Chapter Three

Dinner has gone swimmingly, secure in Brogan's safe, tender company. He's finishing his remaining bites of Scottish salmon as I take in the savory tastes of black truffle macaroni and cheese. My love was spot on with his high esteem. This stuff is so good, that I'd almost place it at the top of my growing list of aphrodisiac foods.

He grunts. "My God, this was a fantastic meal," he declares, eyes wide with admiration. "Did you get enough to eat, Honey Bear?"

Dabbing a black cloth napkin against the corners of my cheeks, I nod in approval. "Definitely coming back here," I reply. "I'm plain stuffed."

Brogan retrieves his phone from the inner pocket of his blazer. "You know," he says. "Lily is gonna be seven next month."

He's right. She's sprouted like a weed, that little one. It seems like just yesterday when we were taking her home from the hospital after her surrogate surrendered her into our tender, loving care. That's the funny thing about time. It seems to be some tremendous gift that the universe gives to us. One moment can be full of wonder, seeming to last for a century. And others, days feel like fleeting minutes, tiny grains of sand in an hourglass ticking down to an inevitable demise.

I wedge my right arm between his backside and the leather upholstered booth. "You're right, it's so hard to believe so many years have come and gone already."

Brogan agrees, retrieving his Amazon mobile app. "I wanted to run a few ideas past you before we get on to the theater," he says. "Some gifts I have earmarked, that is."

Judging by the time displayed on my watch, we have a few minutes to allow our food to digest before the painstaking task of rolling out of here, completely stuffed with more calories than I will admit.

"Sure, we have some time to kill," I assure him, patting his shoulder. "What did you have in mind?"

He thumbs over to his shopping list. At the top is a vibrant photo of the new edition Troll dolls, to support the animated movie that was released in November.

"Since she loved the Trolls movie so much, I thought we'd get her the new set of dolls that reflect how they appeared in the film," he advised, scrolling farther down the list.

I point to the screen. "Oh yes, and she'd absolutely love driving this little jeep all around the subdivision," I agree. "And the plastic seats are her favorite shade of purple."

Brogan smiles. "So you're on board with these options to start off with?" He asks, adding both items to his shopping cart. "You know me, I'll still have to find a few more presents—Princess Lily deserves the world."

I click my tongue, meanwhile leaning into the crook of his neck and shoulder. "Honey, that little girl thinks you hung the moon—there isn't anything else in this world that means as much to her quite as your constant, loving presence."

He snickers. "By the power vested in me and my Black AMEX, I now declare this order submitted," he chuckles more, jabbing me in the ribs with a grin.

"Good ole' modern technology," I admit, furling my brows. "The age of never needing to leap off the couch to replenish the pantry, or Christmas shopping from the toilet."

The phone cut his laughter short, lighting up with a surprising call. Judging by the look on his pretty face, he's not been expecting it.

"Hang on, babe," he drones. "I've gotta get this," he adds, pointing up his index finger.

Of all the nights, he should receive a call from the hospital. It has to be now when we've kicked off a date night. There's no question that I have the energy to get through an entire Broadway production. But that's not to say I wouldn't enjoy his warmth underneath the cool silken sheets of our bed, swapping tongues under the mellow summer starlight shining in from the window. That said, Brogan's position as Chief of Cardiology waited for no man. Raising my wrist to note the time, I let out an impatient groan.

The diamonds on my watch sparkle from a dim pendant light above the table. I'm fully cognizant that his patients are a top priority. But for Christ's sake, can we go one entire night without interruption? Then at this very moment, I'm reminded that I wouldn't have near the luxury of bling if not for those patients he's sworn an oath to care after.

Brogan ends his call, stuffing his phone back into his blazer's breast pocket. "You're gonna kill me, but?—"

Immediately interjecting his sentence, I hiss with overt indignation. "—But you're needed at the hospital," I shrug, surrendering both hands in the air. "I should've known something would prevent our date night from proceeding."

His finger traces the edges of my disappointed face. "I'm sorry, Honey Bear," he whispers low. "We can try to catch the original cast this weekend before they leave Denver."

