Stop. I couldn’t think about yesterday’s conversation with my sister’s fiancé.

  Calling my former high school volleyball coach and talking to her about the upcoming awards ceremony didn’t mean I was going to the event. We’d say hello. Have a conversation. Catch up. Talk about Pepper.

  Pace. Turn. Pace. Turn.

  And then I’d say, “Thank you for wanting to include me in honoring my sister, but I can’t attend because I have a previous commitment. With my job.”

  A lie, yes. But a cowardly lie was better than standing up in front of a room full of people—my family included—and reminiscing about Pepper.

  I started to put Coach Sydney’s number in my keypad. Stopped. What was I doing? This was her old phone number—the one from a decade ago. Would it still work? Funny how I still remembered it all these years later. But then again, maybe not so odd, what with all the times Pepper and I texted her about practices and games and tournaments and summer camps.

  I found the phone number Mom had given me in my notes app as I settled on the couch. Might as well be comfortable if I was going to do this. And what could Sydney do when I said no? She wasn’t my coach anymore, so she couldn’t make me run laps or do wall sits or conditioning exercises. Or bench me.

  But then Sydney said hello, her voice sounding so much the same. For a moment I was sixteen again. Pepper should be here with me, waiting to interrupt the conversation with her own questions and funny comments until I gave in and handed her the phone.

  How silly. I only saw my sister in my dreams these days.

  I shook my head, dispelling the thought. Silence loomed on both sides of the phone.

  “Hey, Coach . . . Sydney . . .” What did I call her now? “This is Payton Thatcher.”

  “Payton! I’m so glad you called. How are you?”

  “I’m fine. Good. How are you?” I pulled the T-shirt quilt up over my legs. So many T-shirts from clubs and tournaments around the country. So many memories of volleyball, all stitched together.

  “Exhausted all the time, if you want to know the truth. But that’s what I get for being a mom and running a volleyball club.” She laughed, the sound of the TV playing in the background. “I love my life.”

  “How many kids do you have?”

  “Two—a boy and a girl. My husband and I are debating whether we go for a third or not. What about you?”

  Me?

  And just like that, Sydney turned the attention away from herself. She’d always been more concerned about the team. Her girls. Our goals. Our high school struggles and romances. Our plans for the future.

  “Um, no kids. Still single. Busy with my job.”

  “What are you doing these days? I think your mom mentioned you’re an event planner?”

  “Right. I own a company with a college friend.” I traced the outline of a volleyball in one of the quilt squares. “We specialize in social events. Wedding receptions. Anniversary and birthday celebrations. Those kinds of things.”

  “Party all the time. Sounds like fun. Can I find you on Facebook?”

  “Yes. Festivities—that’s our company. One of my responsibilities is to keep all the social media updated with photos from our events. I love doing that.” I twisted the end of my hair. Did I sound too happy, as if I was trying to convince her that my life was good—really good? “I’m not too active on my personal page.”

  “I found that out. That’s why I had to track you down through your parents. I’d just about given up on you.”

  “I’m sorry I didn’t call sooner.” I forced myself to talk slower. Just say what needed to be said. “About the awards ceremony—”

  “You probably want details.”

  No. I didn’t want details. I wanted to say no.

  “Your mom gave you the date, right? Saturday, September 16, from seven to nine o’clock. So far, we’re expecting about seventy-five to one hundred people. Someone from the local news might cover it. We’re still not sure about that.”

  News coverage?

  “We’re having light hors d’oeuvres and putting together a slide show. Your mom told you that we’re retiring Pepper’s jersey, right?”

  “Yes.” Should I say something more? “Pepper would like that.”

  “I thought so, too. That’s when I’d like you to say something. I’ll present the jersey and I thought you could share a memory or two about Pepper. Five minutes, tops.”

  As Sydney detailed the verbal black-and-white about the ceremony, I pressed my hand against my chest, trying to stop a dull ache from building inside me.

  One hundred people.

  A reporter.

  My family.

