12. Luna - 12 months earlier

12

LUNA - 12 MONTHS EARLIER

“WHAT IT’S LIKE” - EVERLAST

A t the Art Institute, Gatsby stares at Nightlife , my favorite painting of all time. “What do you think?” I ask him. “So vibrant and full of life, isn’t it?”

He studies it for a moment. “It’s…interesting. I can see why you’re drawn to it. But I’m more interested in how interested you are in it.”

I can’t help but smile at his lukewarm response. For me, Nightlife is more than just strokes of paint on canvas; it’s a tapestry of human interaction. “I love how it captures the complexity of relationships,” I explain. “See how people are intertwined, some dancing joyfully while others exchange glances with someone at the bar? There’s a drink spilling, a musician playing—it’s like a snapshot of life’s intricate emotions and connections, all illustrated in one big, complex ecosystem.”

Before Gatsby can respond, my phone vibrates in my pocket. I pull it out to find a message from my aunt Sarah. Although I grew up in Texas, she’s my connection to Chicago, which gave me the courage to come here. She’s also one of the main inspirations in my life. In her youth she was an artist, like I aspire to be. As I read the message, my heart begins to pound.

Aunt Sarah: I have a personal update. Can you please call me when you can? Thanks

“I’ll be right back,” I told Gatsby. “I need to make a quick call.”

Moving away from the bustling gallery, I dial Aunt Sarah, fear gnawing at me with each ring.

“Hi, sweetheart,” she begins when she answers, her tone heavy with emotion. “I’ll get right to it. I went in for my checkup, about that mass in my colon.”

“Yes?”

“The doctors have confirmed…it’s stage-four cancer.”

“Oh my God.” A lump forms in my throat. Aunt Sarah isn’t just my aunt; she’s a pillar of strength. She’s always believed in my dreams and encouraged me to pursue them. In that moment, as the museum hums with life around me, all I can focus on is the fragility in her voice and the uncertain future ahead.

A few seconds of silence pass. I want to offer her comfort, some solace, tell her it’s going to be all right—like she’d done for me during tough times in my life. But I can’t find the words. Finally I just say, “I’m here for you, whatever you need.”

“Thank you,” she replies. “Thank you.”

“When should I come by?”

“I’m not feeling up to it today. But tomorrow would be great.”

“I’ll come see you in the late morning before my shift tomorrow. How does that sound?”

“Sounds perfect.”

“I love you, Aunt Sarah.”

“I love you too,” she says and hangs up.

I come back into the exhibit, and evidently Gatsby can read the emotion on my face.

“What’s wrong?” he asks.

“It’s my aunt.” I explain the situation.

“I’m so, so sorry. What can I do?” he asks.

“Nothing. There’s nothing that can be done.”

We leave the museum and head out to a bar. After a few drinks, I ask him something that has been on my mind. Death seems exceptionally real right now, after the news about Aunt Sarah. Or maybe I’m just so in love.

“What would you do if we, you know, had a kid?”

“We use protection,” he says. “So it wouldn’t happen.”

“But if it did?”

He looks me in the eye. “I’d deal with it.”

I nod. It would be a blessing. Nothing could get in the way of this thing between us.

“Let’s go home,” he says, as if confirming my thoughts, and I smile. He calls a Lyft and whisks me away to his apartment.

The next month develops a rhythm. I cut down on my shifts at the bar so I can take care of Aunt Sarah. First it’s visiting her in the hospital. Sometimes she is so weak she can’t speak, but with no kids of her own, I know she appreciates my presence. Then it’s getting her back to her apartment, making end-of-life arrangements, taking her for walks on nice days. There are late nights and times I stay over at her place.

One day, I’m over at Gatsby’s, telling him how my lease is ending and I don’t know where I’ll move next, especially with my decreased shifts and income lately.

He looks up at me and says, “I think you should move in with me.”

“Isn’t that a little fast?” We’ve only been together a couple of months.

“Well, since your lease is ending, it makes sense. Doesn’t it?”

I shake my head. “That feels like a lot.”

“Aren’t you one-hundred-percent in on this relationship?”

I consider everything for a moment. It’s a little overwhelming how fast we’re moving, but isn’t that what you do when you’re in love? Isn’t that how it feels? You take things to the next level. “It feels almost too good to be true.”

“It is true, though. This will be a great thing. You can just save a little money.”

“Okay, then. Yes.” I smile and move over next to him on the couch to give him a hug. “I’m in.”

“All in?” He arches an eyebrow, but I get the feeling he just wants to hear me say the words. It isn’t that he doubts me.

“All in,” I confirm.

I guess it does make sense. I already have a lot of things at his place, and I stay here most nights anyway. And after all, we’re in love.

My lease is up at the end of July, so I start to move my things into his place, little by little. Eventually the only thing I use my little studio apartment for is painting. And the only things I have time for are my bar shifts, Aunt Sarah, and my studio. All the rest is spent with Gatsby. I hardly see my friends, but there’s a lot going on, and I’m falling deeper and deeper in love.

Gatsby likes sex. He loves to put on music and make a big deal of it. He likes to tell me how incredible my body is, how it’s the perfect shape for him, and how he’ll never get tired of me.

On the last day of July, I fully move out of my apartment and into his place. To celebrate, we go out to a bar with his friends.

I’m coming back from the bathroom, and I notice his friends are all laughing. Their expressions change as I approach.