My grip remains tight around Brogan's forearm. "It's okay, I really do understand," I assure him. "But I have to fly out to L.A. on Saturday morning," I add, reeling his torso closer to mine. "We'll find another show to see when I get back."

He raises both arms, wrapping them around my neck. "Of course we will, Honey Bear," he says assuringly, yet seeming to feel the disappointment inside me. "Even if I have to leave my phone unintentionally on my desk," he adds with a grimace. "I love you so much, Maxwell Florian Williams," he draws a quick breath, rising from his end of the corner booth. "Never, ever forget that."

I reach into my pocket for the BMW keys. "Well, you'd better get a move on," I reply, pouty face and all. "Here, take my car and I'll catch an Uber home."

Brogan retrieves my keys, scooping them from the table with a click of his tongue and a wink. He's already halfway around the smattering of square tables before turning around to glance over a shoulder. At this peculiar moment, I notice a blinding twinkle in the corner of his left eye while he blows me an air kiss. But I'm too slow to catch it in my hands, instead glaring down at my plate with one bite of black truffle mac ‘n' cheese left.

My head bounces from one shoulder to the other. "Guess I'll just pay the check and go back home then—Christ—" I mumble to myself, shoving the last bite of food into my mouth.

Sitting in the backseat of a cramped Prius, heading straight for our Cherry Creek subdivision, all I can think about is how I've shortsighted my love for Brogan. Only now does my conscience scold me for acting careless about the patient probably on the verge of a major catastrophe, and how I've acted selfish for wanting a few hours alone with the man I've not gotten to hold in my own arms but a couple times in the last few weeks.

My Facebook feed is just as depressing as the night's been, so I close it to hammer out an apology to my lover. He must know I don't take him for granted, nor the importance of his role as a hero to Denver's sick and needy.

Hi babe, I love you too. More than any definition in the Oxford Dictionary could bring to light. I'm sorry for acting disappointed. I'm really not, and I appreciate you and your undying love so very much. Thank you for sharing a splendid supper with me. Your company is all I ever yearn for. I'm also grateful for our Little Lily Bean. You bringing her into this world is the second most important memory I'll always hold close to my heart. Next to that of marrying you, of course.

Being a co-parent to her for the past seven years has shown me a different aspect of this life, and I now view society in a far different light. For having raised a terrific kid with such unique qualities. Call me when you're on the way home. I'll get the jacuzzi fired up and spend more than just five minutes with you, my dedicated Papa Bear. LOL — I love you with all my might.

The send button is almost too easy to tap, especially in the middle of such a heartfelt, genuine text message. A solitary tear rains down my cheek as I turn off the phone screen, pointing up to the window, accompanied by a short cough.

"Madison Street is just ahead on the right," I advise Jamal, as if he doesn't have a GPS map telling him where to go.

At the front gate, I hop out of the car to walk around the nose of Jamal's eco-friendly car. Punching in our code affords the metal wing-like grills to unfold before me. If it weren't because our house was still a quarter-mile from here, I'd just walk the rest of the way home. Instead, I crawl back into his backseat like the lazy motherfucker I've become.

Jamal drops me precisely at the threshold of our driveway, waving for me to have a good night as I climb from his cramped backseat. If only he knew the truth, he wouldn't be blindly wishing me such a terrific time. Our time has been spoiled by—oh fuck it—never mind. You really need to get a grip, Max.

Standing out in the dark, surrounded by the gentle glow of lamplight, I realize I do not have our garage door opener. Now I must walk around to the front stoop, ring the doorbell, and hope Anne hasn't fallen asleep on the couch to Judge fucking Judy or whatever old bird's like to watch. Especially since Princess Peach should've long succumbed to slumber a couple of hours ago.

Only moments after knocking—so I don't wake Lily from the doorbell—I see the silhouette of a tiny munchkin running straight for the door. Either Anne has invited company, or Lily Bean isn't in bed yet.

Followed by the smaller shadow, is that of Anne's from behind. I hear the padlocks loosen, and once the door creaks open by two inches, Lily's piercing voice reverberates all around the foyer.

