For a moment, James hovered in the doorway, simply observing the two women. They seemed a world apart in the outrageously large living room, Miranda sitting primly on an overstuffed chair on one side and Andy idly perusing a bookshelf on the other.
It was moments like these that he understood their relationship—not exactly, of course, because he would never be sure exactly of how Andy had so effortlessly and gracefully slipped past Miranda's innumerable walls, and he would especially never understand how Miranda had managed to charm this sweet, intelligent, genuinely kind young woman into a relationship that he was sure would last. After all, the Miranda he remembered had been cold, aloof, ever out of his reach no matter how hard he'd tried—in fact, it had seemed that the harder he'd tried, the further she got.
The Miranda he remembered had pushed him away with harsh, cruel words whenever he got too close, and he had wondered, when they had first divorced, if she was even capable of loving someone, of allowing someone to love her—it had been a mean-spirited thought, and he had been in a mean-spirited mood.
But he knew now that Andy had proved him wrong. While the two women looked a world apart now, he knew that this, for them, was contentment: Miranda completely focused on The Book—something that had once been a pointed warning for him to leave her the hell alone—and Andy off in her own little world. They did not need to be cuddled up together to feel close—not like he had needed, and not like Miranda had been unable or unwilling to provide him.
He'd seen them, upon occasion, cuddled up together, and he'd seen them like this, numerous times, a world apart, yet, happy.
He could see their happiness, so clear and bright it felt blinding sometimes, painful even, to see their whole, wholesome happiness, to know he had been unable to give Miranda that, no matter the effort he'd applied. But it was also uplifting, to see that two people could be so happy with each other, to know that Miranda, who had never really been his, had found happiness in a woman who was good, kind.
And she was—good, kind. Andy was the best person he knew. She was good to his kids, good to Miranda, good to her parents and siblings and friends, good to strangers, good to him.
He'd wondered, at first, what on earth Miranda was thinking, shacking up with a woman half her age—less than half her age. He'd seen what most people had seen: a child, a barely formed child. He'd disrespected her, dismissed her, scoffed and said she'd never be good enough for Miranda, said it would never last.
And, in return, she had been nothing but kind to him, respectful, warm.
She'd never tried, actively, to prove herself to him. She had nothing to prove to anyone who'd judged her—misjudged her. She had had the wisdom to know what mattered, and she had known that his opinion did not, that the opinions of those like him did not.
Yet, she had been kind, because she'd also known that kindness mattered.
She'd never once attempted to take Caroline and Cassidy from him, never once undermined his role as their father. He knew, now, that she'd known a hell of a lot more about parenting than he had, and he'd been doing it for much longer. Where he'd tried to keep her from his daughters' lives, she'd only ever welcomed him into hers. Even when Caroline and Cassidy had gotten fed up with his terrible attitude toward her, even when they'd declared they wanted to stay with Miranda—and Andy, they'd heavily implied—permanently, she had tempered them, reasoned with them, reminded them that he loved them very much, told them that he had only their best interests in mind.
He hadn't. He could admit that now. He'd been jealous and spiteful because she had gotten everything that he had ever wanted, and, still, she had assured them of his very best intentions. It had been inordinately kind of her, and he had never owed more to a person in his life. He would forever be in her debt, he knew.
And far more now.
She would have to be the one to hold everything together. Miranda couldn't do it. For as much as their marriage had not worked, he knew that, in some capacity, she still loved him. It wasn't the all-consuming love he had felt—still felt—for her, and it certainly did not approach the bottomless, unconditional love that she held for Andy, but, in her own way, in a way that was reserved solely for him, she did love him. And she would not be able to hold herself and the kids together through the next few months.
Andy would have to do it. She was capable. Strong. She would rise to the challenge. He was sure of that.
But looking at them now, his heart ached a little, for both of them. He had squared himself away as best he could with his new reality. He had made his peace. But he knew that it would hurt them both, hurt them all. And he wished it weren't so. Desperately wished it. But...
"James, stop gawking like a teenage boy and get in here," Miranda said suddenly, still marking bright, red notes onto The Book.
Andy looked up at him then, smiling. "How are you, Jay?" she asked brightly.
