Jillian pulled herself up from the couch, grumbling the entire way down the hall so that her friend could hear her. Harper’s laughter sounded back through the phone.

  The simple glass jar filled with multicolored pieces of paper sat on her dresser, the silver lid beside it among a jumble of receipts, earrings, and bracelets.

  “Pick one already!” Harper raised her voice to be heard.

  “All right!” Jillian dipped her hand into the papers, swirling her fingertips, and selected a bright-purple one as she cradled the phone against her shoulder. The twinge of pain was worth it to keep her friend happy. “I got one.”

  “What’s it say?”

  “‘When I smile, I feel better.’”

  “Okay. Look in the mirror and smile.”

  “Are you kidding me?”

  “Do it.”

  Harper would badger her until she smiled at her reflection, so Jillian tilted her head, met her own gaze, and smiled. It was forced. But it was a smile.

  “Feel better?”

  “I feel ridiculous—and that’s better than grouchy, right?”

  “Right. I know this is tough, but you’re no quitter.” Harper’s tone softened. “I love you.”

  “I love you, too. Get back to work. And thanks for calling.”

  Jillian tucked the purple slip of paper into her jeans pocket as she headed back to the living room. Sometimes this whole “positive thinking” idea seemed like an exercise in futility. She would read the line—Think positive thoughts and positive things will happen, or Believe you can—and try to hold on to it. But it seemed to float away, to burst . . . like the rainbow-tinted bubbles her mother used to blow for her and her sisters in the backyard. She’d chase after them, hands reaching, and then they’d pop.

  Maybe she’d do better once she was off the narcotics for pain. Once she was sleeping better.

  As she sat on the couch, her arm brushed her chest . . . where her breast should be . . . causing her to catch her breath at the pain.

  Maybe she’d do better once she got used to her body again.

  It had only been a week. Both Dr. Williamson and Dr. Sartwell had said she needed to give herself time to adjust.

  One of the first positive thoughts she’d pulled from the jar was Your attitude determines your direction.

  She wanted to go forward. Wanted to heal. But she was going slowly.

  Her mother appeared, carrying two plates. “Lunch is ready. Are you hungry?”

  “A little. Maybe we could watch TV?”

  “Sounds perfect.” Her mother set the plates on the coffee table. “I’ll get our drinks. Hot tea sound good?”

  “Yes.”

  By the time her mother returned, Jillian had tuned the TV to a rerun of Property Brothers. “Just some background noise.”

  “I’ve always liked the show.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes. It intrigues me, I guess, because of the twin brothers. . . .”

  “Did you like having twins, Mom?”

  “I liked being a mom. Period. Having twins, well, it was a different kind of challenge. I mean, here I was, forty years old and coming home from the hospital with not one, but two babies.”

  “I imagine that was a bit of a shock.”

  “Yes, it was. Everyone was making such a fuss over the twins, your father included. I was worried you and Johanna would get lost in all the excitement.”

  “It’s kind of to be expected, isn’t it?”

  “You say that now, but it was a pretty big change for you and your sister.”

  “Ye-es, but I don’t feel like I lost you after Payton and Pepper were born.”

  “Thank you for saying so.”

  They sat without talking, watching one of the twin brothers demolish a kitchen.

  “I remember doing this when I was little.”

  “What? Renovating a house?”

  “Very funny. No. Staying home from school when I was sick. You’d turn on the TV and let me watch daytime game shows.” When her mother touched her hand, Jillian asked, “How are you doing, Mom?”

  Her mother half turned to face her. “Me? I’m fine.”

  “No, really—how are you?”

  “No mother wants to see her child sick . . . or hurt . . . or . . .” Her mother picked at the remains of her salad. “I’m glad I can be here to help you. I’m thankful you’ve got good doctors. I believe you’re going to be okay, Jillian. I really do.”

  For a moment, her mother had been vulnerable. Shared some of her fears. But how could she believe that Jillian would be okay? Pepper had died. Maybe her mother thought losing one daughter exempted her from losing another one.

