CHAPTER NINETEEN: BAD HAIR DAYS
Week one of chemotherapy couldn’t end soon enough. The nausea had caught up with Vince, competing with the Zofran and winning more times than he would have liked. His energy level was at an all-time low, even when he let himself nap during and after his treatments, as that just made it harder for him to sleep at night. The uphill battle was frustrating to say the least, especially once he’d gotten his second opinion and had found out that his case was textbook. He’d learned that no oncologist in his right mind would go after so many tumors in so many places and expect a good outcome for someone who was already suffering so much.
The weight loss had continued, too, bringing Vince’s belt buckle to the last notch and forcing him to buy some new clothing; the bagginess of his old shirts and pants had begun to highlight his thinning frame rather than hide it.
He had bigger things to worry about than his wardrobe, though. His soul was at stake, and he was still uncertain as to how to handle it. Before he could strategize further, someone else made the first move.
“That’s…quite the story,” Pastor Fenwick said. He slouched a bit in one of two chairs in front of his desk after church. Vince occupied the other. Try as he might, he had not been able to find personal meaning in the morning’s message. He had been about ready to cave and ask for an appointment with the pastor on his own when the pastor had requested his company himself. He’d revealed that Charlie’s Sunday school teacher had passed along the news. “First of all, let me say that I’m very sorry to hear about what you’re going through,” the pastor said.
Vince looked up, every wrinkle in his worn forehead now pronounced. “Aren’t you supposed to tell me that death is just another part of life, that it’s not the end?”
The pastor smiled, his grey eyes squinting behind bifocals. He was old enough to be Vince’s father and had the snowy white hair and deep lines in his face to prove it. “Of course it’s not the end, but God never told us we couldn’t grieve. It’s a sad thing, leaving the ones we love, or having them leave us. Being upset over death or its imminence is no sin. It’s how you act upon those emotions that either pleases or displeases God. What’s your aim in coming back to church after all these years, if you don’t mind me asking?”
Vince sighed heavily. “There’s no such thing as an atheist in a foxhole, right?”
The pastor smirked. “There’s certainly some truth to that. In all seriousness, do you consider yourself an atheist or have you in the past?”
“No, never an atheist, just…a stray Christian, I guess. I believe, but I haven’t always lived by the rules. To be honest, every time I do come to church, I get overwhelmed by this sickening guilt. I failed Kate, I failed Charlie…”
“We’re all failures at something. We all make mistakes, even the same ones over and over. Don’t get me wrong, God wants us to live right, but He doesn’t want us to feel so overpowered by guilt that we’re afraid to come to church. He didn’t send His Son to die for our sins so we could beat ourselves up every time we made a mistake.”
“So I’m not a lost cause?” Vince said.
“Far from it. You said you were just about to ask if you could meet with me when I beat you to the punch. You were seeking out God, looking for answers, no?”
Vince nodded. “Any words of wisdom you might have would be great.”
“Well, although I do feel terrible about your prognosis, I think in a way the time is a gift. Many of us won’t get months or even days or hours to look back and figure out what we’ve been doing wrong. You have a great chance here to get closer not only to your son and your brother, but to God. Think of the questions you have. Ask Him.”
“Here’s one for starters,” Vince said, his chin setting firmly. “Why? Why cancer? Why now? Why me? Why Charlie? He’s already lost his mom.”
He remembered that evening vividly, of course, and not without the help of nightmare after nightmare for the first few months after it had happened.
At a quarter to eight in the evening, long after everyone else was gone for the night, Vince was still holed up in his office. It was a Monday, his night to have Charlie, but he hadn’t been able to peel himself away from his work. That left Kate, just returning that night from a long weekend at a conference, to pick up their son from his aunt’s house. Vince had planned on staying at work until ten, eleven—whenever the job was done. But then he studied the photograph on his desk of himself and his little boy in front of the tree just that past Christmas. The first Christmas since the divorce. Vince finally realized just how thickheaded he was being by throwing away a precious evening with his son. He threw his files pell-mell into his briefcase and almost ran out the door.
He figured he’d be in for a talking-to from his ex-wife by showing up just before Charlie’s bedtime and requesting to take him for the night, but his fears of Kate’s wrath disappeared when he saw the police cruiser parked in front of her house—their house. Two cops were knocking at the door.
“Officers, excuse me, is everything all right?” Vince said, giving a short wave as he crossed the street, his feet hitting the pavement in time with his racing heart.
“Agent Glasser?” one of the officers said.
“Yes, that’s me. What’s going on?”