  Was I hesitant because I didn’t want to get up in front of all those people? Or was I jealous that even ten years after her death I would be standing in the shadows while the light shone on Pepper’s memory?

  I’d been proud of Pepper’s success all those years ago. Why would I be jealous now?

  “What do you think, Payton?” Sydney’s voice interrupted my internal debate. “Can I count on you?”

  Could she?

  My sister couldn’t count on me.

  I’d failed her ten years ago. Speaking at the awards ceremony would never atone for my mistake, but at least I would be doing the right thing now. For one evening. Two hours—or less, if I arrived late and left early.

  “Absolutely, Sydney.” I forced the words past my tight throat. “I’m happy to do it.”

  A lie. Not the lie I’d planned on, but a lie, nonetheless.

  And my appearance at the event in a few weeks would be pure pretense as I faked my way through the evening.

  But then, hadn’t I been faking things for the past ten years?

  7

  SOCIAL MEDIA—the introvert’s answer to networking without having to talk to people face-to-face.

  I settled in one corner of my couch, my laptop close by, tuned to a favorite Spotify playlist of country songs. I’d already opened the tab for Festivities’s Pinterest account, ready to add pins to our event boards. But first, I’d add some photos to our Instagram account.

  Our “Paint the Town Red” bachelorette party several weeks ago had thrilled the bride-to-be. The red Hummer limo where the guests enjoyed Sweet Eves cocktails—a red twist on champagne. Guests wearing red dresses receiving gift bags containing bright-red lipstick, nail polish, faux ruby gemstone rings, and feather boas. And a Celtic Woman concert at Red Rocks Amphitheatre, complete with backstage passes.

  Not my idea of fun, but Kimberlee loved the idea. Even Bianca joined in, suggesting the faux jewelry and feather boas. And now to post photos, anticipate people’s reactions, and reply to their comments. Hope we attracted future customers, enabling Kimberlee’s dream to grow even bigger. If my business “superpower” was keeping up our social media presence, so be it.

  Saturday evening spent behind the scenes? Easy. And satisfying, especially since I knew how happy Kimberlee would be when I showed her all the updates on Monday.

  Wait a minute. Was someone knocking at my front door? I muted my playlist right as Keith Urban was crooning, “I’ll be the fighter.” Sure enough, two rapid knocks sounded. Should I ignore it, assuming someone was selling candy or cookies or something else I didn’t need? But I needed to refresh my coffee anyway, so I’d check the door and then grab a refill before getting back to work.

  I opened the door, expecting to see some adolescent asking for a donation to their band program in exchange for a chocolate candy bar. Instead, Nash stood there, holding a huge brown paper sack.

  “Surprise! I brought you dinner.” He smiled his most disarming smile as he moved past me, the aroma of Thai food causing my mouth to water.

  “Nash, I told you I was working.”

  “But a girl’s got to eat, right? And I know you. You won’t take time to make yourself dinner.” Nash continued up the short flight of stairs to my kitchen. “You’ll get all caught up in doing whatever it is you’ve got to do and suddenly it will be midnight and you’ll be starving.”

  After so many months together, the guy knew me. And I should appreciate his surprise appearance with food—most likely Thai curry for me. Nash was being kind. Loving. So why did his showing up on my doorstep feel more like an intrusion?

  “You want to grab dishes while I unpack all this food?”

  “Sure.”

  What had Johanna said about Beckett? He was “easy on the eyes”? So was Nash. He had brown eyes—my favorite. Black hair, just like I preferred. Had a standing monthly appointment with his hairstylist. Spent enough time at the gym to be muscular without being over-the-top about his workouts or his abs or arms. Always smelled good and dressed nice, too.

  In so many ways, he was everything I wanted in a guy. What was wrong with me?

  Now was not the time to answer that question.

  After filling our plates while Nash poured us each a glass of wine, I moved my computer so Nash could join me on the couch.

  “Do you want to put in a movie while we eat?”