  Or maybe her mom survived on positive thoughts, too. Taking it one day, one crisis, at a time. Believing tomorrow would be better. Easier.

  Jillian didn’t know. They never talked about it. Pepper died . . . and they all somehow adjusted to one less Thatcher sister in their own way. Now, years later, they were here. Facing her diagnosis. And they just did what needed to be done.

  Her mother’s choice to get up and live the next day . . . and the next . . . and the next had been enough when Pepper died. Choosing to do so again would be enough now. For all of them.

  11

  FROM ELEMENTARY SCHOOL to halfway through my junior year of high school, I could crawl into bed, put my head on the pillow, and not remember anything until morning came, the sound of my mother’s voice or of the alarm clock dragging me from blissful oblivion.

  And then Pepper died. A nuclear bomb of emotions detonated inside me, one that doctors tried to calm with medications.

  At times memories of Pepper overwhelmed me. Guilt threatened to strangle me. Despair haunted me day and night. Sleep evaded me. I wrote desperate thoughts in my journal, as if the reckless flow of words might somehow fill the void in my life.

  I would not become that girl again.

  But sleeplessness taunted me. I’d taken to moving back and forth between the couch and my bed, hoping changing my location would stop Pepper from finding me while I slept. But as if she knew the importance of the upcoming evening, she’d invaded the moments in between my waking and sleeping.

  Last night’s dream returned as I finished applying my makeup—a little blush to feign color in my skin.

  “Heading back to high school tonight, huh?”

  Pepper. I turned around, trying to get my bearings. She leaned against a locker—her high school locker. Mine was right next to hers, decorated with a white construction-paper volleyball with my jersey number on it.

  “Yes.”

  “Looking forward to it?”

  “Sure.”

  “Oh, come on, Pay. I know you better than that. You don’t want to go.”

  “Fine. I don’t want to go. But I’ll do it.”

  “Thanks.” Pepper straightened. “Tell me something?”

  “Sure.”

  “What’s with the vegan thing?”

  “It’s not a ‘thing,’ Pepper. I’ve been vegan for years.”

  “Why?”

  “I feel better eating that way. Healthier.”

  “O-kay. Then it’s not some sort of social statement—”

  “It’s a personal choice.”

  “Why don’t you have a dog? Or a cat?”

  “Really? We’re talking about pets now?”

  “Do you want to talk about Nash?”

  As Pepper moved down the hallway, I fell into step beside her. “No, I don’t want to talk about Nash—”

  “Come on, Payton, we used to talk about everything.”

  “That was before—”

  “What? Before I died?”

  “No. Before you changed.”

  Pepper stilled. Stared at me. “Everybody changes, Payton. You did.”

  “I did not.”

  “Yes. Yes, you did. If you’d just told the truth, things would be different—”

  “It’s too late for that now.”

  “Is it?” And then she turned her back on me and disappeared into the hallway that was now filled with other students.

  Tell the truth. How easy for some dream-Pepper to suggest I tell the truth all these years later. That things would be different. Better.

  If I could ask Pepper a question, it would be why she decided to show up now—and when she was going to leave me alone.

  My cell phone rang, and despite seeing that it was Johanna, I answered. If I didn’t, she would call back until I picked up.

  “Hey, Johanna.”

  “You’re still coming tonight, right?”

  “Just getting ready to walk out the door.”

  “Good. It starts at seven. No need to be late.”

  “I’ve got plenty of time.”

  “You know how important this is to Mom and Dad—”

  “I’ll see you there,” I interrupted my sister, ending the call without a good-bye. If I let her, Johanna would hunt me down tonight and critique whatever I said about Pepper.

  My phone buzzed again, but this time with a text message from Nash.

  I’m here. I’m coming up.

  I scrambled to text him back, almost knocking my makeup bag onto the bathroom floor. I’m on my way down.

