Expiration Dates: A Novel (13 page)

I have put this off for as long as possible but it's now nearly March and tonight, Hugo, Jake, and I are having dinner. Hugo is bringing a date—a girl named Claudia he started seeing a few weeks ago. Natalie ended sometime in the fall.

We're going to the Hotel Bel-Air, one of Hugo's favorite places in LA. I've already told Jake not to fight Hugo on the check—it's his thing; he won't relent. And I've explained to Hugo over the phone to try and just tone it down a little. Be cool.

“He's a nice guy,” I tell Hugo. “And he's excited to meet you. Just be normal.”

The truth is Hugo and I haven't seen a ton of each other since our brunch at Toast over five months ago. We've let our weekend ritual slide, and he's been out of town a lot. Jake and I have spent the night together at my place the last five consecutive Saturdays, so on Sundays we go to the farmers market
together, now. They are always sold out of the sunflowers by the time we arrive.

I miss Hugo, though. I wonder if our friendship was predicated on us both being some degree of single. I know the caveat to men and women not being able to be friends is if one of them is in a relationship, but for us, I think it worked the opposite way. When we were alone we could fill in the other pieces. Now that Jake takes up so much of my life, where does Hugo fit into it?

The Hotel Bel-Air is tucked away in the hills of Los Angeles; it's an airy, stunning getaway for the rich and famous—or those with the private cell phone number of Denise, the manager. The restaurant is run by Wolfgang Puck, and it's excellent, too—situated in an open courtyard toward the back of the hotel—private booths to the side, the most beautiful bar, and white walls wrapped in ivy. It's a secluded, elite paradise that oddly isn't very celebrity populated. Unlike the Beverly Hills Hotel, there are never any paparazzi here.

Jake is wearing a blue cashmere sweater and dark jeans. He feels like a cloud when I tuck myself against him. I have black jeans and a sleeveless turtleneck on. I'm wearing a pair of strappy black heels that once again I know I'll have to take off by the end of the night.

Jake and I get there first, before Hugo and Claudia. He puts his arm around me. I lean my head into him.

“Are you nervous?” I ask his shoulder.

“Why?” he says. “Should I be?”

I tilt my head up to him. “No,” I say. “I mean, I just would understand if you were.”

“Because Hugo is so intimidating?”

“No, because he's important to me.”

Jake lifts my chin up to his lips. He kisses me once. “Then I'm not nervous, I'm happy.”

Hugo rounds the corner a moment later. He's alone, and jogging. He's wearing a black-and-blue-striped button-down, a black belt, and black pants. As soon as I see him, I realize how much I've missed his energy.

“Sorry,” he says. “Sorry, I'm late.”

He gives me a quick kiss on the cheek. And shakes Jake's hand.

“Hey, man, hi. It's so nice to meet you.”

Jake smiles; it feels genuine. “So nice to meet you, too. I was beginning to think you might not exist.”

“I barely do these days,” Hugo says. “I don't think I've spent three consecutive nights in LA in two months.”

“Where's Claudia?” I ask.

Hugo waves me off as he moves toward the hostess desk. “She's not coming. Some mix-up with my personality. She decided she didn't like it. Hey, Gabrielle.” He leans over and kisses the hostess on the cheek. “Can we have six?”

“Of course.”

Gabrielle takes three menus and then leads us over to a booth toward the back right wall. It's tucked away—its own little oasis. “Enjoy.”

Hugo sits, and then I let Jake slide in, so he's in the middle.

Hugo yanks at his collar. “It's hot today.”

He's moving around like a caged bird, and he hasn't once made eye contact with me.

“Are you OK?”

“Fine,” he says. He reaches for a water on the table and downs some. “Just one of those back-to-back days.”

“You're right, it is hot,” Jake says. He reaches behind and pulls his sweater up and over his head, before winking at me. My heart does a one-two step. The kindness of this man, his consideration—not for Hugo, but for me. He wants this night to go well, because I've told him it matters to me, and he's going out of his way to play diplomat.

