“I do. Any other line of thinking . . . it’s how I lost you. I don’t want to lose anymore.”
“It’s not just our careers,” she said. “The ramifications are unpredictable. What if they take Connor away?”
“Because I’m in love with a woman?”
“Because they think both her parents are ‘queers.’?”
I sipped my wine. “I can’t win with you,” I said finally. “If I want to hide, you call me a coward. If I’m tired of hiding, you tell me they’ll take my daughter.”
“I’m sorry,” Celia said. She did not seem sorry for what she had said so much as sorry that we lived in the world we lived in. “Do you mean it?” she asked. “Would you really give it up?”
“Yes,” I said. “Yes, I would.”
“Are you absolutely sure?” she asked just as the waiter put her steak down in front of her and my salad in front of me. “I mean absolutely sure?”
“Yes.”
Celia was quiet for a moment. She stared down at her plate. She seemed to be considering everything about this moment, and the longer she took to speak, the farther I found myself bending forward, trying to get closer to her.
“I have chronic obstructive pulmonary disease,” she said finally. “I probably won’t make it much past sixty.”
I stared at her. “You’re lying,” I said.
“I’m not.”
“Yes, you are. That can’t be true.”
“It is true.”
“No, it’s not,” I said.
“It is,” she said. She picked up her fork. She sipped the water in front of her.
My mind was reeling, thoughts bouncing around my brain, my heart spinning in my chest.
And then Celia spoke again, and the only reason I was able to focus on her words was that I knew they were important. I knew they mattered. “I think you should do your movie,” she said. “Finish strong. And then . . . and then, after that, I think we should move to the coast of Spain.”
“What?”
“I have always liked the idea of spending the last years of my life on a beautiful beach. With the love of a good woman,” she said.
“You’re . . . you’re dying?”
“I can look into some locations in Spain while you’re shooting. I’ll find a place where Connor can get a great education. I’ll sell my home here. I’ll get a compound somewhere, with enough space for Harry, too. And Robert.”
“Your brother Robert?”
Celia nodded. “He moved out here for business a few years ago. We’ve become close. He . . . he knows who I am. He supports me.”
“What is chronic obstructive—?”
“Emphysema, more or less,” she said. “From smoking. Do you still smoke? You should stop. Right now.”
I shook my head, having long ago given it up.
“They have treatments to slow down the process. I can live a normal life for the most part, for a while.”
“And then what?”