  Within moments, I slid into the passenger seat of his sports car, accepting his kiss before adjusting my seat belt.

  “You look nice.”

  “Thanks.” No need to tell him how many outfits I’d left tossed all over my bed before deciding on a pair of slim dark jeans and a patterned blouse paired with low-heeled purple leather boots.

  “How are you feeling?” Nash reached over and clasped my hand in his.

  “Fine. I’m good.” I resisted the urge to shake off his touch.

  “Are you nervous?”

  “I’m not nervous.”

  “Did you write down what you’re going to say? Do you want to practice—?”

  “No.” Keep holding his hand. The man means well. “I—I’ve gone over it enough. I don’t want it to be too perfect, you know? Besides, it’s only four minutes. How badly can I flub it?”

  “Pepper would be proud—”

  “Red light.” I pulled my hand from Nash’s, bracing myself against the dashboard.

  “Relax, babe.”

  “Is it okay if I put on some music?” I turned on his radio, satisfied with whatever station was playing.

  “Sure. Listen, do you want to go out to dinner after the ceremony?”

  All I wanted was for Nash to stop talking. “I don’t know. Maybe. Why don’t we see how it goes?”

  “I’ll mention it to your dad, okay?”

  “Can we just get through this?” I didn’t try to soften the sharp edge to my words.

  “Fine.”

  I leaned back, closing my eyes to fend off any more conversation.

  But the words of my presentation scrambled in my brain like train cars lined up out of order—caboose, passenger cars, engine, more passenger cars.

  Was tonight going to be a train wreck?

  I could do this. I could stand up and talk about Pepper for less than five minutes. Share a memory of playing volleyball together. Find it in myself to laugh about how we were called Double Trouble. Say how much Pepper would appreciate this honor . . .

  Yeah. I could fake anything for that long.

  It was the thought of all the small talk . . . the chitchat . . . the “So what have you been doing since high school?” questions before and after that caused my throat to tighten.

  What had I been doing since high school?

  Avoiding all of this. Going forward, not backward. Pretending . . . no, not pretending. Reinventing myself and being true to who I was now.

  “Babe?”

  Nash’s voice had me sitting upright. “What?”

  “We’ll be there in about ten minutes.”

  How had we gotten here so quickly? Had I fallen asleep?

  “That was fast.”

  “For once, traffic from Denver was good.”

  “Great. Wouldn’t want to be late.”

  That wasn’t the truth. I didn’t want to be there at all.

  Zach folded the “Hello, my name is” tag in half and shoved it into the back pocket of his jeans. Bad manners, yes, but he’d always avoided the tacky squares that fell off within seconds or that he forgot to remove until hours later. If he wanted someone to know his name, he’d do it the old-fashioned way and introduce himself without relying on preprinted fluorescent-green letters. Refusing to wear the name tag wasn’t going to hide his identity like Superman donning a pair of glasses and a suit and becoming Clark Kent. Not that he was a superhero.

  Not a chance.

  He stayed on the outskirts of the crowd, avoiding eye contact with the others gathered for the ceremony. Some people clustered in groups, casting furtive glances at the name tags before engaging in “How have you been?” small talk. Others claimed seats at the tables covered with white-and-maroon tablecloths—the school colors—positioned around the gym, while photographs skimmed across the screen at the front of the room.

  He had every right to be here. After all, he was one of the seven people being honored by the high school athletic department. His now-and-then duo of photographs rotated through the montage on the screen. He rubbed the letters tattooed on three of the fingers of his left hand—uneven black block letters. R. U. N. It was a good thing he hadn’t been too drunk to figure out the word runner wouldn’t fit on one hand. He wasn’t a runner anymore, and he wasn’t going to run away today.

  As he stood in front of the table covered with punch-filled plastic cups, the Thatcher family took their seats at one of the tables up front. Payton’s parents. Her older sister Johanna, looking as reserved as she had at Pepper’s funeral. Jillian sat next to some guy—had she gotten married? Zach cracked his knuckles one by one. There they sat, unaware they were the jury, able to declare him guilty or, with a word, with an act of kindness, to pronounce him free from his past mistakes. But thanks to Payton, he couldn’t even approach them.