“So,” Hugo says. “Daph tells me that you work in Hollywood.”

I feel my stomach tighten, one, because Hugo has just used my nickname—an unnecessary show of closeness—and two, because he makes
Hollywood
sound derogatory, even the word choice is dismissive.

But Jake does not blink. “Yes, I'm pretty lucky. I have a good gig and good bosses. For the most part, the people I work with are not too egomaniacal.”

Hugo laughs. “That makes one of us.”

“You're in real estate?”

“In theory,” he says. “Mostly I talk people into doing things they don't want to do.”

Jake smiles. “That would not be my strong suit.”

The waitress appears again. We order drinks. A tequila and soda for Hugo, a beer for Jake, and a glass of red wine for me. I'm not supposed to drink a lot. Actually, I'm not really supposed to drink at all. It can interfere with my medication, it's inflammatory, a whole host of reasons why any vice could possibly be
deadly. But there are only so many concessions I can make in this life, and alcohol isn't one of them.

“It's beautiful here,” Jake says. He looks around.

“Have you ever been?”

Jake shakes his head.

“It's my sanctuary,” Hugo says. “I come at least once a week. It's pricey, but worth it.”

He's acting like an asshole, but also a nervous asshole. It's an interesting combo for Hugo, and not necessarily one I've seen before. I can tell, Jake can tell, and I can see Hugo can tell, too. That he wants to be difficult, like he's trying to win some invisible hand war. Elbows on the table.

I slip my hand into Jake's under the table. He squeezes back.

“I hear you guys are moving in together,” Hugo says.

Jake looks over at me. “She hasn't exactly given me an answer.”

Hugo downs more water. “Don't be tricky, Daph,” he says.

“I'm not tricky,” I say. “I'm just slow.”

“Good luck getting her to get rid of any of her stuff,” Hugo says.

Jake puts a hand around my shoulders. “It can all come. We'll make room. I love all your weird things.”

Love. I still haven't told Jake—in fact, I haven't said it to a single man since Tae. Not because I didn't feel it—I felt it all the time. Love or not, I felt it with Josh in San Francisco, walking Marina Green at dusk. I felt it with Emil, during those six days I spent mostly in a loft downtown. I feel it with Jake when he puts toothpaste on my brush in the morning if he wakes up earlier than me, or hands me the remote after dinner.

And then there was Hugo.

But it always feels like the word is intrinsically tied to power, like I will be ceding mine by laying it down.

Jake told me he loved me two months ago, over Mexican at Pink Taco on the Sunset Strip. I had chicken fajitas, and Jake was eating fish tacos. A basket of chips and guacamole sat on the picnic table in between us. We were out on the patio, traffic speeding past.

I was telling Jake about work that day, and about this charcoal cleanse Irina was on. From what I could tell it involved drinking large volumes of charcoal dissolved in water, and an array of vitamins that took up half a bowl.

“Does she ever consult a licensed medical professional?” he asked me.

“Depends how you define
professional
,” I told him. “And also perhaps what constitutes a ‘license.' ”

“Ideally something as official as what we use to drive.”

“Oh,” I said. “Most don't even have that. Carbon footprint, and all.”

“So you're saying that in a weird way she's actually an environmentalist?”

I spooned some guacamole onto my plate. Chips have salt. I was counting them. “I'm saying that you could find the good in anyone.”

Jake put down his seltzer. He looked at me from across the table so long without speaking that I knew what was coming next. I could feel it. The way you can tell it's going to rain.

“I love you,” he said. So simply. He let it sit there, stretch out across the table, a whirl of dazzling, glittering words.

He kept smiling at me. But not in a way that made me feel
like he was waiting for my response. In fact, his smile got bigger with my silence, like just the act of saying it was his joy, like he'd been holding it inside—this display of sparkle—for longer than he could bear.

“You mean more to me than I know how to express right now,” I said. Because it was true. It wasn't that I didn't love him. It was that there were things I had to tell him before I told him that.

