And obviously Zach Gaines didn’t know how to take a hint, much less a straight-up directive. He was worse than the guy in my college math class freshman year who kept asking me out for coffee, ignoring all the different ways I said, “No, thank you,” “Not today,” and just plain “No.” But eventually that guy caught on when I moved to sit right in front of the professor.

  Zach was where Bianca said he’d be—in the area reserved for clients. One of these days, he needed to show up requesting our help. Not that I wanted him to keep showing up. He wore his usual jean jacket over a dark T-shirt. For a moment, I imagined his closet containing a solitary jacket and an assortment of dark cotton shirts. Not that I cared what the man wore. Two insulated cups from the specialty coffee shop located a block away sat on the table in front of him, along with a small brown bag. Before I could even say a word, Zach started talking, motioning to the two cups of coffee.

  “I’m hoping I can convince you to take one, because I’m not planning on drinking both of these.” He opened the bag, dumping out a pile of white plastic containers of cream, a couple of black stir sticks, and white, yellow, pink, and blue packets. “I wasn’t sure how you doctored your coffee—if you do drink the stuff—so I brought options.”

  “Thanks.” I wasn’t going to say something like “You didn’t need to do that” because what I wanted to say was “What are you doing here? Again?” The less said, the better. I sifted through the pile, searching out the sugar packets. “You want any of these?”

  “No, thanks. I drink my coffee black.”

  I took my time removing the lid from my cup and then emptying sugar packet after sugar packet into the black liquid, the rich aroma working its caffeinated magic on my sluggish brain cells. Bringing me coffee? This was something a friend would do—and Zach Gaines and I were not friends. The last time I’d seen him, we’d squared off as I’d redrawn the Do Not Cross This Line boundary for him. Seemed like Zach was just as stubborn as I was. I should respect that, but right now I focused on fixing my coffee.

  “So I wanted to ask how you’re doing.” Zach wasted no time with small talk. “I can’t stop thinking about you since the high school ceremony—”

  I choked on my sip of coffee, sputtering and coughing and effectively silencing the man sitting across from me, at least for a few seconds.

  “Th-that didn’t come out the way I meant it.” Zach’s face was flushed a dull red.

  I stared at the photographs filling the wall space over his head. Images of past Festivities events. The Great Gatsby themed birthday party. A barn wedding reception—because who wasn’t in love with those? And stuck in the middle, a collection of photos from some of Kimberlee’s earliest campus parties. The awkward silence stretched between us—and I wasn’t going to be the one to ease the tension.

  “Payton.”

  At the sound of my name, I made eye contact with Zach again.

  A half smile curled his lips. “Now that I’ve removed my foot from my mouth, let me try again to explain why I’m here.”

  Give the man credit for a quick recovery.

  “I know you had a rough go the other night at the ceremony honoring Pepper—”

  “A rough go. That’s one way to put it.” I began stacking packets of sweetener by color. Yellow. White. Pink. Blue. Repeat.

  “And I wanted to see how you’re doing.”

  His interest should feel intrusive, controlling—similar to when Johanna pried into my life, asking for details that were none of her business. But for some unknown reason, a part of me was tempted to relax. Not to confide in Zach exactly, but to answer his question rather than take evasive action like I would with Johanna.

  Maybe it was the way he exuded the faint scent of a Colorado breeze. Crisp. Inviting. When was the last time I’d escaped work, escaped the city, and lost myself in the openness of a mountain trail or meadow? Blue skies, warm sunshine, fresh air . . .

  “Did I lose you?”

  “Hmm? Sorry. Just thinking.” I took a sip of coffee to gain another moment. “I’m doing okay. What happened the other night . . . it was just some sort of odd emotional glitch. I—I’d been working a lot and had a couple of nights where I didn’t sleep well—” that was the truth—“so it was just a bit of a meltdown. A very public meltdown. All better now.”

  “I’m glad to hear that—I mean, I’m glad to hear you’re better.” Zach seemed ready to take my words at face value. Smart man. His concern caught me off guard, but I wasn’t sure I was ready for cross-examination. “Do you have a busy week ahead of you?”