Gatsby looks down at his phone. “Guys, I have to go. My friend…” He looks up at me. “He’s suicidal. I have to go meet him.”

“Oh my God. Who?” I ask.

“It’s my friend Tom. He’s been going through some rough stuff.”

“Okay. I know that’s…something very close to your heart.”

“Yeah.”

I kiss him goodbye, my heart filling with admiration for him for looking out for his friend. “Let me know if you need anything.”

“I will. See you later.”

I stay at the bar for another hour or so with Gatsby’s friends, chatting and playing music on the Touch Tunes before I excuse myself. When I get home that night—my first official night at Gatsby’s place—I can’t sleep.

I make some hot cocoa, even though it’s summer, and light some candles. I’ve been feeling emotional. Aunt Sarah has three months or less left to live according to her doctors. I look over at the painting I made for Gatsby on the easel. I consider it my best work to date.

I turn on Netflix for a few minutes, but I can’t concentrate on the plot of the show, so I turn it off and sit in silence in his apartment. Our apartment now. Questions swirl in my mind. Who is this suicidal friend? Why have I never heard of him before?

Suddenly, a wave of nausea washes over me, and I feel the urge to vomit.

No, this isn’t an urge; I really have to puke. I pad toward the bathroom and spend five minutes with my head in the toilet bowl. Strange. I’m not drunk. I don’t feel sick other than my need to vomit. Panic creeps in, and I can’t ignore a certain possibility: Am I pregnant?

With trembling hands, I find a 24-hour pharmacy on Google. Before I take a Lyft there, I text Gatsby:

Luna: Hey. Everything okay with your friend?

The text goes through, but there’s no immediate answer.

On the way back from the pharmacy, my heart races. In the wee hours of the night, I take the test and wait for the results, the seconds ticking by like hours and amplifying the tension in the room.

And then the answer comes as a second line forms on the test: positive.

I set the test on the kitchen counter and pace, trying to distract myself from the overwhelming thoughts racing through my mind. Would this be a new beginning amidst my impending loss? Or could it be a false alarm, adding another layer of complexity to the night’s emotional roller coaster?

As the clock strikes five in the morning, the front door finally creaks open, announcing Gatsby’s return. Emotions brimming, I wait for him to step into our shared space, the weight of the night heavy on my shoulders.

“You’re up,” he says as he walks in, hanging up his hat.

“I couldn’t sleep.”

“Well, you should get some sleep.”

“Everything okay with your friend?”

“Yeah, uh, he’s okay. It was pretty tough, but I think I calmed him down.”

“Okay, good.” I wait for him to say something else, and when he doesn’t, I add, “There’s something we should talk about.”

He scrubs a hand over his face. “Can it wait until tonight? I have to work in the morning. And I need to get a couple of hours of sleep.”

“Not really.”

“Look, babe, I have to sleep. I have a big work meeting, and this thing with Tom really stressed me out.”

“Okay,” I say sheepishly, feeling small. At this point it doesn’t matter anyway.

When we wake up in the morning—I still haven’t slept—he gets up to shave. He stops to look at me when he comes back to the bedroom.

“What are you doing?” he asks.

“I’m just lying here.”

“Make me breakfast.”

“You want me to make you breakfast?”

“You live here now, so yeah.”

I’m a little surprised—not to mention put off—by his tone, but I figure he’s had a tough night. In Hawaii I made him breakfast a couple of times, and he remarked that I had “ wife-level cooking skills .” I’d taken it as a compliment. Now I’m not sure what to think.

I get out of bed and start making him breakfast. “Must have been a stressful night for you,” I offer when he comes out to the kitchen. “Everything okay?”

“What’s that?” he asks, ignoring my question and bobbing his head toward the test I left out on the counter.

“That’s the news,” I say, stirring the eggs I cracked. I set them down and take a few steps toward him. “I was feeling a little off yesterday, so I took a pregnancy test. Turns out I’m pregnant.” A pit forms in my stomach. This is not the way I saw myself delivering this news someday, but life takes twists and turns, and this is one of mine.

He rubs his face. “No, you’re not.”

“What do you mean, I’m not?”

“You’re not pregnant. I don’t believe you. We always use condoms.”

“I can get a second test to make sure. But it adds up that I’m feeling like this and I’m pregnant.” I try to read the emotions on his face.

“This isn’t happening,” he says. “It can’t happen.”

“I know we’re not married, but I love you,” I say, rubbing his back.

He shakes his head. “I’m not going to be a part of this.”

Tension builds inside me. I glance at the painting I made for him.

“You get rid of that baby or it’s over.”

“Babe, maybe we can have a discussion?—”

“Under no circumstances are you keeping it,” he says. “I have to go. Work meeting.” He looks at the eggs I’d started to whip. “You’re kind of slow, aren’t you? I’m a little disappointed.”

“Gatsby…” I begin to cry. “This is life stuff. Why are you being like this? This is what happens. Let’s talk about it.”

He shakes his head. “There’s no discussion to be had here.” He walks out, and the door slams behind him.

I stand there in the vast emptiness of that luxury apartment, a slew of emotions running through me. I feel cold, and so very, very alone.

In this moment, I stop being a romantic.

I understand now, what the lyrics to that Red Lemons’ song mean.

It’s never this easy baby, can’t you see?

Though part of me, that soft part, still holds onto some kind of hope for Gatsby and I.

We can get through this.