Page 96 of 72 Hours of You

“Sydney.” Peter’s jaw flexes, just slightly, like he’s trying to hold himself together. “Do you see a clock in here?”

I don’t breathe. I suck in my cheeks, gripping the fraying edge of the seat.

Peter leans forward.

I can’t look at him. I can’t fucking do this.

“Sydney,” he says again.

I bite down on my bottom lip. The greasy hash browns bubble up in my throat. I’m going to vomit.

“Please look at me.” His voice cracks, and it undoes me, unravels me until I am nothing.

I look up.

39:13:48

“Peter … I’m sorry. I’m so fucking sorry.”

He swallows. “How much time do I have left?”

“Thirty-nine hours, thirteen minutes, and thirty-nine seconds,” I whisper.

“Okay.” He stands up. And then he sits down. And then he stands back up again. His hands start to shake. “I’m sorry, Syd. I don’t know what to do.”

“No,” I say. “Don’t be sorry. It’s okay. Everything’s okay.” Lies. That’s all that’s left.

He nods, his eyes filling up. He looks around the diner like he suddenly doesn’t know who he is or what he’s doing here.

“It’s okay,” I say again. I get up and slide into the other side of the booth and squeeze his leg. “It’s okay.”

“Okay,” he says, his eyes darting all over the place.

“Peter.” I put my hands on his face, making him turn toward me.

“What?” he says, his eyes still looking past me.

“Look at me.” Finally he does. And then he starts to cry.

I hold him, and hold him, and hold him, while the hash browns go cold and his clock keeps ticking over our heads.

“Let’s get out of here. Let’s get another hotel,” I say.

He nods, trying to steady his breathing, and I take him by the hand. I feel his fingers tighten around mine.

We walk out of the diner in a daze, Peter not saying anything, just clinging to my hand. I take him back to the hotel we went to last week. Peter stands outside, looking at the building. He stands there for three minutes and sixteen seconds.

“You know what?” he says, finally. “Fuck this. We’re going to the Plaza.”

I’m about to tell him those rooms are like two grand a night. But then I remember it doesn’t matter. He’s not saving for college anymore. He’s not going to join the Peace Corps or get a PhD in Russian lit. He’s not going to do anything except for this.

“I can see it,” he says, “all over your face.”

“What?”

“The pity. This is why I didn’t want to tell you about the Huntington’s shit. Please. Just … don’t do that. Okay? I can’t have this be how it is at the end for us. I need … I need this to not be like that. I need us to be us.”

He’s right. He’s so right. The pity—that’s part of the reason I never told anyone about the clocks. I don’t want to manage their emotions on top of mine. The least I can do for Peter is try harder not to do the thing I hate.