“We tried to reach you at your own residence first,” the officer said, removing his cap just as Vince had reached the porch.
“No,” Vince said, his voice trembling deep within his throat.
“I’m very sorry, sir.”
“How?” Vince choked, grabbing his hair in handfuls.
“A collision with a tractor-trailer. The other driver perished as well when his engine caught fire, but Ms. Parsons didn’t feel a thing.”
The way the officer worded things caught Vince off guard. “Other driver? Are we only talking about adults? Is my son alive?”
“Your son is alive and well, I’m sorry I wasn’t clear,” the officer said, revealing his rookie status. “Ms. Parsons never made it to her sister’s. We’ve already been to see her. Your son is safe and sound at her house. She was pretty shook up so we offered to contact you for her.”
The yard spun around Vince, moving faster and faster the stiller her stood.
“Agent Glasser?”
“Vince?”
“Sorry,” Vince said, nearly panting as he snapped out of his daze. Cold beads of sweat trickled down the back of his neck.
Pastor Fenwick reached into a mini-fridge behind his desk and took out a bottle of water.
“Thank you,” Vince mumbled, cracking it open.
“You asked me why,” the pastor reminded him. “Why this, why now, when your son had already lost his mother.”
“And?”
“If I knew God’s reasons behind anything, I’d be making a lot more money than I do now. But in all seriousness, all of these terrible things—illness, death, loss, tragedy—they’re the result of sin entering the world. Could God intervene? Of course. Does He? Sometimes. But I can’t pretend to know why He chose to let your illness progress as it has. And I can’t tell you He won’t decide to perform a miracle for you eventually.” Pastor Fenwick reached the couple of feet between them and put a steady hand on Vince’s shoulder. “But I can tell you that God never gives us more than we can handle. Feel free to converse with Him. It might take a lot of trying before you hear an answer, but give it a shot.”
“So pray?”
“If you like to think of it as praying, sure. If kneeling and folding your hands helps, then do it. But God hears you no matter where you are, even without you speaking. So talk to Him in whatever way makes you feel comfortable. Just give Him your undivided attention. If you really do believe that He sent his Son to die for our sins, then giving Him just five minutes of one-on-one time is the least you could do, don’t you think?”
“Of course. I’ll give it a try.”
“I know Jenna and Charlie are waiting for you, so I won’t keep you any longer. But take these,” the pastor said, handi
ng Vince a couple of books. “There are a lot of people out there like you—people who believe but don’t quite know what to do with their faith or what role God should play in their lives. Just something to read if you’re looking for understanding.”
“Thank you,” Vince said, mindlessly fanning through the pages. “Do you think you have a few minutes free next week after church?”
“I have a few minutes free whenever you do. I truly am glad to see you back. I wish it were under better circumstances. Can I say a quick prayer with you before you leave?”
“Now?” Vince said, panicking.
“For you, I meant. Don’t worry, I would never put you on the spot like that.”
“Oh, okay, then. Yes, thank you.”
After a soft chuckle, Pastor Fenwick bowed his head over folded hands. Vince followed suit, not knowing what else to do. “Dear Father,” the pastor started, “Please make Yourself known to Vince, who calls out to You right now in his time of trouble. Allow him to feel Your presence at every moment he seeks it. Give him guidance. Give him peace, understanding, and healing if that is your will. Give his friends and family the strength to deal with their imminent loss. Finally, God, help Vince learn how to talk to You again and respond to him in kind. You know what is in his heart, so let him know what is in Yours. In Jesus’ name we pray. Amen.”
“Amen,” Vince murmured. “That was…much more eloquent than anything I’ll ever be able to come up with.”
“Don’t put that kind of pressure on yourself. You know who might teach you a lesson or two about prayer?”
“Who?”
“Your son. We’re big on prayer in our Sunday school curriculum here. No sense in growing to believe in someone you can’t talk to.”
“I’ve got to admit, I don’t enforce the bedtime prayers at home,” Vince said. “Before I left my job, Charlie would stay with his aunt a few nights here and there and I think she had him say his prayers, but I never have.”
“Well, ask him tonight if he’d like to start doing that at home, and listen to what he says.”
“Thank you, Pastor.”
“No thanks necessary. Now go, enjoy the rest of your weekend.”
—
“Are you gonna pray, too?” Charlie asked, eager for once to get into his pajamas.
“Can I just listen to you tonight?” Vince said, hoping Charlie wouldn’t demand an explanation.