Because the thing is, Jake doesn't know. He doesn't know I am sick. He knows only that there are two scars on my chest—a childhood surgery, I told him, the same lie I've told them all. Something old that is no longer relevant or active. My ICD, once noticeable, has hidden with age. Even the scar from the battery replacement surgery is easy to miss. My breasts cover it; it's simpler to skate around now. He knows that I do not run—I hate exercise, I say, shopping is my cardio. He knows that my medications—hidden, taken with care and discipline—are for my mental health. When I have to go to the doctors—for tests, weekly sometimes—only Irina and my parents are aware of my whereabouts.

Every time I've tried to tell him the truth, I pull back.
He doesn't deserve this.
And then:
He doesn't deserve me—he does not deserve everything that comes along with me.

Jake has already lost someone. How can I tell him that someday he will lose me, too? I finally have a relationship that is not defined by time.

“I'm starving,” I tell Hugo and Jake. “Let's order.”

“They make a grilled halibut and a steak off-menu that are excellent,” Hugo says. “Jake, do you eat red meat?”

Jake shrugs. “Sure, not often.”

“I'm on keto these days.” Hugo pats his stomach. “I need to be better about it.”

“Keto?” Jake asks. “I've never heard of it.”

Hugo gives me an incredulous stare. “You're kidding.”

Jake looks to me and back. “Not up on diet culture, I guess.”

I see Hugo react. The slight flare of his nostrils when he's pissed. “It's not really a diet.”

Jake waves him off. “I didn't mean—Look, I pretty much eat anything.”

Hugo looks back down at the menu. “Lucky you.”

I feel the tension at the table. I pick up my water glass. “Where does everyone stand on cheese?” I ask.

“Solidly pro,” Jake says.

“Sure,” Hugo says. “You guys order. Whatever you want.”

A couple walks by. The girl is in a short sundress and cardigan and black boots. I see Jake take a small notebook out of his back pocket and jot something down.

I look from the couple to him and back again.

“What's going on?” Hugo asks. “You a poet in your spare time?”

Jake shakes his head. “No, I have this thing.”

“The boots!” I call out. A table next to us turns, and I lower my voice. “Any time Jake sees someone in Doc Martens he has to write it down. It's a superstition.” I look to Jake. “Right?”

“More or less.”

Hugo looks back down at the menu. “Huh.” He turns to me. “Are you having the off-menu pomodoro or are you finally going to try something new?”

I don't look at him. “Haven't decided.”

Hugo turns to Jake. “Don't believe her, man. She always orders the same thing.” He looks back to me. “It's cute.”

I see Jake clock it, and I brace myself. For him to punch back, which he has every right to. But instead he just says: “I love a woman who knows what she wants. I'll get your pomodoro, and you can have some. Pasta is always good.”

I want to grab him and kiss him right there at the table.

As predicted, Hugo insists on paying. Jake tries to fight him on it but gives up quickly. We all walk the pathway out of the restaurant and over the archway above the pond to our cars.

Jake goes to hand in our valet slips, and I pull Hugo aside.

“You were cocky,” I tell him.

“I was me.” He pulls a twenty-dollar bill out of his wallet. “Nice guy.”

“That's it?”

Hugo looks back at me. “He's a solid dude. I like him. He honestly seems like a great match for you.”

And then Jake is back. He slips a hand around my waist, and we all hug goodbye—the warmest of partings. Jake promises to get Hugo the number of the rare-car dealer they used on a period piece last year. Hugo claps his back.

“Great to meet you, man,” he says. “I'm sure I'll see you soon.”

Once we're in the car, Jake puts a hand on my knee. “Great guy,” he says.

“He acted like an asshole.”

“Yeah,” he says. “He did. But he's high energy. He seems like he'd be fun.”

I shake my head. “You really could find a redeeming quality in anyone.”

Jake pauses, thoughtful. Then: “I feel for him, Daphne,” he says. He's silent for a moment. “It's not his fault he's still in love with you.”