  Small talk? I supposed I could manage a few minutes of small talk. After all, the man had bought me a cup of coffee. “Yes. Festivities has become quite popular in the past six months.”

  “And why is that?”

  “Word of mouth, mostly. Thanks to one of Kimberlee’s friends, we planned a function for a wealthy family in Denver, and that seemed to be the springboard to bigger and better things.”

  “Are you busy every night and weekends, too?”

  “Our calendar varies. Certain seasons are busier than others, obviously. We can say yes or no, but right now it’s a lot of saying yes.” And now it was my turn to ask a question or two, just to be polite. “What about you? What do you do?”

  “I work for a custom woodworking business.”

  “Woodworking? Like signs and things?”

  “Um, no. I make custom cabinetry for homes.”

  “Oh.”

  “That reminds me of something I wanted to talk to you about.” Zach focused on his cup of coffee. “I, um, made a bench a couple of years ago . . .”

  “A bench?”

  “Yes. I put a brass plaque on it to commemorate Pepper. The bench sits on our property near . . . near the scene of the accident. I was wondering if you’d like to come up and see it.”

  He’d made a bench. In honor of my sister. Located it right where she’d been killed.

  The air around me seemed heavy, pressing in, making it hard for me to breathe. Why did Zach have to be like every other guy in my life? We were sitting here, enjoying coffee together, and then he had to ask more from me than I could give. Was this a religious thing? Didn’t AA talk about a higher power and making amends?

  I moved my cup aside. The coffee would remain unfinished, and this conversation was over, too.

  “I don’t think so. Thanks for the invitation, though.” There, that didn’t sound rude. “Listen, I need to get ready for an appointment.”

  I eased away from the table, resisting the urge to tug at the waistband of my jeans again. Bianca might not be willing to lie, but that didn’t mean I wouldn’t.

  “Oh, sure. I understand.” Zach pulled his wallet out of his back pocket. “If you change your mind . . . about the bench . . . let me know.”

  I took the proffered business card without looking at it. “Thanks. And thanks for the coffee.”

  “Not a big deal.” Zach paused for a moment as if he was going to say something and then nodded. “See you around, Payton.”

  “Good-bye, Zach.”

  I ran my thumb over the smooth surface of his business card as Zach left. In high school volleyball, whichever team won three out of five sets took the match. As far as I was concerned, Zach had lost the last three times we’d met up. I could only hope he recognized that and realized the uselessness of continuing to contact me.

  What had he expected? That he’d walk into Payton’s office bearing coffee and expressing concern, and she’d suddenly be happy to see him? Even more, that she’d be open to his offer to come see the bench he’d built?

  Sure. That sounded like Payton Thatcher, the walking, talking brick wall.

  Of course, Pepper had been the more outgoing Thatcher sister in high school. The leader of the duo. The better athlete with the more competitive drive. But Payton had been friendly, too. Not that they ran in exactly the same circles, what with him being a year ahead of them in school. But their paths crossed enough that the Thatcher sisters ended up at the spring break party at his parents’ cabin in Winter Park the night Pepper was killed.

  “Hey, Zach, I heard the girls volleyball team is spending the week at the Snow Mountain Ranch Y. I invited some of them to your party. You okay with that?”

  Zach grabbed his notebook and slammed his locker door shut, moving alongside his friend. “Sure. Anybody in particular?”

  “I’ve got my eye on Payton Thatcher—so hands off, okay?” Brice jostled against him in the crowded hallway. “Her sister will come too, of course. And a couple other girls.”

  “No problem, man. Payton Thatcher is all yours.”

  They’d laughed as they’d separated—never imagining how life-changing Brice’s decision to invite girls from the volleyball team would be. For Pepper. For Payton. For Zach.

  Zach tossed his empty coffee cup into a trash can on the corner outside Payton’s office building.

  I’m failing at this, God. No matter what I do, I run into one no after another from Payton.

