As I turned, Bianca stepped through the doorway. “The Engessers are here.”

  “The Engessers?”

  “Yes. They made an appointment to discuss their daughter’s baby shower. She’s having twins, remember?” Bianca held up a floral folder. “I pulled their file.”

  Twins. How ironic.

  “Right.”

  “After that, Kimberlee has an appointment with the Toppers to finalize plans for their annual Christmas party.”

  “Right.”

  Decision made. Today was not the day for any truth-telling practice. I ran my fingers through my hair. The contents of my makeup bag remained spilled out across my desk. Kimberlee and Bianca—not to mention any clients—would have to put up with me going makeup-free today.

  Kimberlee rose from my desk. “Tell them we’ll be right with them, Bianca.”

  “Okay.”

  “And see if they want coffee—”

  “Already done.”

  I added the last sugar to my mug. “Thanks for listening, Kimberlee.”

  “I can take this myself if you need some time—”

  “I’m good. I mean, if you’re okay with me appearing looking like this in front of the clients.”

  “You are a professional with or without eye shadow and mascara.”

  “Thanks for that. Well, let’s go wow them, shall we?”

  “You and me—we’ve got this.” Kimberlee linked her arm through mine. “And remember, I’m always here to listen if you need to talk.”

  “I’ll remember. Now let’s go do what we do best and plan a party.”

  Jillian perched on the edge of her bed, tugging at the cuff of her cotton jacket. On a regular Monday morning, she’d be in work clothes—dress pants, a blouse and sweater, low-heeled pumps. She touched the simple gold necklace she’d added to her casual outfit. She probably didn’t need that. No sense in wearing something that might interfere with today’s procedure.

  Her fingertips skimmed the area just below her right collarbone, where they’d be inserting the chemotherapy port beneath her skin. About the size of a fifty-cent piece, it was supposed to make the process easier—no repeated injections. No worrying about her veins rolling or collapsing. Just one more thing to do today. One more way this wasn’t a typical Monday.

  She was dressed and ready to go. Now all that was left was to wait for Geoff to pick her up.

  Nice of him to make time to take her to her first chemo appointment.

  Jillian pressed the palms of her hands against her closed eyes. That was no way to think—and it certainly didn’t fall within Harper’s guidelines of positive thoughts only. Geoff wasn’t avoiding her. She knew that. His work demanded long hours—and her cancer diagnosis didn’t change that. If she was going to get through today, then she couldn’t be mentally questioning what Geoff was or wasn’t doing.

  She wasn’t nervous exactly, not like she’d been for her first date with Geoff. She’d paced her apartment for two hours before he’d arrived. Would he call and cancel? Would they run out of things to talk about halfway through dinner? Would he try to kiss her? Did she want him to kiss her? And what would he think if she told him she was thirty-one years old and had never been kissed?

  Now Geoff was taking her to her first chemo appointment. Dr. Williamson had talked her through what to expect, but Jillian fought the urge to call the surgeon and say, “Can you explain it to me one more time?”

  A wig sat on the left side of her dresser on a faceless white Styrofoam stand. The color was a little darker than her natural hair, but it was close enough. Some articles she’d read had recommended taking it to her salon and having her stylist cut it to resemble her regular hairstyle. But “thin and straight” wasn’t exactly that difficult to re-create—and she wasn’t even sure she’d wear the wig if . . . when she lost her hair.

  Another unknown. Shouldn’t she be more prepared? More decisive?

  Jillian brushed her hair back from her face. She’d complained for years that it was too thin. Wished she was a towheaded blonde. Or a redhead. Or that her hair was curlier. And now that cancer was stealing it from her, she’d do anything to keep her thin, straight hair.