Hugo and I had been dating for two months and three weeks when I was rushed to the hospital. I had been counting down the days, even hours. I could see the blinking marker of three months, like a skull-and-bones warning of a rocky cliff below.
DANGER
. I didn't know how to paddle backward. I didn't know how to stop us from free-falling over.

I was in love with him. That was God's honest truth. Everything about our relationship felt big and epic and heady. I loved the way his brain worked. How he was always trying to play devil's advocate—to see and appreciate sides that were not his own. And I loved how stubborn he was—steadfast. His confidence sometimes felt like a bulldozer, but other times it felt like a foundation—like I was tethered to something that could not possibly bend or snap or break. His personality made me feel safe, being in his orbit was like being inside the sun—the rays couldn't harm me, all I felt was the warmth of proximity.

I didn't want it to end.

I was at Irina's when I felt the terrifying sensation. Irina called 911 on the spot.

“She has a heart condition,” she said to the EMTs.

She'd found out almost at the start of when I began working for her. It's true what Irina says: it's impossible to hide anything from her. I am grateful for her discretion all these years. She has never made me feel anything less than capable, and she has always looked out for me.

I was rushed to the ER. A process I knew too well. It's strange, in all the years I've been at this, in all the hospital stays and procedures and scary surgeries, I never believed I might die. It was foolish not to—I should have. Everyone else did. And I knew, intellectually, maybe, that it could come, that maybe it was coming. But I never felt like it was now. I never believed in my real, tangible mortality. At least, until then.

I'm going to die
, I thought.
This is how my relationship with Hugo ends
.

It seemed so clear. I did not know why I hadn't thought of it sooner. We were so deep in. Of course, finally. The obvious.

It turned out, I had stenosis in an artery. Which means one of my arteries was too narrow to properly pump blood.

“This is solvable, Daphne,” Dr. Frank said, a phrase I had heard seldom if at all. “But with you and your history, it carries more risk than we'd like. And I don't love what it's signifying to us.”

It meant something was progressing. It meant all was not well under the surface.

“We can put a stent in,” he said. “We can go through your
groin, so open-heart is not necessary. This is a simple procedure, usually, but less simple with you.” He nodded at me. Dr. Frank was direct; I liked that about him. He didn't treat me like a child. “Normally patients leave the same day, but we'll have to hang on to you. We should act quickly. Have you been feeling more tired? Any swelling?”

I thought about it. I had, lately, been feeling like I was moving through quicksand. But I often felt that way. It was hard for me to determine what feeling good was. It had been so long—nearly a decade now—that I had experienced anything I might compare to radiant health.

“I don't know,” I said. “Maybe.”

Dr. Frank grunted.

“How bad is this?” I asked him.

“Normally I'd tell a patient getting a stent that they had a less than one percent chance of death.” He took a breath. “With you,” he said, “it's different.”

I know I am the patient, but sometimes in the hospital I can forget, we all can. We are a team, we are making decisions, analyzing data, collecting intel. I am a member of that team. My heart is a whiteboard, with lists and surveys scrawled on it. Sometimes I forget it's inside my body.

My parents came to the hospital. They dropped Murphy off at Wagville—one less thing to worry about. We scheduled the procedure for the next day.

I have a team of doctors—cardiologists and pulmonary experts and a psychologist. Everyone has a role. The team agreed with Dr. Frank—we'd act quickly.

Dr. Lisa, my pulmonary doctor, likes to refer to my heart as
an ecosystem—like it has plants and fruits and birds and trees all its own. Like it's raining in there, keeping all sorts of tiny creatures hydrated and sustained. Except it isn't, of course. That's the problem.

When my parents went downstairs to get coffee, after the path forward had been clearly marked, I picked up my phone. I had four missed calls from Hugo, one voice mail, and a slew of text messages beginning with
Want to have lunch?
to
Daphne, I'm worried. Call me.

I called him.

“Daph,” he said. “Are you OK? Where are you?”