“Okay.” Charlie pulled his arms through his sleeves and knelt at his bedside. “First you have to kneel.”
“All right,” Vince said, obeying. He clasped his hands and lowered his gaze.
“Dear God,” Charlie started, his eyes clenched shut, “thank you for Daddy and for Auntie Jen. Thank you for making Daddy make mashed potatoes for dinner, they’re my favorite. Thank you for the medicine that makes him feel better after the other medicine makes him not have to throw up so much. Please make him less tired so we can have more fun together. Please let me stay home from school tomorrow so I can play with Daddy, and please make him get better. He says the doctors say he’s going to die and go to heaven, but I don’t want him to. Amen.”
Vince felt like something heavy was sitting on his chest. He swallowed around the large lump in his throat. “Charlie, you’re very good at that.”
“So you’re not mad?” Charlie asked, stepping into his father’s open arms.
“Why would I be mad?” Vince replied, dumbfounded.
“Because you said you’re gonna die but I asked for God to change His mind. Is that like when you say I can’t play video games and I keep asking anyway?”
“That’s…not even close to the same thing, buddy.” Vince wrapped his son up tight. “You’re asking for something much more important than video games. I can’t tell you how much it means to me that you pray for me to get better. Next time I pray, I think I’ll ask for the same thing.”
“Good, I don’t want you to die,” Charlie said frankly.
“Well, we have to be prepared for that, but it’s still good to have faith. God doesn’t answer every prayer, but He answers some of them, right? The worst that could happen is that you ask and He says no.”
Charlie nodded. “Is He gonna answer the one about me staying home from school tomorrow to be with you?”
Vince couldn’t suppress a laugh. “You have a spelling test and a math test tomorrow. You can’t miss school. But I promise we’ll do something fun when you get home and I’ll take a big long nap beforehand so I’m rested and awake for it all. Okay?”
That was enough for Charlie, who nodded with fervor. “Hey Daddy?”
“Hmm?”
“Can I sleep with you tonight?”
Vince might have suggested the same if Charlie hadn’t beaten him to it. Something about today made him yearn for a closeness he hadn’t felt with his son since he’d shared the horrible news with him. “Yeah, tonight you can. Come on.” He scooped Charlie up and tickled his side, getting a shrieking giggle in return.
—
Week two of treatment, after three days of not very restful rest and a minor operation to get a port installed, started far too soon. Even chitchat with Frankie, whom he still ran into some days, wasn’t enough to lift his stamina or his spirits. Neither were the countless phone calls from his long lost brother who suddenly remembered everything he had wanted to say over the past several years.
Also unable to lift him completely out of his terminal funk were the several visits Angela had made since the night the rest of the gang had come by unannounced. Vince already saw himself and Angela falling into a routine. Cards or a board game with Charlie, dessert, platonic but strained conversation once Charlie was in bed, and then an awkward goodnight, both of them glad whenever no one else had shown up but neither willing to say it outright. Vince didn’t know about Angela, but having to stick with his convictions was wearing him down. He wished for better circumstances more and more every day, not only so he could stick around for Charlie, but also so he could put an end to all the time wasted not being with Angela—so he could do so in good conscience.
Angela’s visits weren’t only stressful in that they reminded Vince of what he couldn’t have. They saddened him in another way as well.
Vince couldn’t entertain Charlie to the fullest every day. Often he was too tired or sore to do much of anything besides watch television with him. Charlie had seemed to accept this fact by now. When Angela came by, though, Charlie’s eyes lit up at the prospect of a playmate. Just like with his aunt, he relied more on Angela than he did his father for diversion, leaving Vince feeling even less adequate—like an absolute failure on his worst days. He couldn’t even blame Angela as an outlet for his frustration. She was being an incredible friend and certainly not trying to bring to light Vince’s shortcomings. In no way was she trying to show him up.
No matter how terrible Vince sometimes felt around her as a result, though—and no matter the reason—he still found his smile lasting every time she called to ask if that night was a good time for a visitor. He was still tired, still discouraged, still not at his best. But the nights with the three of them together were somehow his favorites, something to treasure.
Week three of chemotherapy started off with the removal of Vince’s port after an infection had arisen, but at least Vince found himself a little peppier and less weighed down by the side effects of the drugs. He still hadn’t mustered up the courage to pray on his own, even after another visit with his pastor, but Charlie prayed for his recovery nightly. Vince didn’t know how much of his newfound fuel was thanks to divine intervention, how much was due to his desire to be there more for Charlie and enjoy his remaining time in general, and how much was due to his body recovering from the shock of the chemotherapy. And when he thought about it, he had been sleeping better at night, too. No matter the reason, the turn of events had Vince thinking that maybe his remaining months wouldn’t be so terrible.