  He’d learned not to pray out loud—even whispered words—in public. Enough people thought he was crazy to toss aside logic and opt for faith. Not that choosing one meant ignoring the other.

  What do I do now?

  Wait.

  God’s answer seemed borne along on the breeze. A soft whisper to his soul.

  Wait.

  Okay, God. I’ve done everything else You’ve asked me to do. Payton knows what I want. She knows about the bench. She knows where to find me. I’ll wait—but it won’t be easy.

  He’d wait . . . and he’d keep praying, too.

  15

  GIRLS’ NIGHT MUST GO ON, or so Harper had decreed.

  They’d both agreed that something was better than nothing and that Jillian could call it an early night if she needed to. But getting together was an in-person form of positive thinking.

  All Jillian could hope was that she’d make it to eight o’clock before admitting she needed to crawl into bed.

  Harper held up her wine goblet, swishing the purple contents inside. “I’ve got to say I’m not a big fan of this.”

  “Really? And Geoff made that one special for tonight. Ever since he bought me that juicer, he’s insisting I try all these fruit and veggie concoctions that are supposed to be healthy for me. I never know what color they’re going to be or what they’re going to taste like, either.” Jillian raised her glass to her nose and sniffed the concentrated liquid. “I think this one has beets, strawberries, and blueberries—”

  “Stop.” Harper stood and held the glass away from her. “You lost me at beets. Would I be a terrible friend if I tossed this down the sink and poured myself a glass of wine? And maybe found some chocolate?”

  “You could never be a terrible friend, but I probably am. Go ahead and see what you can find, but I don’t have any wine or chocolate to offer you.”

  “What?”

  “Sorry. I gave Geoff the two bottles I had, along with all my snack food. I’m trying to eat healthy.”

  “That explains the cardboard crackers. But the cheese is good.” Her friend disappeared into the kitchen.

  “And the grapes.” Jillian raised her voice. “Just grab whatever you want to eat, okay?”

  “I found a soda in the fridge.” Cupboard doors opened and closed in rapid succession. “Aha! A half-full bag of Fritos that you somehow missed when you purged your cupboards! We’re saved!”

  All the special food Geoff was encouraging her to eat reminded Jillian of the different diets she’d gone on through the years. The time she’d sworn off sodas. The time she’d given up candy. Or carbs. The time she’d gone on that big diet before she started her junior year of high school. Chopped carrots and celery and eaten like a rabbit and drunk so much water she spent most of each day in the bathroom. Maybe, just maybe, she’d return to school looking like someone new. And maybe, just maybe, she’d be noticed. Invited to homecoming. But she showed up the first day of school all of ten pounds lighter. The same old Jillian Thatcher.

  “So let’s talk dresses.” Harper sat across from her on the couch again, selecting one of the bridal magazines from the stack in front of them.

  She’d found the magazines Jillian had left abandoned in her bedroom, brought them out to the living room, insisting they should browse through them and discuss possible wedding dresses.

  Jillian winced as the skin around her incision strained when she shifted her shoulders. She needed to be patient with her body, to give herself time to heal. Chemotherapy started in one week. Tick, tick, tick. How was she supposed to plan all the details that went into a wedding? How was she supposed to look at gowns when she didn’t know who she’d be the day of her wedding? What kind of body she’d have? Was she ready to look at all these posed, perfect happily-ever-after moments again?

  Harper flipped through the pages of the magazine in her lap. “Well, let’s get down to business. What kind of wedding dress do you want? You know me and my Say Yes to the Dress addiction.”

  “Yes, but is it for the dresses or the family drama?”

  “Oh, the drama, girlfriend. The drama.”

  “Let’s hope we can keep that to a minimum when I go shopping.”

  “All the more reason to know what you want. I’ll back you up. So what’s your dream dress? Princess? Mermaid? Sheath? Empire waist?”

  “I don’t know, although I think we can rule out the whole princess style. That would only make me look shorter and fatter.”