I swallowed. “I'm at the hospital,” I said. I could feel the tears building. I squeezed my eyes shut. I wanted to tell him the truth. I wanted to so badly. But I was too scared. Too afraid this might be our last call, and then? “My dad is having some tests run.”

“Jesus, Daph. Cedars? I'm getting in my car.”

“No,” I said. “You can't. He doesn't want anyone here.”

I could feel the hot sting of a riptide. I kept them shuttered.

“I'm not coming for him,” Hugo said. “I'm coming for you.”

I moved my arm, and a needle pulled at my vein. I wanted to unstring myself from this hospital bed and run. Run as fast and as far as I could before, what? My heart gave out? At least I'd be in motion.

And then I thought about what it would be like to be in Hugo's arms right now. To have him crawl into this hospital bed and hold me. To press my face into the warmth of his chest and forget who I was, what body I possessed, that my number might be called. I could feel it physically—my desire for him to be there. I wanted to tell him to come.

Hurry. I need you
.

But I couldn't. Hugo did not know. I had never told him this giant piece of my puzzle. And introducing him to this—to all the complications of it, now—did not seem possible. Our time was almost up.

“I'll call you later,” I said. “Please, don't come here. We're OK.”

“Daphne.”

A long silence. I couldn't talk, I knew I'd cry.

“You'll keep me posted?”

My voice caught in my throat. I forced it out, unwavering. “Of course.”

During my first hospital stint, when we found out something was wrong, my parents met with the doctors alone. They'd have pre-meetings, where they'd discuss the course of action and then present it to me, united. I still remember my mother's tight smile.

But I also remember the day after I was admitted. I had gotten up to use the restroom, and my door was cracked open. My father was gone, but my mother was in the hallway, so was Dr. Frank. We didn't know him yet, he was just a crotchety man with a goatee.

“But what about advancements in medication?” my mother was asking. “Trials. You should see how good her immune system is. She never gets sick. Not even a cold!”

“Every year there's more and more. And that will definitely play a role.”

“If there's something broken, can't we fix it? She could do surgery, we'd get her the very best physical therapy. I don't understand, you see. She's healthy…”

I heard the desperation in her voice, the pleading. I understood
that she was walking her palms along the walls, trying to find the latch to the door. Surely there had been some mistake. Surely not her daughter. She wanted an exit, an answer. She wanted this to go away immediately and have everything whole again. Healthy.

I heard Dr. Frank leave and then my mother's ragged breathing by the door. The short, hollow sobs. They felt like a knife in my stomach. I was doing this to her. I was causing her this pain, this grief. It was impossible. It wasn't right. When she came back inside, her face was smiling, but her hands were shaking. I'd never forget their movement, like hummingbirds.

There is nothing more terrifying than lying in a hospital bed and knowing your mom can't fix it. That she can't make it better. That no amount of bargaining with any doctor will carry you—the both of you—to safety.

I could hear Hugo's breathing on the other end—hovering, waiting. I hung up the phone.

The next day I went into surgery. My mom pressed her lips to my forehead. She smelled like lavender and cabbage, like always.

“We'll see you soon,” she said. Her eyes were glassy, but her face was steady. She was practiced.

“We love you,” my father said.

“I want a cookie tonight,” I said.

My father squeezed my hand. “You got it.”

They inserted the stent, traveled it up through my groin and the veins of my body into my heart, and then opened it—pop—at precisely the right angle. It went off without a hitch. I woke up groggy but otherwise untouched. I could read it on my mother's face that everything had gone well; I didn't even need to hear her words.

“You did it,” she said, her face on mine. “Great work, baby girl. Everything is OK.”

They kept me overnight for monitoring, and I went home the next day, ahead of schedule.

