Page 110 of The Warmth of Our Closest Star

“That’s not more dangerous?” he asked.

“It’s nothing,” I said.

“Okay. It’s not my business, but that seems unwise is all. Your doctor was sure that was okay for you to do? You did ask before you stopped taking it, right?”

With a sigh, I stopped dealing with the breakfast and looked out at nothing. I wasn’t upset with Peter or annoyed by his questions. I was mad at myself because I hadn’t told Peter about my surgery in Chicago. About my new life. He was going to be upset with me. However, I knew that if I waited longer to tell him, he would be even more upset. And I wouldn’t be able to blame him. Especially since it was all my fault for not keeping him informed about my life as I tried to figure it out.

I turned to Peter and he winced.

“Sorry,” he said. “I know that’s none of my—”

“A neurosurgeon in Chicago removed my tumor,” I said simply. “And then a few weeks ago I finally was weaned off of the medication.”

Peter stared at me blankly; he said nothing.

“Alex introduced me to a wonderful neurologist in Dallas—Dr. Carson. He referred me to Dr. Berger in Chicago. I…he removed it. I get scanned early next year to make sure it hasn’t started growing back. But…yeah. It’s gone.”

Seconds ticked by as the two of us stared at each other. I was waiting for the explosion.

Peter finally answered, his voice a whisper, “You didn’t tell me you were going to have surgery? Brain surgery?”

“I didn’t—”

“What if you died, Enzo?” he asked, his voice the same dangerous whisper. “What if you died during the surgery and I didn’t even know you were going to have surgery?”

“I’m sorry,” I said. “I didn’t think.”

Peter stared at me for the longest time.

“I—” he stood. “I don’t—”

I watched him as he stood by the table and stared at me in shock.

“I—”

Peter couldn’t finish a sentence. He kept repeating the same word and staring at me as if he’d never seen me before.

“You what?” My voice was tentative.

Not responding, Peter marched over to the couch angrily and violently ripped his coat and suit jacket from the arm. Before I could say anything, he had marched out the front door, slamming it behind him. With a sigh—and the hope my neighbors wouldn’t complain—I slumped against the counter, bracing myself with my hands. I’d barely had a second to think before the door swung open and Peter marched back in, his coat and jacket in his fist.

Peter closed the door—a little less violently, but not much—and glared at me.

“I’m so mad I don’t even know what to say to you,” he barked.

“I’m sorry,” I repeated.

“I feel like I’m going to have a fucking stroke, Enzo,” he glowered at me. “That’s how pissed I am right now.”

All I could do was repeat my apology mantra, so I did. Peter glared at me, then looked up at the ceiling as if praying.

“This is it,” he said. “This is how I’m going to die. Stroking out because you pissed me off so much that my head exploded.”

Telling Peter to calm down or insisting that he do anything at that moment was a bad idea, so I didn’t suggest he do anything in particular. Instead, I stayed quiet, making sure that I looked as sorry as I felt. Desperately, I wanted to explain to Peter that I hadn’t intentionally done anything to upset him—that I was simply too consumed with my own feelings to have considered his at the time—but I knew that wouldn’t make things better.

It also occurred to me that, as mad as Peter obviously was, I never felt unsafe or in danger around Peter. Never once in the years I’d known him and then been married to him. In fact, his anger made me feel closer to him. Knowing that he could be so upset at the thought of losing me before he even knew there was a chance it might happen, further endeared me to him. Even at his angriest, Peter was never violent or irrational. If I ever had to fight with a partner—this was how I would want to fight. With words. His over-the-top anger was also humorous—his dramatic display—but I didn’t allow myself so much as a smile.

“Why would you do that to me?” Peter barked. “I get that you needed time to yourself. Maybe I don’t like it—or even understand it—but I can try to be patient. I will be patient. I want you to figure out what’s going on in your head so that we can be the team we were supposed to be all along, Enzo. But how could you not tell me something so important?”