  He gulped down a glass of punch, reaching for a second. Tasted like the same stuff they’d served at every single awards banquet he’d ever attended. Payton entered the room at last, like some judge claiming her courtroom. She’d already refused to grant him a pardon. A man accompanied her, his arm around her waist drawing her close to his side. Zach knew by the way her posture stiffened, her steps slowed, exactly when she noticed him. He nodded, offering her a small salute, hoping it came off casual, not cocky.

  Payton whispered something to the guy—Zach could only assume he was her boyfriend from the way he pressed a kiss to her lips—and then stepped toward Zach. This was what he wanted, right? A chance to plead his case again? Then why was his mind a blank? Where were all those carefully rehearsed words? He had to come up with something more than “Hello” and “How are you?” if he wanted to get the advantage of Payton Thatcher.

  As Payton positioned herself in front of him, Pepper’s photo—a quick reminder of what Payton had looked like in high school—flashed across the screen behind her, confirming he wasn’t the only one who’d changed in ten years. Gone was the athletic girl who’d walked the hallways with her sister, their auburn hair hanging down their backs. In her place stood an achingly thin woman with dark circles under her eyes, her hair pulled back from her face by a thin headband, a few tendrils falling against the sharp curves of her cheekbones.

  “Before you go and ask why I’m here, I’ll remind you that I’m one of the honorees—”

  “Where’s your family?”

  “I didn’t tell them about tonight.”

  “What? Why not?”

  “I kind of wrecked high school for me and my family—but I don’t have to tell you that.” Zach straightened his shoulders.

  “Yes, well, since you are here, I’ll remind you that I asked you to leave me and my family alone tonight. Please.” She tacked on the last word as if forced to do the right thing—to use her nice words.

  “I remember your decree, Payton.” His choice of words caused her lips to form a thin line, her eyes flashing. Well, at least he had her attention, even if he did feel like a defendant about to represent himself with no preparation. “But I don’t think I’m being unreasonable to ask for a chance to talk to your family—”

  “This isn’t about what you want, Zach. This is about you leaving my family alone today, tomorrow . . . forever. We’ve all made our peace with Pepper’s death—” Payton swallowed as if even mentioning her sister was a struggle—“and your appearance will just be disruptive and painful.”

  “Be reasonable, Payton. I don’t have to ask permission to talk to your parents. But I’m trying to be considerate of your feelings. You’re not the only one who was hurt by Pepper’s death—who needs healing. Closure.”

  “Don’t come here and start talking to me about healing.” Payton slashed the air with her open hand. “I’m fine. My family is fine. And we’ll be fine if you stay away from us.”

  “If you were really fine, you’d let me talk to your parents—”

  “So you say. Talking doesn’t always help. Confession isn’t always good for the soul. Words don’t always heal. Sometimes they . . . they . . .”

  “Sometimes they what, Payton?”

  “Sometimes words create more confusion . . . more hurt . . .” She stopped talking. “I don’t know why I’m standing here having this conversation with you. All I wanted to do was remind you to stay away from my family. I’m done talking with you. I need to go sit down before the program starts.”

  So much for pleading his case. If anything, he’d lost ground with Payton. Zach could almost hear the strike of a gavel echoing through a courtroom. Had he mistaken God’s prompting to seek out Payton Thatcher? Had he tried too hard to have his own way rather than waiting on God? He pressed his fist against his lips. He refused to believe this setback was permanent. He’d waited this long. He could wait longer. If there’s one thing he’d learned since God had broken into his life, it was that He was always working in the waiting times.

  12

  EVERYONE ELSE IN THE GYM seemed happy to be here. A celebratory mood filled the room, the site of so many school plays, choir concerts, awards assemblies.