In fifty-one years, she was the only one who had ever seen fit to give him such a nickname. He'd asked about it once, and she'd unapologetically told him he reminded her of Jay Gatsby. He'd have taken it as a compliment, but she'd also mentioned that she was not a big fan of Fitzgerald. Of course, her eyes had twinkled with fondness and amusement when she'd said it, so he hadn't told her to stop. He liked it. It sounded warm every time she said it.
"I need to talk to you both," he said quietly, so as not to rouse little ears.
They both frowned immediately.
"The sunroom," Andy murmured, exchanging a look with her wife that he couldn't quite read.
Miranda stood, and they both made their ways over to him. He had expected them to link arms, as they so often did—he had never met a less tactile person than Miranda, but Andy was just the opposite, and he was well aware that Miranda bent her own rules only for her children and for Andy. The mere idea that she could bend had never crossed his mind before Andy, even when he and Miranda had been married.
Instead of attaching herself to Miranda, though, Andy slipped her warm, soft, small hand into his, leaning a little into his arm as she led them to the stairs. "I don't think you've ever been up to the sunroom, have you?" she asked pleasantly.
He shook his head no, but he couldn't seem to form the word with his lips, so he stayed silent.
"It's great. You'll love it," she supplied. "Mira called me crazy when I suggested we install it, but it's the best room in the house, really."
She shot a teasing smirk back to Miranda, which eased his ex-wife's frown into a tiny smile.
That was another thing. For as much as it had been all tense, awkward silences between him and Miranda, it was warm, free-flowing conversation between Andy and Miranda. There were content silences and deep conversations. He'd witnessed, more than once, five-hour long conversations that seemed to span every topic known to man, from fashion to acting to the oddities of evolution in deepwater sea creatures. It was ridiculous. It was amazing. It was something he had never dreamed of sharing with Miranda.
"Who but you could have thought a sunroom on the roof of a three-story New York townhouse would be a good idea?" Miranda rejoined, her voice low and warm in a way it had never been with him.
"The girls, for two," Andy said cheekily.
"Ah, yes. Your preteen girls must be the very height of home renovation expertise."
"Our. Our! At least half the blame is on you for our tweenage girls," Andy teased. It was a familiar joke between them.
They reached the sunroom, and Andy pulled the door open and dropped his hand to wave him in. The sun had just begun to set, and it was truly beautiful.
"I will admit, it was a brilliant idea," Miranda said softly from somewhere behind him.
"Hell yeah it was," Andy replied, coming to a stop right next to him. "The girls love it. Sometimes we have to ban them from this room so they'll actually get homework done," she laughed. "The couch pulls out. When Mira's out of town, we sleep up here sometimes. I bore them to sleep with stories about the constellations."
"She means she makes up constellations and boring stories about them," Miranda quipped.
"No comments from the peanut gallery, thank you very much," Andy rejoined.
Miranda smirked. "Yes, dear."
"Do you see what I have to deal with, Jay? Be very glad you managed to escape, you don't know what you're missing."
A vicious pang of longing hit him. He knew exactly what he was missing. But he managed a chuckle, bitter as it was.
"Darling, if you're going to joke about being imprisoned, perhaps I should have Emily acquire a pair of handcuffs."
Andy smiled slyly at him. "I wouldn't be opposed, love. If you want to tie me up and have me at your mercy, go right ahead."
He watched his ex-wife's icy blue eyes widen for a moment as her breath caught—god, that was far more than he needed to know about their sex life—but she recovered quickly and smirked right back at Andy, "Yes, dear."
"Ugh!"
They shared a chuckle and then seemed to remember the reason they were here.
"So what's up?" Andy asked, settling onto a couch and looking up at him.
"Yes, James, what is going on?" Miranda asked, a tinge of worry making its way into her tone.
He looked from one woman to the other and back again and sighed. It all came tumbling out—the tests, the prognosis, the plans he'd already made for when he was gone.
He watched as if from afar as his words caused Miranda to drop onto the couch, gasping and shuddering, tears streaming down her cheeks in a way he hadn't seen since her mother had died when the girls were just babies. He watched Andy let a few of her own tears fall as she gathered her wife into her arms. And then he watched as she shot him a look that promised she would take care of Miranda, of the girls, of their little family. And, as much as everything was not okay then, he knew that it would be, in time, after he was gone.