  “No negative talk, Jill. Think positive, remember? Just say you don’t like that style, okay? How about your budget? Have you and Geoff talked about that? It’s always good to know your price point.”

  “Geoff and I budgeted for the wedding. We weren’t planning anything lavish even before . . . before my diagnosis. No more than one hundred people. Late afternoon, so we can get by with a buffet and wedding cake.”

  “Sounds good.”

  “But now my parents are insisting they want to give us some money toward the wedding, too. They plan on doing the same for Johanna and Payton. Although Johanna’s been dating Beckett for so long I don’t know that she’ll ever marry the guy.”

  “You’re accepting the money from your parents, right?”

  “Isn’t that a bit old-fashioned? I mean, Geoff and I are both in our thirties. We can pay for our wedding.”

  “It’s not about whether it’s old-fashioned or not. It’s that your parents offered to help. You say yes and thank you.” Harper mimed accepting a check, holding it in both hands, and kissing it before turning serious. “There’s not a lot your parents can do to help you through your treatment, Jillian. But they want to help with your wedding. Let them.”

  “To be honest, with everything going on, I find it hard to even think about planning a wedding. Johanna’s called a couple of times about the bridal shower. And then she not-so-casually suggested Geoff and I move the wedding up, before I’m too far into chemo.” Jillian set aside her juice. “You know how I’ve always felt lost in the middle of my sisters?”

  “Yes. It’s always made me glad I only had one younger brother.”

  “Well, it’s like cancer is some unnamed, invisible sister that has shown up and shoved herself into my life. She’s telling me to forget my dreams. Telling me it’s all about her. I should be used to this by now—”

  Harper shifted so that she was closer to Jillian, wrapping an arm around her shoulders. “That’s just the tiredness talking. You’re still in recovery mode. You’re going to have the wedding you want, when you want it.”

  As her friend talked, Jillian scanned the page of the open magazine in her lap. A headline snagged her attention.

  Real Weddings.

  Just how real would her wedding be? Would she be bald on her wedding day? Would she be able to find a dress that hid her mastectomy scar and the fact that she had to wait for reconstructive surgery until after her chemo and radiation? Would Geoff look at her differently when she walked down the aisle toward him? How would he react on their wedding night? She’d always worried about her weight . . . but now she’d face him with a scarred body and no hair. What if she lost her eyebrows and eyelashes, too?

  A tear plopped onto the page.

  “What is going on?” Harper’s voice dropped to a whisper.

  “Maybe . . . maybe Johanna’s on to something.” Jillian sniffled, swiping at her eyes.

  “You think you should move the wedding up?”

  “No. No, I think maybe we should postpone it. Maybe April isn’t the right time. Maybe now isn’t the right time to be planning a wedding. Geoff’s so busy with work that we hardly see each other. Maybe I won’t be able to do everything I need to do—”

  “Okay, now you’re talking crazy. You’ve got to go easy on yourself for a little while, Jill. You’re tired. And you’re eating a bunch of . . . of junk. I mean, I’m all for eating healthy—and bless Geoff for buying you a juicer. But find healthy food you like! There’s no sense in wasting money on stuff you’re not going to eat.” Harper crumbled a handful of crackers onto her plate. “Geoff loves you, and he’s not the kind of guy to change his mind about wanting to marry you because you have cancer. Sure, he’s a bit of a goofball and he tells the corniest jokes I’ve ever heard, but the guy’s steady like an atomic clock.”

  Once again, her best friend was being a much-needed voice of reason.

  “Remember when you called me and asked, ‘Why is Geoff Hennessey asking me out?’ and I said, ‘Because he likes you!’ Was I right or was I right?”

  “You were right.” Even as Jillian gave a little laugh, she couldn’t help but notice her friend’s wedding band, the one Harper refused to take off eight months after her husband had left her when he’d reconnected with his high school sweetheart on Facebook. Harper—the woman who refused to be anything but hopeful.

  How could Jillian not dig deep into her own heart and find some sort of hope, too? For the time being, she’d just lean into her friend’s endless wellspring of optimism.