“It’s not fair,” I said. “It’s just so goddamnedunfair.”“The world,” he said, “is not a wishgrantingfactory,”

“I love you present tense,” I whispered, and then put my hand on the middle of his chest and said, “It’s okay, Gus. It’s okay. It is. It’s okay, you hear me?” I had—and have—absolutely no confidence that he could hear me. I leaned forward and kissed his cheek. “Okay,” I said. “Okay.”

“So it’s your death suit.” “Correct. Don’t you have a death outfit?”“Yeah,” I said. “It’s a dress I bought for my fifteenth birthday party. But I don’t wear it on dates.”His eyes lit up. “We’re on a date?” he asked.I looked down, feeling bashful. “Don’t push it.”

“You are fairly smart," I said after a while."You are fairly good at compliments," he answered.”

“I can only hope,” Julie said, turning back to Gus, “they grow into the kind of thoughtful, intelligent young men you’ve become.”I resisted the urge to audibly gag. “He’s not that smart,” I said to Julie.“She’s right. It’s just that most really good-looking people are stupid, so I exceed expectations.”“Right, it’s primarily his hotness,” I said.“It can be sort of blinding,” he said.“It actually did blind our friend Isaac,” I said.“Terrible tragedy, that. But can I help my own deadly beauty?”“You cannot.”“It is my burden, this beautiful face.”“Not to mention your body.”“Seriously, don’t even get me started on my hot bod. You don’t want to see me naked, Dave. Seeing me naked actually took Hazel Grace’s breath away,” he said, nodding toward the oxygen tank.“Okay, enough,” Gus’s dad said.”

“The shirt was a screen print of a famous Surrealist artwork by René Magritte in which he drew a pipe and then beneath it wrote in cursive Ceci n’est pas une pipe. (“This is not a pipe.”)“I just don’t get that shirt,” Mom said. “Peter Van Houten will get it, trust me. There are like seven thousand Magritte references in An Imperial Affliction.” “But it is a pipe.” “No, it’s not,” I said. “It’s a drawing of a pipe. Get it? All representations of a thing are inherently abstract. It’s very clever.” “How did you get so grown up that you understand things that confuse your ancient mother?” Mom asked. “It seems like just yes-terday that I was telling seven-year-old Hazel why the sky was blue. You thought I was a genius back then.” “Why is the sky blue?” I asked. “Cuz,” she answered. I laughed.”

“Well, yeah,” he said. “But before that, my grand romantic gesture would have totally gotten me laid.”I laughed pretty hard, hard enough that I felt where the chest tube had been.“You laugh because it’s true,” he said.I laughed again.“It’s true, isn’t it!”