"Uncle Max?—"

She attacks me at the knees with a tight embrace, as if it's been years since she'd last seen me. I calm her quickly, close the door behind me, and then glance in Anne's direction with a smirk. She appears just as confused as Lily why I'm entering the front door. And also the fact that I'm alone without her daddy in tow.

I kneel to meet her at eye level. "Daddy got paged to go help a patient," I advise her calmly, hoping she understands the unexpected variable. "Why aren't you in bed, sweetie?"

Anne shrugs her shoulders. "We were just about to start bedtime," she advises me. "We've had such a fun time playing ‘Go Fish' that I'd lost all track of time."

My lack of care about it being past bedtime is evident with a shrug. "Meh, as long as she was good, it'll all be okay," I assure her, rising from my haunches. "So, will two-hundred satisfy your needs after rushing here at the last minute?"

Anne nods her head with a grimace. "That's way too much, Max," she says. "I was only here a couple of hours."

"No, no," I bite back, retrieving the amount from my wallet. "I absolutely insist you take it," I add, waving it in front of her.

"Uncle Maxie, I can't go sleep yet," she whinnies, bouncing up and down.

As Anne retrieves her coat and purse from the hook behind me, I glance down at Lily.

"Oh, yeah?" I reply. "And how's that, huh?"

Lily scowls. "I haven't had my ice cweam."

In a mere second, I quickly thank Anne for her help tonight and say goodbye while waving at her. Our large door slams shut, followed by locking the padlocks once again.

"Okay, Princess," I click my tongue. "I'll get you a small—and I mean small —scoop," I add, following her trail to the kitchen. "Then it's bath time and bed, little missy."

Minutes later, I'm leaning up against the sink, facing Lily in her usual spot at the kitchen island. We're both finishing up our small scoops of mint chocolate chip ice cream, as I continue checking my phone to see if Brogan has responded. It's not like the forty times prior have produced any different result, but I can't seem to shake this horrible feeling that something's wrong. Is he mad at me? I really acted like a spoiled prick earlier.

Since our circle of friends is always looking to Brogan for new dining haunts, I decide to post a quick status to my wall.

Just got home from a delicious supper. If any of my Denver peeps like a rare steak, you must try Guard and Grace downtown. It's probably the best sirloin I've ever eaten. And their black truffle macaroni and cheese is just to die for.

Once my post goes live, suddenly a status update from Brogan's profile appears in my feed. It's time stamped a couple of hours ago, as if he submitted this just shortly after we got seated. I'm tagged in it, checking us into the restaurant.

This place is super. I'm taking my special guy out to dinner and a show tonight. I recommend anyone come experience this eatery for themselves—you won't be sorry.

Carefully, I set my iPhone back onto the surface of our stainless steel kitchen island.

"Alright, Lily Bean," I announce. "Phweewwwie," I pinch my nose, bending down to pick her up. "I'd say it's bath time for sure."

Lily grins up in my direction as if she's just farted and has no qualms about it. "I donnnnnn't stinks."

I loosen my bowtie on the footpath to the secondary staircase from our breakfast nook. One more quick glance down at my phone left on the kitchen island leaves me feeling the same sense of unshakable dread. He's just busy. Maybe the patient's in more of a critical condition than imagined?

Now upstairs, I allow Lily to continue playing in the bath while I loll about on our bed. I'm cozied up to a book on my Kindle with a warm pair of flannel pajama bottoms and one of Brogan's Billy Joel band shirts. I've since been able to decompress from my childlike tantrum. Thank God nobody saw that. I never cuss in public. Shortly after it was adapted into a television series, one of my cohorts in New York recommended the Stephen King book, "Under the Dome." Reading has been paramount for me to cope with loneliness while away from Brogan and Lily, and I'm often found propped up in bed well into the wee hours of the morning even here at home.

Just one or two chapters, then I must wash Lily's hair. She's up way past her bedtime. Brogan is gonna have a cow.