I was released, as I had been many times before, into the care of my parents. Into the spare bedroom in their house in the Palisades. One that should have been a gym or an office but they kept with a queen bed, because they had to. Into homemade low-sodium chicken noodle soup and
The Devil Wears Prada
and my dad's peanut butter chocolate chunk cookies. My parents resumed their roles as medication administrators and temperature takers and phone command—messaging our team of doctors any unusual updates. They were pros, my parents. They had PhDs in caregiving now.

I had told Hugo that my father was out of the hospital—it was not
technically
a lie. And that I was going to be at their house for the next two or three days. He called, but I did not pick up. I didn't want to talk to him until I knew what to say, until I hoped I wouldn't have to lie any more than I already had. Until I could truly figure out just how I was going to continue to keep this from him.

I felt better quickly. I was used to surgery, was used to my body being strung up, marionetted, foreign parts and substances swimming in my veins. I didn't know if my will was strong or if my baseline had been torpedoed or if it was just being young, but I bounced back fast. By the next day I was up and moving around, pouring my own orange juice and commanding the remote.

My dad was on his morning run—his first of the week. He'd been standing vigil in the living room, at the ready for anything
I might need. And my mom was in the garden. I could tell they were trying to give me space, while still being around.

The house was empty when he showed up at the door. I heard the knocking and thought it must be Joan, over to deliver another round of muffins.

“Hugo.”

“Hi,” he said. He stood there in jeans and a white polo T-shirt. His hair had no product in it, and it hung in tufts.

“What are you doing here?”

“You haven't answered any of my calls,” he said. “I've been extremely worried about you all.”

I noticed then that he was carrying a gigantic bouquet of flowers—white roses and purple lilacs and tendrils of green ferns.

I had on sweatpants and a sweatshirt. It was January in Los Angeles—sunny and cold.

“We're totally fine. You didn't need to come here.”

“You won't answer me.” He leaned in closer. He looked like he hadn't slept. “I want to be there for you.”

Hugo offered the flowers to me, but I could not take them, they were too heavy—a thick ceramic vase held them together. They looked like they weighed thirty pounds.

“They're beautiful,” I said. I shook my head.

“Daph,” Hugo said. “How is he?”

And that's when my dad came jogging up the steps, fresh off his run, his baseball cap lined with sweat.

“Hey,” he said. “Hugo! What a nice surprise.”

Hugo looked from me to my dad and back again. I could see the confusion in his eyes, trying to compute what he was seeing.

“Do you want to come in?” My dad jogged up a few more steps and put a hand on Hugo's shoulder.

Hugo shook his head. “It's nice to see you, Mr. Bell. You must be feeling better.”

My dad cocked his head at Hugo and then turned his attention to me. He nodded once, slowly. He understood. This was not the first time.

“All right,” my father said. “I'm going to head inside. Would you like me to take these?” He did not wait for a response but plucked the flowers out of Hugo's arms and disappeared through the door.

When he was gone, Hugo turned to me. He didn't say anything, just looked at me. I could see it all there—his confusion and bewilderment and the pain of being lied to.

I felt a rage seize up in me. The unjustness of it all. The anger at my father being able to run, to jog up these stairs so freely and easily. The fire at Hugo just showing up, thinking it was simple. That whatever flimsy emotion he was feeling mattered,
could
matter. That all he had to do was get me through this little rough patch and we could go back to brunch.

Everyone had a body that worked. Everyone but me.

“Do you want to tell me what's going on?” Hugo asked. He didn't sound angry, not exactly. He sounded measured. If I'm honest, he sounded scared. He knew now that I had been lying, he knew whatever it was wasn't small.

I didn't want to tell him. I didn't want to tell anyone. I had made it to twenty-eight without ever revealing my diagnosis to a single person I dated. I hid my illness in quiet corners, wrote my scars off as ancient relics, rolled my eyes at exercise. But I couldn't
now. I'd been caught. And I didn't know how to get out of it—the answer was, I wasn't strong enough to climb.

“Yes,” I said. “I just need a few minutes. Can you meet me at my apartment tonight?”

“No,” Hugo said. He wasn't angry or harsh or even impatient. “I want to know what's going on now.”