The day had taken a toll on Trevor. Two days after Christmas, and his morning had started with four hours in airport security lines that led to almost missing his rebooked flight, only to sit on the single open runway for another two hours before they were airborne. Add to that the stress of managing to squeeze in a dialysis session the day before, and then spending another night in a hotel close to the airport, ruminating on his decision to walk away from Marc. It had taken everything in him not to go back yesterday, to hope that maybe this time the odds were better than being struck by lightning and their blood and tissue would match. He couldn’t deny how strongly he felt like he’d found a heart match with Marc, but he knew all too well how slim that hope was and how much more it would hurt to lose again this time. No, leaving was the right thing to do.

Was it really?

Yes. Yes it was.

Then why do you keep questioning yourself?

Stop it!

Somebody stick a fork in him. He was done.

A warm hand on his knee drew his attention back to the present—dinner with his family. They’d already celebrated Christmas with the kids but had planned a second celebration for him. His nieces and nephews even rewrapped some of their gifts so they could open them again with Uncle Trevor. God, he loved his family so much.

“Are you okay, mijo?”

His throat tightened and his eyes stung at his mom’s question and concerned expression. He placed his hand over hers and squeezed.

“I’m good. Just tired. It’s been a long few days getting home.” He smiled, hoping it reassured her that there was nothing more. She watched him a moment longer, though, her shrewd gaze probably seeing everything he didn’t want to say. Not yet. Then she nodded and turned back to her meal. He couldn’t broach that subject yet. Not tonight. Not while everyone was in high spirits and enjoying one another’s company.

As soon as dinner was over, Trevor excused himself for the night. Though that took nearly another half hour in order to hug all of his siblings, nieces, and nephews. By the time he’d finally made it to his old bedroom, he hardly had the energy to change into his pajamas.

He’d just crawled under the covers when there was a light knock on his door. He knew who owned that quiet request for permission to enter. His mom had never just barged into his bedroom—or any of his brothers’ and sisters’ rooms—without asking first. It was one of the many small ways she’d taught them respect and manners through example.

“C’mon in, Mom,” he said, propping the pillows behind his back and sitting up.

The door opened, and she peeked her head inside the room and smiled. Her dark eyes shimmered with worry as she came in and sat beside him on the bed.

“What is it you’re not telling me?” Her voice was soft, but a hint of Hispanic accent remained clear.

Trevor looked into her eyes, which were always so knowing, so empathetic. She was the glue that bound this gloriously mismatched family of his. A family he wouldn’t have traded for the world.

Instead of answering her aloud, he pointed to his travel bag on the floor. “There’s a zippered pocket on the inside.”

She raised an eyebrow but said nothing as she got up, opened the pocket, and pulled out the pamphlet Dr. Wheyvan had given him before Christmas. When she read the title on the front, her shoulders fell and she placed a hand on her chest, as if in an effort to keep herself from tipping over. Or her heart from spilling out. Without looking at him, she sat back down on the bed and a gust of air that might have been a word rushed from her lungs.

When she finally looked at him again, her eyes were swimming with tears. “No, mi cariño,” she whispered.

“I haven’t made any decisions yet. Dr. Wheyvan said I still have time to think about it, to discuss it with you, the family, but I don’t really have all that much time. My kidney function is dropping, and before too long even dialysis won’t help.”

“Oh, Trevor.” She sniffed and threw herself into his arms. “Te quiero, mi cariño.”

He held her tightly to him, her small body frail but so very strong. “I love you too, Mom.”

“I’m so sorry I can’t save you from this. Forgive me.”

“Mami, no . . .” He eased her back enough to look her in her eyes, to make sure she understood. “None of that. You’ve given me everything. The best life a boy could have ever asked for.”

She ran her hand over his cheek and gave him a watery smile. “Such a good, strong boy.” Then she looked down at the pamphlet now crumpled in her fist. Frowning, she eased her grip and sat up straight.

“Tell me about this?”

For the next half hour he told her everything Dr. Wheyvan had said, that it was his choice and whatever that choice was would be respected. That he’d likely only survive another year without a transplant. That soon the burden of dialysis would become too much to bear, complications would become a factor, and that if he did stop treatment, he’d likely pass within a week, which drew a small sob from his mom.

