wildflowers, to have the fridge filled with cheese and strawberries and blueberries and yogurt and charcuterie meat and baguettes in the breadbox. Candles everywhere—I send a text when we’re leaving the airport, and the agent will send someone to light the candles. We have a car service, available to us twenty-four seven for the duration of our stay. I’ve scheduled a personal shopper for Nadia, and took out a credit card with an eye-watering credit limit.

I’ve also got essentially a bucket of high-dose painkiller narcotics, not just the good stuff but the best stuff. I sampled them a few days ago, when I first got them, and whoa. Seriously whoa. I have to be careful, judicious. Mainly at night, so I can sleep, or only during the day if it’s too much to bear.

I’ve gone all out for this trip. I cashed out a bunch of investments to pay for it, and did some financial jujitsu with the rest, moving them to less risky, more stable portfolios, and all solely in Nadia’s name. I’ve done a lot, the past couple months. My final book is done. The arrangements have all been made.

The entire reason I booked this trip in the first place is because I met with my oncologist, Dr. Jerry Lowell, not that long ago.

“All we can really do at this point, Adrian,” he’d told me, “is try to make you as comfortable as we can. We can keep doing chemo if you want, it’ll push things out a few more weeks, maybe a few more months at most. But…in the end, there’s really nothing else we can do.”

“Say I stop all chemo, all treatments,” I’d said. “How long?”

“Two, maybe three months. Three and a half on the outside.”

I’d nodded. “I had a feeling.” My eyes had burned, and Dr. Jerry had the decency to find something on his computer to do while I fought for composure. “So, how do we make me comfortable? Meaning, I want to be able to enjoy the time I have left with my wife as much as possible.”

He’d nodded, and explained my options to me.

So now, here we are. Paris. The trip of a lifetime. Of course, we’ve been here before. London, Hong Kong, Tokyo, Berlin, Perth, Dublin, Reykjavik, lots of places. Signing tours, film publicity tours, that kind of thing. But they had always been for work. We always took a few extra days around the event to see the sights and play tourist, but we’ve never taken a major vacation like this without there being some kind of work event connected to it.

This is…not goodbye. Not yet. This is…I don’t know what the hell it is. Time with my wife, my best friend. An epic send-off. Memories to hold on to as I near the end.

I push my morbid thoughts aside