The same week, however, also showed Vince the one side of cancer he’d foole
d himself into thinking he might get to skip. His doctor and nurses had warned him that this side effect was likely with his particular drug regimen. It had been on his mind for quite some time. But when the first clump of hair had come off between his fingers as he’d showered one morning, he’d held on to it and looked at it in despair before letting the water sweep it down the drain. What else? he’d wondered, although it was laughable to compare losing his life, his son, his brother, his friends, to losing his hair. But it still had stung to see that as the week progressed, clump after clump came loose in his fingers or in a comb, or sometimes on its own. For a few days, it had gone unnoticed by Charlie, as Vince had a generous head of hair to begin with, but the more hair he lost, the more he began to pull it out on his own in an attempt to even it out when too much had fallen out on one side, or when he was bored and curious as to how easily he could pluck it out. He couldn’t hide this particular problem for long.
As the end of week three came to a close, looking at the start of one entire glorious week of no needle stuck in his arm, no life-sucking juices flowing through Vince’s bloodstream, Charlie finally saw a bald spot on the side of his father’s head. Vince had been unable to comb other hair over it to disguise it. He could tell Jenna had spotted it that afternoon, too, though she hadn’t said anything. As far as he knew, she was the only one who had noticed. If Angela or any of his other friends had seen it as well, they hadn’t said anything.
Charlie, only six, had no such filter. “Daddy, lots of your hair is falling out,” he said at dinner at their apartment on a Friday night; Vince’s last session of his first chemotherapy cycle was the next morning. “I can see a bald spot.”
Vince’s eyes sparkled but he didn’t smile. “What’re you talking about?” he teased.
“Right there!”
Vince grinned now at Charlie’s insistence. “I was just playing, Charlie. I know. It’s from my medicine.”
“The medicine that makes your tummy hurt and makes you tired? The chema-therapy?”
Vince cut up some chicken breast for Charlie as he replied, “Yes, that medicine. But, you know, this past week I’ve felt a lot better. I think maybe God answered some of your prayers. Maybe my body’s getting used to it and when I start up again next time, it won’t be so bad. We’ll see.”
“Is all your hair gonna fall out?” Charlie asked.
“Probably. Eventually, anyway. I might look a little odd for a while, but I’ll probably shave it off before it looks too silly. My beard, my eyebrows, even my eyelashes might fall out, too, you know. How funny would that be?”
Charlie laughed at his father’s antics and hopped into his lap to accept a hug.
—
Frankie didn’t find the hair loss so amusing. “Looks like you’re starting to lose your hair,” she said neutrally when she rushed to the free seat beside Vince and sat down. Not saying something sooner seemed to be the first time she had used restraint around him. Vince wasn’t sure why he was letting the friendship grow. He’d managed not to say much of anything to other patients, but perhaps Frankie was just too entertaining to turn down.
“Looks that way, doesn’t it?” he said. He toyed with the black beanie he’d worn the past week. It had been too warm in the hospital to bear keeping it on, so it sat in his lap.
“Guess what color my hair was before I got sick the first time,” Frankie said, still uncharacteristically reserved. Normally, she would be grinning ear-to-ear as she said such a thing, her hands hooked impishly under her chin as she waited for Vince to play a guessing game with her. Right now she didn’t look very into it.
“Hmm…green?”
“Come on, a real guess,” she said as a new nurse came by to start her treatment. She minded her own business, unlike Maria, who usually walked into their conversations rather unapologetically.
“All right. Brown?”
“Nope. Red. And curly. And almost down to my butt, but my mom hates that word.”
“That’s some pretty long hair,” Vince remarked.
What little of a grin Frankie had faded away. “I miss it. My mom said I could get a wig if I wanted, but a wig like that’d be way too much money and the charities don’t give away wigs that long, especially red ones.”
“And you don’t want just any hair, do you?” Vince said.
Frankie settled back into her chair and shook her head slowly. “It grew back when I stopped chemo last time, but it didn’t come back exactly the same. Maybe I’ll just stay bald this time. What do you think?”
Vince shrugged. “At least you won’t have bad hair days. Those are the worst.”
Frankie burst out into laughter, covering her mouth when another patient stared at her from across the room. “Are you gonna get a wig?” she asked.
“I don’t think so. Don’t you think this looks all right? I could start a new trend.”