  If she let herself stop and think about the enemy lurking inside her . . . about the ways her body might react to the chemo . . . how it might not conquer the cancer cells . . . she’d open the door to fear. But she couldn’t allow dread any access to her life. She knew it waited, silent, for any opportunity to take her down. Sometimes she woke in the middle of the night, the room dark, knowing something was wrong. Terribly wrong. But for a moment she couldn’t remember what it was. She rolled onto her side, her breathing shallow, blankets drawn up to her chin. And then memory returned, and with it barely controlled panic—until she sat up, turned on the lights, and found all the positive thoughts taped to her mirror.

  Attitude is a little thing that makes a big difference.

  Pessimism leads to weakness, optimism to power.

  Don’t think about what might go wrong; think about what might go right.

  This too shall pass.

  They didn’t make her feel any braver, but they filled the silence.

  When her cell phone rang, Jillian expected it to be Geoff telling her that he was here, but instead, Johanna greeted her.

  “You start your chemotherapy today, don’t you?”

  “Yes. I’m waiting for Geoff to pick me up.”

  “Good. I’m glad I caught you before you left.” Johanna seemed ready to dive into a lengthy conversation.

  “Geoff could be here any minute. . . .” And she didn’t want to rehash the idea of moving up the wedding. Not today. Besides, it was too late to do that now.

  “I understand. I wanted to let you know Beckett and I were talking about some practical ways to help you the next few months while you’re dealing with chemo. I know you’re going to be tired, so I hired a cleaning company for you.”

  “You what?”

  “I hired a cleaning company. I did some research and found a reputable company. They’ll be calling you to figure out what day of the week you want them to come. I hope it’s okay that I gave them your cell phone number, but I didn’t want to make that decision for you. It’s all set up for them to come in twice a month for the next four months.”

  “Johanna, I don’t know what to say—”

  “You don’t have to say anything. Like I said, it’s all set up. I’ll text you the info. I’m at work, so I’ve got to go. Make sure to let me know how today goes, okay?”

  “I will.”

  After her sister hung up, Jillian stared at her phone. What had just happened? No “Hello” and “How are you?” No asking if she even wanted a cleaning service. Just Johanna, calling to tell her about an unexpected act of kindness that left her feeling ungrateful.

  The threat of tears tightened her throat and burned the backs of her eyes. Why weren’t there kinder, gentler moments like those between them? Conversations that started with a simple “Hello, how are you?” Where they talked about the latest movie they’d seen or a favorite restaurant? Times when they called each other and talked about nothing at all . . . or maybe risked talking about something troubling them, without fear of being analyzed or judged or fixed? Was growing apart just the natural result of growing up?

  Jillian huddled in her bed, clutching her blankets around her. If only the room wasn’t so dark. If only she could run to Mom’s room. If only—

  “Are you crying?” Johanna’s voice whispered through the darkness.

  “Ye-es.”

  “Why?”

  “I had a bad dream.”

  “It was just a dream. Go back to sleep.”

  “I can’t. I’m scared.”

  Her sister’s sigh sounded across the room. And then Johanna slid out of her bed, crossed the room, and climbed into bed with Jillian. “Move over.”

  “Okay.”

  Her sister’s arms slipped around her. “You better now?”

  “Yeah.”

  “There’s no reason to be scared. It was just a dream. Think about something nice.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like when Dad makes us root beer floats.”

  “Or when we get to go shopping with Mom?”

  “Yeah. Stuff like that.”

  Jillian shook off the memory. She and Johanna weren’t little girls anymore, facing nightmares that disappeared with the morning light. Bad things didn’t go away by thinking about something nice. People changed. Relationships changed. But she could accept Johanna’s gift for what it was—an expression of care and concern.

  On the way to the clinic, Geoff held her hand as he steered the car. “You’re awfully quiet.”

  “Just thinking.”

  “About the chemo?”

  “Yes . . . and no. It’s hard to imagine something I’ve never experienced. I mean, I looked at articles and videos online, but until I actually get through the first session, I won’t know what to expect.”

  “We’ll get through this, Jillian.” Geoff concentrated on the traffic. “What else is on your mind?”

  “Johanna called.”

  Geoff stiffened. “Did she talk to you about changing the wedding date again?”