“She said it’s actually a very gentle death,” he said, hoping that might give her some reassurance should he decide to stop. “I’ll just get really sleepy, and . . . Don’t we all want to go peacefully in our sleep, knowing we’ve lived a good, full life? I don’t want to be hooked up to machines trying to squeeze out another day that only hurts to live through.”

She nodded. “But you’re so young. You can’t be done on this earth yet.”

“I’m pushing forty,” he said softly, attempting a grin that felt lopsided. “You’ve given me a good life, an amazing family, and I’ve been loved unconditionally. I’ve had more accomplishments and successes than I could have imagined, and even inspired a few souls along the way. What more can anyone ask for?”

“Love,” she said, and the patched-up pieces of his heart threatened to break apart again.

“I have all the love I need.” Except Marc’s. Trevor managed to keep his voice from cracking, but the words grated over his vocal chords like coarse sandpaper. Even if Marc came to love him, it would be selfish of Trevor to take that love knowing he would only be able to give it back for a short time.

“The love of a man, mijo. A man of your heart.”

Trevor shook his head, reaching down for a resolve he didn’t really want to use. “I can’t do that to him.”

Her eyebrows rose, and a light sparked in her deep-brown eyes. “Him?”

Trevor sighed and ran a hand through his hair. “I met someone.”

She turned, bringing one leg up onto the bed, to sit facing him. “Tell me about him.”

He smiled, completely unable to hold it back thinking about the handsome man he’d met by random circumstance but whom he was crazy about. “He’s a lawyer, but I think he’d rather be an artist. About my height, dark hair, incredible green eyes, and the most infectious smile you’ve ever seen. His family was hard on him, I think. He didn’t have the love and support I’ve had. And he’s alone, Mom. So alone.”

“You must bring him home, then. We’ll give him family.” She nodded, the matter decided and settled in her mind.

Trevor reached out to hold her hand. “You’d love him.”

Marc was just the kind of person she’d take under her wing and make a mission out of making shine, showing him how much he mattered. She was one of those people who made every person she came across feel special, and he so wanted to bring Marc home to meet her.

If you weren’t dying.

And once again it came back to that.

A halfhearted laugh surprised him. “Figures, doesn’t it? I’d end up meeting someone I could see a future with on the same day I’m told how little of a future I actually have left.”

“Maybe you have more time than you think. Maybe the doctor is wrong.”

“Mom—”

“It’s not right for a parent to bury her child,” she said, her voice strained, as if the words she spoke took great effort. “But . . . I can’t tell you what to do, mijo. The decision must be yours. Whatever it is, we will support you every step of the way. Above all else, I want you to be happy and healthy. If you stayed only to make your mama happy, it would break your mama’s heart to see you stay in misery.”

She fell silent, letting her words sink in, but they just kept chasing each other in circles. He leaned over to pick up his sketchbook from a cubbyhole in the night table, and flipped through the pages. He stopped at his latest sketch and turned the book toward her.

“This is him?”

He nodded, his throat constricting.

She reached out, letting her fingertip hover just above the surface of the page. “He’s a handsome man.” She met his gaze, and he smiled, tears of his own threatening to spill over his eyelids. “You’re painting him?”

Nodding, he turned the book back around to stare at the sketch. Before he’d left Marc the previous morning, he’d stood watching him sleep, memorizing the swell of every muscle, the angle of every bone, the smooth surface of skin that had felt so good sliding over his. He would take all that, everything Marc had made him feel, everything he felt for Marc, and bring it to life on canvas. Wiping an errant tear from his cheek, he closed the book, hiding the sketch, and returned it to the cubby.

“Mom?” He shored up his courage to ask the one question that had been nagging at him since he first read the pamphlet Dr. Wheyvan gave him. “Do you think stopping dialysis is . . . is suicide?”

“Oh, honey.” She pulled him into her arms, her embrace stronger than her stature dictated, and he curled against her. “Not if stopping means allowing a natural passing. Some might think so, but your life isn’t theirs.”

He nodded, closing his eyes. “I just don’t want you to think I’m giving up. I’m not. It’s just . . .” He swallowed around the golf ball suddenly lodged in his throat. “In a few months I won’t even be eligible for a transplant anymore. I don’t want to live whatever days are left doped up to dull the pain, confined to machines. I can’t put you and Dad and everyone else through that, either.”

“I know, cariño. I know.” She brushed long bangs out of his eyes and cupped his head to her chest. “We’re going to have the best holidays ever. We’re going to love and laugh and cherish, and for now, live.”