  “You go ahead and watch a movie if you want. I’ll probably eat some and then get back to work.”

  “Can’t you relax just for tonight? We haven’t had a date in a while.”

  “That is not all my fault. Work has been busy for both of us. And you were traveling—”

  “I’m just saying I miss you.”

  All of our conversations eventually came to this. Nash said he missed me. I said I missed him. But I didn’t. He complained he didn’t see me enough. And I was fine not seeing him at all.

  As I struggled to say what Nash wanted to hear, he’d moved closer to me on the couch, hemming me in. Making it even more difficult to be who he wanted me to be.

  I couldn’t fake what I didn’t feel.

  Wait. That was wrong. Yes, I could. I’d been doing it for years.

  I didn’t want to pretend that I loved Nash. But I also didn’t have the energy to break up with him tonight, in the middle of an impromptu dinner.

  I was a liar and a coward.

  If I couldn’t say I missed him, could I at least act like I’d missed him?

  “Listen, I’m glad you stopped by, and not because you brought me dinner. I meant to talk to you about this sooner.” I shoveled a bit of Thai curry into my mouth. Chewed. “There’s a ceremony in a few weeks. It’s at my old high school. Honoring star athletes—”

  “Are you going to be honored?”

  “No. Not me. Pepper. She was the one who set all the school records.” I set my plate on the floor, wiping my hands on a napkin. “Anyway, my family is going, of course, and I was asked to talk about Pepper. Nothing too elaborate. I was hoping you’d go with me.”

  “I’d love to go with you, Payton.” Nash took my hand in his. “I know this might be hard for you.”

  I broke contact by retrieving my dinner. “It’s fine. No big deal.”

  What was one more person? I told him the date and time, trying to ignore how pleased he looked to be included.

  He was all about supporting me, and I was all about fulfilling an obligation. This was the death knell of my relationships—the word obligation. And by inviting Nash, I had to go to the event. No backing out now.

  “How about if I put in The Italian Job?”

  “Sure.” One of the action DVDs Nash brought over months ago and left here.

  Juggling my plate, I closed my laptop. Stayed close to Nash when he sat beside me. There’d be no more work tonight.

  At least I’d made him happy . . . for the moment.

  8

  DR. WILLIAMSON’S EXAM ROOM had a split personality.

  One wall was decorated with a large photograph of a trio of waterfalls cascading over a broken bank, exposing the rough roots of trees, into placid water below. All forest greens and browns and foaming white and even teal blue where the photographer had captured what was below the surface of the water.

  Serenity in a picture frame.

  On the opposite wall hung a full-color, side-view drawing of the inside of a woman’s breast. A poster detailing how to do a monthly breast exam. Another titled “101 Breast Cancer Facts.”

  “You okay, Jillian?” Geoff’s question distracted her from the too-small-to-read list of facts.

  “Yes. I just wish Dr. Williamson would get here. I know she’s busy, but—”

  “First patient of the day, and we still have to wait. Crazy, huh?”

  “Yes.” She’d keep her attention on the waterfalls.

  “How are you doing?”

  She could be honest with Geoff. Go past the “fine” answer she said to everyone else. “It’s like I’m on some sort of horrible game show. I know I picked the wrong box . . . or the wrong door. I know it’s bad. I just don’t know how bad.”

  Her heart rate seemed to slow down the longer they waited for the doctor. Every beat seemed harder. Louder. Would her heart stop? Would she keel over in the office before Dr. Williamson showed up?

  No. She couldn’t do that. Couldn’t scare Geoff like that. This was her life and she had to face whatever truth she’d hear this morning.

  Just as the door to the exam room opened, her phone pinged with a text from Harper.

  Be aware of the good.

  Be aware of the good? What was good about cancer?

  Jillian scrambled to think of something—anything—good about her situation.

  Having Dr. Sartwell and Dr. Williamson on her side was good.

  Having Geoff with her was good.

  Having some sort of medical coverage was good.