Frankie scrunched her nose. “You should shave it.”
“You think so?”
“And as soon as possible. You look weird.”
“All right, then.”
“You’re gonna listen to me?” Frankie asked, astounded.
“Why wouldn’t I? You’re the experienced one here, unfortunately.”
“Yeah, but I’m only nine. Don’t you have any other friends that are old?”
“Friends that are old? I’m old? Wow, I think you’re about all the conversation I can handle lately,” Vince said lightheartedly.
“So does that mean I’m your best friend here?” she asked, hanging her chin on the arm of her chair.
“You sure are,” Vince said with quiet certainty.
“Then we have to do a fist bump.”
“A what?”
Frankie held out her fist. Realizing what she meant, Vince obliged and bumped his fist against hers.
“Is your brother gonna call you again today?” Frankie asked.
“I have no idea. If he does, I’m sure he’ll wait until I’m about to fall asleep. He’s good at that.”
It wasn’t Mitch who called when Vince was just about to drift off a while later, though. It was Angela.
“Hello,” he said somewhat groggily.
“Ooh, did I catch you at a bad time? I’m sorry. You’re on your last day, right?”
“It’s okay, I was just going to take a quick nap but I’d rather catch up. And yeah, today’s it, then I have a week off,” Vince replied. He wasn’t sure why Angela had even asked—she probably knew his treatment schedule better than he did by now. She was the one who had finally sat him down and drawn up a calendar on his computer for him when he’d claimed to have too much else to do.
“Good. I won’t keep you on for long.” Vince thanked his lucky stars, because the last thing he wanted right now was a little girl on his case about “that lady from work.” Frankie was annoyingly perceptive for her age. He could see her out of the corner of his eye as she leaned toward him to try to figure out who was on the phone.
“Was there something you—”
“Oh, sorry,” Angela stammered, cutting Vince off, seeming to have left for another universe momentarily but now back with him. “I just wanted to see if tonight would be a good night for me to stop by. Want company?”
Vince yawned and nodded, forgetting Angela couldn’t see him. “Yeah, sure. We’d love to have you.”
Angela kept her promise. “Great. See you then. I’ll let you get some rest.”
—
As Angela set her phone down on her coffee table and contemplated what to do with the rest of her Saturday daylight hours, she still couldn’t help but wonder if her behavior was appropriate. Maybe if she and Vince had never made their feelings known, then spending so much time with him wouldn’t feel like such a crime. She had found herself disappointed on a couple of her visits when other friends had dropped by. Did she have a right to feel robbed of her time alone with him? As a friend and nothing else, was she entitled to time alone with him at all?
These were among the countles
s questions she asked herself every time she knocked on his door and every time she stood in the spot where they had done something they would never be able to take back. The memory of the kiss remained branded into her memory, unlikely to be forgotten any time soon, and always made her departures uncomfortable.
She could cancel tonight, saying she had forgotten she’d made other plans. Better yet, she could pitch the idea of visiting Vince to someone else on the team. Coming with a friend was sure to keep things less awkward. Instead of talking about chemotherapy or Charlie, they could talk about the team’s latest two-day case in Austin, Texas. Far less personal.
Before Angela could think twice about it, she dialed Sophie.
“Yes, my dear?” Sophie answered cheerfully. She giggled shrilly without warning into the phone, prompting Angela to hold it away from her ear. “Mr. Brannon, I’m on the phone! Give me five seconds, would you?”
“Bad timing?” Angela asked, feeling like that was becoming her most finely tuned skill.
“Umm, kind of. I’m so sorry. Paul and I are on a road trip for the weekend.”
“Ooh, where to?”
“We don’t know. That’s the best part. We’re just driving…”
Angela felt more than a tinge of jealousy of Sophie all of a sudden. Married just last year, she was happy, in love, not in an eternal state of wondering. “That sounds like fun.”
“Did you need something or were you just calling to say hello? Hubby’s bugging me to de-digitize for the weekend.”
Angela forced a smile for no one. “Just calling to say hi.” Sophie was obviously busy, so Angela made some small talk just to keep up appearances, then let her go.
It was upon hanging up that Angela realized she was glad Sophie was busy. Sure, bringing a companion to Vince’s would keep things safe. But she didn’t want safe. What she did want was whatever she could have, whatever Vince was willing to give, even if it was a few hours of good conversation and nothing more. Even if it left her with a thousand “what if”s at the end of every evening with him. Even if the walk back to her car destroyed her every time. The question remained whether Vince’s thought process matched hers.