The sound of laughter from the upstairs hallway means I won't be able to read anything at all. Tossing my Kindle across the bedspread, I wipe the exhaustion from under my eyes on the trail to Lily's bathroom.

"Lily Bean, are you ready for me to wash your hair?" I shout.

She replies with her usual giggly self. It's your fault, Max. She shouldn't have had sugar this close to bedtime.

"Yeah, okay," she says, watching me shuffling into her bathroom. "Happy Duck wants to say ‘hi' to you," she adds, poising a yellow rubber duck directly in my face.

Lowering to my knees at the edge of her tub, I emulate something close to a British accent. "Ello, Good Sir," I reply to her bath toy. "Pleasure to make your acquaintance," I add, reaching for the tear-free shampoo. "I'm Maxamillion, Duke of Bubbleton, and we're here tonight to wash Lily, Dutchess of Bubbleton's hair."

Lily grins, apparently taking delight in my imaginary participation. "You so silly, Uncle Maxie," she giggles.

I carefully wash her hair, paying attention to keeping it out of her eyes and ears. Brogan has continued using the Johnson & Johnson brand because it's best suited to her sensory needs. Given it doesn't irritate her eyes, should some seep through anyway. I reach around for a violet bath towel and instruct her to stand carefully.

"Okay Dutchess of Bubbleton," I continue in my fun accent. "Hold out your arms, please."

The two of us finish her bedtime routine, regardless of what time it is. Invariably, story time immediately follows the nightly bath. A dim light affords Lily a smooth transition from the day's activities into a state of calm. We've equipped her dresser with an array of soothing lava lamps, again accommodating her sensory requirements.

As Lily climbs atop her twin-sized bed, decorated as a turquoise dragonfly. I tuck her in carefully, then join on top of the comforter. She nuzzles into a comfortable spot, propping her head up against my belly. Already calm, she shuts her eyes. Meanwhile, I read her favorite "Alvin and the Chipmunks" storybook.

I'm not even past the fifth page when I hear sweet wisps of air flowing from her nostrils. This is my cue to kiss her forehead and tiptoe my way into the hall. With the munchkin finally asleep, I'm left with the decision of going back to our bed, cozying up with my Kindle, or heading upstairs to the third floor—a spacious twelve-person theater room. Given this is my week at home, Brogan has probably bought a few new releases from iTunes. So, I'll see what's available for me to stream. This leisurely activity won't go without a cold bottle of water, which is kept down in the kitchen.

Downstairs, I retrieve a tall glass Voss water bottle, kicking the stainless steel refrigerator door shut with my heel. Only at this moment do I realize I left my phone on the kitchen island this whole time. Brogan's probably replied by now. On my trail up the staircase, I unlock the screen only to discover four missed calls and a voicemail. All of which is a 303 area code, yet unrecognizable as far as my memory is concerned.

Reaching the midway point of our staircase, the voicemail swimming through my right ear catches me completely off guard. My grip on the Voss water bottle loosens as the official, dulcet tone of a nurse at Mt. Sinai Denver speaks from the recording. Yet, I don't get past her job title, let alone her name, when the phone rings. From the same damn number.

"Hello?" I answer, finishing my ascent to the top of the stairs.

The same nurse from my voice message speaks on the other end. "Is this Maxwell Williams?"

"Yes, I'm Maxwell," I reply, curious as all get out why I'd be receiving a call like this at such a late hour. "You said you're in the emergency department at Mt. Sinai Denver?" I ask for clarification. "My husband is the Chief of Cardiology there."

The lady responds hastily. "Yes, Sir," she says. "That's why I'm calling you—you see?—"

Her pause immediately ushers a wave of nausea into my gut. This is the bad feeling I've had all night. Something's wrong with my Brogan babe, and here I've completely neglected to answer the calls in time.

She continues speaking after clearing her throat. "There was a terrible crash on East Colfax, and Dr. Baxter was driving a dark BMW which received the impact of a vehicle traveling South on Fillmore—" she pauses.

I interject. "Oh, my God—oh noooo!"

No. Not my Papa Bear. Oh, my fucking God. Please don't tell me ? —

"Sir?" The nurse breaks my concentration, almost as if the pause has lasted several minutes. "Are you still there?"