  There. That was the best she could do right now. She knew how to be okay, no matter what was happening. The middle child. Not the oldest. Not one of the athletic, attention-attracting twin daughters. She was just Jillian—and her claim to fame was cancer.

  Dr. Williamson sat down in front of them. Said good morning. Apologized for being late, offered a brief smile. But she never lost her “I’m the doctor, you’re the patient” demeanor.

  Maybe that was how Jillian could get through this appointment. By being businesslike. She knew how to do that, too. She’d had to deny loans to clients. Had to talk to them about foreclosures. And she’d been caring, but professional.

  “I assume this is your fiancé, Jillian?”

  “Yes, this is Geoff. He wanted to be with me this morning.”

  “I think that’s wise.” The two shook hands. “Do either of you have any questions for me before I talk to you about the MRI findings?”

  “No.” Jillian spoke first as Geoff nodded for her to continue. “No, I think we’d like you to tell us more about the MRI.”

  “Technology has pros and cons, but we’re glad we can image things better now. It helps us plan the surgery more accurately rather than changing things in the operating room.”

  Dr. Williamson inserted a disc into her computer, turning the screen toward Jillian and Geoff. Once the image appeared, she began orienting them. “Although this looks like shadows, I can point out the density and which is the cancer. . . .” She paused. “Maybe this will help you. Do you know why it’s called cancer?”

  Geoff answered. “No, ma’am.”

  “Decades ago, when people first looked at cancer in the body, they said it looked like a crab—a central body with appendages. Some people called it cancer, after the astrological sign.” She turned back to the MRI. “You can see the central mass, but there are tendrils spreading out from it. Unfortunately, doing a lumpectomy like we had originally planned isn’t sufficient. We need to get as much of the cancer cells as possible so that chemotherapy will be effective. The less cancer your immune system has to kill off, the more likely it is to be successful.”

  The words mass and tendrils and chemotherapy swirled in Jillian’s brain, even as the room seemed to sway around her. Someone might as well have come up behind her while she’d been standing on the edge of a cliff and shoved her off.

  When she remained silent, Geoff spoke up. “What are you recommending Jillian do?”

  “We need to do a unilateral mastectomy.”

  A mastectomy? Even as she resisted the urge to move her hand up to shield her breast, Jillian found her voice. “That’s one side, right?”

  “Yes.”

  For some reason, she noticed the time on the clock: 8:37 in the morning. The moment she learned what was behind the door.

  “How soon?”

  “This is not an emergency, but the sooner the better. I recommend scheduling surgery next week. We still need to do other tests.”

  One week. Seven days.

  “Like what?”

  “Blood work and a CAT scan.” Dr. Williamson turned the screen back toward herself. “This is your decision, Jillian. You’re welcome to get a second opinion. And if you’d like me to talk to your family, I’m available to do that, too.”

  “I don’t know. I do want to talk to Dr. Sartwell, but there’s no need for you to talk to my family.”

  “I’ve already spoken to Dr. Sartwell, but I’m certain she’s expecting a phone call from you.”

  Jillian didn’t remember saying good-bye. Checking out at the billing desk. One minute she was talking about dates for surgery, the next she was sitting in the passenger seat of Geoff’s car.

  “What do you want to do, honey? We can go get breakfast—”

  “I want to go to work.” Jillian set her purse at her feet and clicked her seat belt into place, staring straight ahead at the other cars in the parking lot.

  “Jillian—”

  “I want to go to work.” She didn’t mean to sound harsh. She wasn’t angry with Geoff. She wasn’t angry with anyone. “I’m not hungry right now. And you need to get into work, too.”

  “Do you want me to call anyone for you?”

  “I’ll call Dr. Sartwell on the way. You’re driving.”

  “What about your family?”

  “I’ll call Johanna. And my parents. And Payton.”

  Geoff rested his hand over hers. “You don’t have to do all that. I can call them when we get to the bank. And my parents, too.”

  “It’s fine, Geoff. I’ll call my family and you can call your parents later. Right now just go ahead and drive.”