Wade had never shouted at me.
Not once in nearly four decades.
He turned away immediately, one hand covering his mouth. His shoulders lifted and fell.
When he faced me again, his eyes were wet.
“You think I liked any of this?” he asked more quietly. “You think I didn’t tell him he had no right?”
“Not loudly enough.”
“No.” He nodded. “Apparently not.”
I stared at him.
That answer robbed me of the argument I had prepared.
Wade pointed at the box. “He told me what your diagnosis was. He showed me his scans. He said if you found out, you’d choose him. I told him that was your choice to make. He said that was exactly the problem.”
My throat tightened.
“And you agreed.”
“Eventually.”
“Why?”
Wade looked older again. Not frail. Wade had never looked frail in his life. But something had been carved out of him.