There's not a single word I can respond with. Not only do I not want to hear the detriment spew from her mouth, but I don't know if I want to continue breathing. Something which has already seemed to rob me of my faculties, about to pass out on my way to the second floor. And my heart feels frozen in place, ceasing to beat any longer.

She continues to speak regardless. "It's with my absolute sympathies to tell you that the medics were unsuccessful at bringing Dr. Baxter back to consciousness," she clears her throat again. "He suffered so much blood loss with extensive injuries from the opposing driver, who was under the influence of illicit substances."

My brain can't process any of that garble-gook. I'm still fixated on the words ‘unable' and ‘suffered.' Looking back feels paralyzing, and looking straight ahead is a dark, in-surmisable void. A cacophony of dread is piercing my eardrum. And here I am, caught in the middle of a hellish labyrinth, with an inability to think. Without an inkling of oxygen. My Brogan is—dead?

The water bottle slips through my fingers. Unable to catch it in time, the glass cylinder tumbles down a couple of steps before rolling under the banister to its demise. Shards of glass collide with the marble floor down below, crashing like tangible fragments of fear creeping under my skin. Sharp ringing sensations flood both of my ears as if being consumed by a fleeting bout of tinnitus. Soon to follow, my phone falls to the step above me. Meanwhile, the hushed remnants of the nurse's voice seem to find their way into my consciousness, anyway.

My head wavers in complete shock as I kneel forward to scoop the device. But a torrential downpour of tears glide from my eyes as I stumble. My spine meets the crisp, rugged texture of drywall on a quick trip to my buttocks. Another moment later, I reach for the phone, immediately raising it to my ear.

"Sor—sorry Miss," I stammer, breathing as deeply as possible. "Yea—yeah I'm here—sorry—" more stammers accompany me, wiping my watery eyes.

She speaks up. "I am so very sorry to have interrupted your night with such devastating news," she says as sweetly as possible.

The truth of the matter is, I can tell she's just as affected by this as I am. Brogan was everyone's resident teddy bear. Always willing to extend a hand whenever and wherever possible. Quick with a joke and incredibly slow to anger. My baby is the embodiment of perfection, meticulously composed by flesh and bones. A drunk driver? Drugged driver? NO! I REFUSE TO ACCEPT THIS AS A POSSIBILITY. Surely I'm dreaming, right?

Reality stings my frozen heart into a pulsating enigma. This is definitely happening. There's no escaping this roller coaster ride. I'm being edged to the front of the line with an involuntary fast pass, and nothing I do or say has any clout to change the outcome of this fuckstorm.

The nurse's spiel endures. Her tone is sweet as pie, but I can't fathom hearing it. May as well be the voice of the grim reaper and he's screaming sweet nothings into my ear, as if hearing the gruesome details is going to do a goddamned thing to make this all better. The cackle of death has heralded my worst fears. That's it. My life is over. And what the fucking hell am I going to do with Lily? I'm far from being an exemplary parent. At least, not to the high marks of Brogan—who has the patience of a fucking saint. And I can't schlep her all over the world with me. She has school, a few friends. Oh, my God—FUCKING LILY BEAN! She's gonna be devastated!

Of course, the gears in my head are firing on all pistons as the nurse is providing instruction for me to come down to the hospital. And at whatever the fuck o'clock this is, I have no choice but to drag sweet Lily out of bed. One thing is for sure, however. I'll insist that a nurse or somebody watch her while I take care of things. There's no way I'll allow her to see her father—dead. Oh my fucking God, I shudder to imagine how I'll cope with such a sight. The love of my life, breathless, stiff and cold?

Interrupting the nurse, I clear my voice to speak. "Okay—yeah—" I cut in. "I'll be there as soon as I can get our almost seven-year-old autistic daughter buckled into the car?—"

It's probably rude to hang up so abruptly. But what is the appropriate way to end a conversation when somebody's just told you that the love of your life, your hero, your one true thing, has ceased to stop breathing—ummm "thanks?"