  “No. She told me that she hired a cleaning service for me.”

  “Johanna?”

  “Yes, Johanna.” Jillian shifted in the seat. “I admit to being as surprised as you sound. But it reminded me that we used to be close . . . and it made me wonder what happened. I mean, she’s not all bad.”

  “No, she’s just all bossy, like my aunt Ro.”

  “Aunt Ro?”

  “My mother’s sister. She died when I was in college, so you’ll never meet her. But what Aunt Ro said, we did.”

  “Do you think she’s right?”

  “My aunt Ro?”

  “No. Johanna—is she right about needing to change the wedding date?”

  “Honey, we’ve talked about this. We can’t move the wedding. You’re just starting your chemo. We’re not sure how you’ll feel. How tired you’ll be. And you haven’t found your dress yet.”

  She might not ever find a dress.

  Maybe it wasn’t about moving the wedding up. Maybe they needed to postpone the wedding. Maybe she wasn’t going to be up to any of this. And after the chemo, she’d be facing radiation.

  “What are you thinking?” Geoff squeezed her hand.

  “Nothing. You’re right.”

  Why was she thinking about postponing the wedding—talking herself out of the one thing she’d always wanted? It wasn’t that she didn’t want to marry Geoff. She did.

  Just not like this.

  She was fighting for her life by trusting in doctors and chemicals and positive thoughts, all while her dream-come-true wedding slipped away from her. While she faded into the background.

  19

  THIS WAS A MISTAKE.

  But I also had no choice. After what happened at the awards ceremony for Pepper—and all the other honorees—I owed Sydney for failing to come through on our agreement. Of course, if I thought about all the hours she’d coached me during high school, I’d never be able to repay her, but right now I was only thinking about the debacle eleven days ago. I didn’t even know what happened after I walked out, chasing a figment of my overemotional imagination.

  I didn’t want to know.

  “I was calling to see if you’d like to drop by and watch one of Club Brio’s practices. The fourteens and sixteens teams practice on Mondays and Wednesdays. What do you think?”

  I’d replayed Sydney’s voice mail several times before calling her back and agreeing to come to a practice.

  One.

  Right after I hung up with Sydney, I wanted to call her back. Ask why she called me. What her ulterior motive was.

  I should have said a polite “No, thank you” and changed the subject. Asked about her husband. Or her kids. Instead, I said, “Sounds fun.”

  I hadn’t touched a volleyball since Pepper died. My grief had kept me from finishing out our club season. I didn’t even bother to try out my senior year. I went to school, attended classes, and went home. And then I graduated, survived my last summer at home, and left for college as soon as I could.

  Now, here I was, standing just inside the doorway of a rec center gym, dressed in navy sweatpants, a T-shirt, and an old pair of tennis shoes I found in the back of my closet that I’d bought the last time I decided I needed to work out.

  Two volleyball nets were set up in the center of the gym, each surrounded on both sides by a group of girls in typical volleyball garb—an assortment of club T-shirts, spandex shorts, and athletic shoes, their long hair braided or pulled back in ponytails or piled on top of their heads in messy buns. The far team—the fourteens—was doing run-throughs while Sydney ran the sixteens through the “W” drill.

  How many hundreds of hours had Pepper and I spent in a gym just like this one after starting club ball when we were thirteen? Conditioning, running through drills, scrimmaging with other teams. Celebrating our victories and bemoaning our defeats. Watching videos of our games so we could figure out what worked and what didn’t. Celebrating team birthdays with cupcakes or cookies after practice.

  Some coaches suggested to my parents that Pepper and I should split up—try playing on separate teams. But we insisted we were a duo—an identically matched set—and that we played volleyball together or not at all.

  Together. Or not at all.

  “Payton! You came.” Sydney waved and ran over from the court to hug me.

  “Of course. Thanks for the invite.”

  “I’m hoping you’ll do more than watch tonight. I need some help.”

  “You need me to shag balls for you?”

