Two weeks later, I arrived and found a priest sitting in Carl’s living room.
Carl introduced him as Father Michael, an old friend.
I assumed they were discussing funeral arrangements.
After the priest left, Carl asked me to sit down.
His face was pale, and his breathing seemed shallow.
“Megan, I need to ask you something unusual.”
“That sounds ominous.”
“It might be.”
He reached for my hand but stopped before touching it, giving me the chance to pull away.
I didn’t.
Then he said it.
“Marry me.”
For several seconds, I thought I had misheard him.
“What?”
“I know how it sounds.”
“Carl, we haven’t known each other very long.”
“I know.”
“You’re sick. You’re taking powerful medication. Maybe we should talk to your nurse.”
“My mind is clear.”
He looked directly at me.
“That’s why I’m asking today.”
I stood and walked toward the window.
My heart was pounding.
Carl and I had become close, but we had never spoken romantically. He had never kissed me, flirted with me, or suggested that our friendship was anything other than companionship.
“Why?” I finally asked.
His answer came softly.
“Because I would like to die knowing I belong to someone.”
I turned around.
“You have friends.”
“I have acquaintances. Employees from another life. Relatives who care more about what I can give them than who I am.”
“You have me,” I said.
His eyes filled with tears.
“Yes. I do.”
He took a slow breath.
