Page 3 of Letting Go at 40

I’m the squeaky wheel in our cart of four best friends. The one who can’t seem to settle down or grow up, depending on who you ask. The one who has had a multitude of women over the years but never the right one. And although I have a child, I’m a shit dad, according to most people, myself included, but it doesn’t take away how fiercely I love my little girl. Ben knows my truths and I don’t deserve his friendship.

“Hey man. What are you doing down here?”

Ben is nestled in like he’s preparing for winter instead of a fine August morning where the day threatens to be warm despite the slight morning breeze.

“Just thinking thoughts.” His tone is dull. “Take a seat.”

I shake my head to decline. I’m sweating from the run and my heart races from pushing myself. But a glance at his expression has a new layer of perspiration developing. My insides are a riot of apprehension at the grave look on Ben’s face. The dull undertone of his voice hints that whatever he is about to tell me will change everything. My chest heaves, but I can’t seem to catch my breath. Is it exertion? Is it fear? Either way, I won’t be able to sit still with the sudden anxiety coursing through my blood. I remain standing.

“I was going to grab some coffee before the chaos begins. What’s up?” I tip my chin, trying to remain nonchalant which is the exact opposite of how I feel. It’s as if my body knows before my head catches up that whatever Ben is about to tell me, I’m going to hate it.

Maybe he’s finally wised up that I’m the worst friend ever.

I lust after—

“I’m dying.”

The words were not what I was expecting. For half a second, I think Ben’s joking but the grave expression on his face tells me this isn’t a fucking trick.

My legs quake. My hands land on my hips without my control. I bend at the waist still certain I’ve heard him incorrectly.

The sudden thickness in my throat strangles my thoughts. “Excuse me?”

Ben focuses forward, eyes never leaving the water behind me. “I have pancreatic cancer. The prognosis is the inevitable.”

Holy fuck. Just. Holy. Fuck. “Ben.” My brain can’t compute words. What can I say? What phrase would hold any meaning compared to what he’s just told me? “Does Anna know?”

At the mention of his wife, Ben finally looks up at me.

Anna. His beautiful wife. An exceptional mother. A woman who treats friends like family, whether they deserve it or not. Ben’s gaze answers my question. Of course she knows.

Since the moment they met as teenagers, they’ve been inseparable. Despite Ben being Anna’s lawn boy and her with economic status off the charts. Despite him being from this small-town community and her growing up near Chicago. Despite this cottage being her family’s second home. Ben made it his mission to make the quiet, shy, middle McCaryn fall in love with him.

I doubt it was a struggle for her. Ben is a great guy. He sees positive things in people they don’t see in themselves. He saw something in me when we were young, and regardless of my internal betrayal, he’s continued our friendship.

“When did you find out?” I’m not good with this stuff. Death in general makes me uneasy. Thinking about Ben being gone . . . the idea is unfathomable. We are too young for these kinds of conversations.

“I’d like to explain everything to everyone later. At the end of our visit.”

Ben had requested our presence for two weeks at his wife’s Lakeside home. She’d inherited the place along with her older brother and younger sister. Anna comes here the most.

Two weeks, Ben asked. Fun. Sun. Laughs. Nothing serious, although we’ve all had our downers. Logan divorced. Zack in a hell of a marriage. Me, the perpetual single guy who got the wrong kind of woman pregnant.

“But there’s something I need to ask of you. Something that I need to say separate from everyone else present.”

The clog in my throat thickens. Will he torture me for two weeks, making me wait out his request?

“Anything, man. Anything you want.”

“I need you to watch over Anna when I’m gone.”

“What?” I choke, then cough to cover the blunder. A sickening uncertainty fills my throat.

Ben meets my eyes again, holding firm despite the fragility apparent in his blue ones.

Dear God, kill me. I can’t do this. This, of all things, is the one thing I can’t do for him.

I’m going to be sick. My fingertips dig into my hips. I take a deep breath which only makes the nausea worse.