  “Actually, my assistant coach can’t make it. Her car broke down. I was hoping you’d stand in for her.”

  “I don’t know. I haven’t played volleyball in years—”

  “I’m not asking you to scrimmage with the girls.” Sydney looped her arm through mine, tugging me toward the court. “I just need help running them through some drills. No matter how long it’s been, you don’t forget stuff like that.”

  No, there are some things you never forget . . . and all of this was so familiar. The sound of the girls’ voices blending together. Laughter mixed with shouts of “Three, three, three!” or “I’ve got it!” The repeated thump of volleyballs hitting the court. The sharp squeak of skin against wood as a girl dove for a ball and slammed her body onto the floor.

  Even as the word no formed in my mind, the word sure came out of my mouth. “I guess I can run some drills for you.”

  “Great. I thought I’d have you work with my middles.”

  “Okay.” I ran my fingers through my hair, wishing for a headband. Or a bottle of water. Or the chance to run outside and hide in my car. “What do you want me to do?”

  “Let me introduce you to my middles. They haven’t been getting out to the block in time. Can you work on some of the footwork with them?”

  “Sure.” The real question was, would I remember the steps? “Let me, um, run to the bathroom and I’ll be right back.”

  I fast-walked down the hall, muttering to myself, “Footwork. Footwork. What did we do?”

  Once in the bathroom, I stood at one end of the elongated mirror, pretending that it was a volleyball net and that my reflection was an opponent.

  Without analyzing my movements, I crossed over to the middle of the invisible “net,” pushing up to block an imaginary volleyball coming across the top. I did it again, and then I slowed my steps, reciting, “Open, cross, plant, up . . .”

  Just as I went up, my hands over my head, a girl wearing a Club Brio T-shirt walked into the bathroom. Our eyes met in the mirror as I landed on my feet. Neither of us said a word. She entered a stall. I exited the bathroom.

  Enough practice. Time to act like I knew what I was doing.

  Sydney waited with a trio of girls. I couldn’t tell if they were bored or curious. “Payton, meet Jody, Katelyn, and Tiffany. Girls, this is Payton Thatcher. She and her sister were two of the best middles I ever coached.”

  Huh. Nice of her to include me when she said that.

  “I asked her to work with you tonight since Coach Alex couldn’t make it. Pay attention. Got it?” Sydney stepped back. “I’ll take the defenders to the other side of the court and slam some balls at them while you work with these guys. Sound good?”

  “Perfect.”

  Seconds later, I faced three girls. What happened next was up to me.

  What would Pepper do?

  “So tell me your names again. I figure if I’m working you hard tonight, which I will—” I grinned—“I ought to remember your names.”

  The girls chorused their names at me, smiles on their faces.

  “You and your sister played volleyball?” The tallest girl—Jody—asked the question.

  “Yeah. My twin sister, Pepper.”

  “You have a twin sister?”

  “Yes.” I knew what the next question would be. “We’re identical twins.”

  “You still play?”

  “No.”

  “Does she?” Katelyn rearranged her ponytail as she talked.

  “No—we don’t.”

  “Why not?”

  The conversation had gotten too personal too fast. Time to be the coach.

  “Listen, we could stand around and talk, but I think Coach wants me to work you guys. So line up, okay? Jody, you first, then Katelyn, and then Tiffany. Let’s talk about footwork. You’ve got one second to get to the outside. Your footwork needs to be . . .” I replayed the movements I’d practiced in the bathroom. “Open—you face the hitter. Cross—start planting your feet. Plant—anchor both feet and bend your knees to prepare to go up. Up—push off and jump.”

  I ran the girls through the moves several times before emphasizing their hand position—reminding them that at “open” they framed the hitter with their hands and that at “cross” and “plant” their hands lowered to provide momentum to push up when they jumped and blocked the opposing hitter.

  “Your hands always stay above your head at the net.” I demonstrated the position. “Okay, let’s switch and do this from the right side of the net, and then we’ll grab some volleyballs.”