It was a selfish and stupid decision, she knew, but she chose right then and there to stop caring about how her visits were construed. She spent the rest of her day tidying the apartment and catching up on laundry. Around dinnertime, she found herself a bit drowsy, so she lay on the couch and flipped channels, figuring she would fall asleep for twenty minutes and wake up on her own.
—
Vince waited until Charlie whined about being hungry before he started dinner. Still no Angela. He supposed she planned on a later visit like on weeknights.
When Charlie’s bedtime rolled around and it was still just the two of them building a complicated toy racetrack around the living room, Vince was glad he hadn’t mentioned Angela’s visit to Charlie. Perhaps she had found real Saturday night plans. Maybe she had gone to work for a bit. In any case, he couldn’t blame her. And he was far too fond of her to be anything more than a little miffed that she hadn’t called to inform him of the change of plans.
With his night now free, Vince decided to do what he was going to do before bed that night anyway, whether or not Angela came to visit. It was already nine, so he figured that if he didn’t have company by now, he wasn’t going to. He didn’t want to call and seem needy. Instead, he took the supplies he had purchased that afternoon back to the master bathroom.
He took a long look in the mirror before he got started. He didn’t usually use the mirror to reflect on things in a figurative sense, but now felt like the right time to do just that. This man that stood before him, with patchy hair, sunken-in cheeks, sallow skin, and dark circles under his eyes, would be nothing but a memory long before the leaves whispered their goodbyes that year. He would go to sleep with the warm weather, but he wouldn’t wake up again. He wouldn’t get anymore chances. There would be no spring, no rebirth. As touching as it was to hear Charlie pray for him, he felt as if something—or someone, maybe God—was saying to him that it was indeed his time to go. It wasn’t his turn for a miracle.
So he outlined his choices, which were relatively simple and few. He could continue life as is, worrying about everything and everyone around him, denying himself a chance for complete happiness, no matter how short-lived. Alternatively, he could embrace this opportunity to live his life fully for once. Instead of focusing on what he hadn’t done, or what he’d done wrong, he could focus on the time with which he had been blessed. No matter his decision, he couldn’t take back a single second from his past. Whatever was behind him was there for good, not to be reclaimed or relived or redone. The only thing left up to him was what lay ahead.
God, he found himself thinking without a conscious choice at first. Once he realized what his mind and heart needed, he went along with it. Give me the courage and sense to do what’s right for me. I know it sounds selfish, but if it’s my time soon, I’d like a chance to go out on a high note. But I’d also like to do things right by Angela. And by You, and I’m not sure what that entails. Just…give me a sign of some sort, please…
The next thought that entered his mind was of Angela. A vision of how sweet she looked every time she showed up at his door. Next, the memory not just of their kiss, but also how exhilarating it had been and how terrible he’d felt in turning her away. Next, a vision of a wedding ring glinting on her finger. And when he thought so longingly about that particular woman, he realized that his diagnosis hadn’t sparked second chances at all. The night he’d almost died in that alley with her hands covered in his blood, that had been the beginning of his second chance.
He had failed all over again, had neglected God, had changed little in the way he raised his son, had pushed aside his feelings for someone who actually deserved his love and would have cherished it.
There were no more second chances. Only third ones.
He didn’t know whether God was compelling him to think these things or whether it was simply his own imagination taking off on him as it so often did, but it felt right. For the first time since his lips had first brushed against Angela’s, everything about her—everything about them—felt right. After three weeks of feeling nothing but conflict, that had to be some sort of sign, he reasoned.
His eyes swam in tears as he made his decision. He was a man with enough determination to do anything to which he set his mind, so his plan wasn’t a flexible one. However many days remained for him to walk the earth, he would spend them doing anything and everything he could to enjoy them with his family, his friends, and anyone he might have the pleasure of meeting along the way, as long as it felt like it served his faith well. And that meant a relationship with Angela, if he felt that was still what she wanted.
With a zest for life he supposed only a dying man could feel, Vince shut himself in his bathroom and wrapped a towel around his shoulders. Half of the hair on his head succumbed to the will of his fingers, going into the wastebasket he placed on the counter. The rest he cropped closely to his scalp with scissors. Amusingly, his four-day-old beard and bold eyebrows were still intact. Hoping his head was the right shape to pull off the bald look, he turned on the hot water and rubbed some over the scratchy surface of his head, then slathered on the shaving cream.
For a moment he regretted not springing for a cheap set of clippers, but when he really thought about it, this was easily the most fun he’d had all day.