18

MONDAY MORNING. And here I was walking in not one, not two, but three hours late.

In the past month, I’d wrecked my reputation of being the first one to arrive at work and the last one to leave. I just never realized how proud I was of the self-appointed honor.

It wasn’t like Kimberlee and I competed against one another. Festivities was based on trust, not rivalry. But my work ethic was part of being a team player —doing my part to make Festivities successful. Unlike Kimberlee, I wasn’t a party waiting to happen. I wasn’t able to pull off blue highlights and a multitude of rings and also be comfortable with wealthy socialites or eighty-year-old matriarchs or twentysomethings planning a wedding with an exorbitant budget and too many ideas for how to spend it. But I could ensure things ran smoothly behind the scenes both at the office and at our events. I could make Kimberlee’s life easier. After all, she’d rescued me when my life had run off the rails —as useless as a middle attending a summer volleyball camp with a broken ankle.

If this had been high school volleyball practice and I’d shown up late, I’d know just what to do. Offer no excuses. Suit up. Run a mile’s worth of laps around the gym perimeter and then join the team in whatever drill they were working through. But this was Kimberlee, not Coach Sydney.

“Sorry I’m late.” I tossed my purse on my desk, digging through it in search of my makeup bag.

“I’m not your mother. Or your boss.” Kimberlee set a mug of coffee on my desk. “This is for you. You’ll need to add more sugar. It was for me, but you look like you need it more than I do.”

“I didn’t put on any makeup yet.” I spilled the contents of the clear plastic bag onto my desk. Mascara, foundation, several compacts of eye shadow, an eyelash curler.

“I could say something like you’re going to need an extra layer —”

“But friends don’t say things like that, do they, Kimmie?”

“And friends don’t call their friends Kimmie, either, do they?”

“Sleep deprivation does funny things to a girl.” Humor, however slight, was better than feeling exposed.

For the moment, I ignored the much-needed makeup on my desk and cradled the coffee mug in both hands, the better to hide the ever-present tremor in my fingers. Maybe I’d skip the eyeliner today.

“What’s going on, Payton?”

I set aside the mug, thankful for the warmth that had seeped into my skin for those brief seconds, and selected a neutral shade of eye shadow. Opened the compact, swiped the brush through the powder. “I’m just having a rough time sleeping lately.”

“Okay. But why?” Kimberlee perched on the edge of my desk. “I know we’re business partners, but I thought we were friends, too. Good friends. You’ve stood by me through everything from bad haircuts to breakups.”

I tossed the brush aside. No makeup was better than poorly applied makeup, no matter how haggard I looked. Poor Kimberlee and Bianca would just have to put up with looking at me au naturel all day. I, on the other hand, could avoid mirrors.

“Payton?”

Fine. Kimberlee wanted me to talk? I’d talk.

“I broke up with Nash —”

“Oh, come on! This is not about Nash.” Kimberlee snorted. “I’ve seen you break up with plenty of guys and you never lost sleep over any of them. Don’t try to convince me that you were so in love with Nash that it’s keeping you awake at night. Not buying it.”

If only all this upheaval was about breaking up with Nash. But it wasn’t, and Kimberlee had seen right through my diversionary tactic. Why couldn’t the sleepless nights, the loss of appetite, the inability to focus be caused by something as simple as breaking up with a guy?

The daily to-do list sat on my desk —the one I always prepared. Bianca must have printed it out. She was doing both her job and mine. Maybe I needed to find a pen and add, Tell my family the truth to the list.

“I . . . I’ve been having these odd dreams.” The admission was a flat whisper.

“What kind of dreams?”

“My twin sister, Pepper, shows up and, um, talks to me.”

I had to give Kimberlee credit. She didn’t freak out.

“What does she talk about?”

“Different things.” I leaned back in my chair. “She asks about me. My family. She wanted to know why I wasn’t playing volleyball —”

“Volleyball? Because you played together in high school?”

“No. I mean, yeah. But we’d also made plans after we graduated. Pepper would have gotten a college scholarship. And I’d thought about volleyball, too.”

“You never told me this.”

“Well, those dreams got wrecked.”

“Why?”

I didn’t answer.

How could I explain something I’d never said out loud before? It had all made sense to me ten years ago —an emotional cause and effect. My actions caused Pepper’s death. No amount of medication or time or space or penance erased that truth. Why should I get what I wanted out of life when Pepper didn’t? When I was the reason Pepper didn’t?

And my family still didn’t know the truth.

“Payton?”

“Sorry.” I took a long sip of the coffee, savoring the warmth. “So, yeah. I’m not sleeping well. And the dreams make me anxious.”

“Anxious how?”

Now Kimberlee sounded like the psychologist who used to lead group sessions at the hospital. At first, I was quiet during the sessions. Let everyone else talk. Answer the “How are you feeling today?” and “Why do you think you feel that way?” questions. But then I learned that if I wanted to get out of the hospital —if I wanted everyone to think I was fine, that I was getting over Pepper’s death —I had to talk.

“How are you feeling today, Payton?”

“Better.”

“Why do you think that is?”

Because that’s what you want me to say. “It’s helping me to listen to other people talk.”

“How does that help you?”

Because then I don’t have to talk. “I realize I feel sad. And angry. And that I can find different ways to process my emotions.”

For once, the guy made eye contact with me. Had my answer sounded too rote? If nothing else, I was a fast learner.

I rubbed the heel of my hand against my sternum. “Talking eases some of the tightness in my chest.”

“I’m glad to hear that, Payton. I hope you’ll participate more in the group in the future.”

“I’ll try.” Anything to get out of here.

“When you stare off into space like that, I’m not sure what to do.” Kimberlee’s voice pulled me back to the present. “Let you stay where you are or bring you back.”

“I’m sorry.” I held the empty mug close. “Just shake me or something.”

“Right.”

Kimberlee wasn’t some unwelcome stranger prying into my life, jotting notes in a chart whenever I said something —notes that I never got to see. What had they written about me, anyway? Did a group of them sit around later and read over all the different scribbles?

“Maybe you should ask Pepper why she’s showing up in your dreams.”

“What does that mean?”

“I know it sounds a little crazy, but haven’t you ever read about how powerful dreams can be? Symbolic? And you keep dreaming about Pepper. Isn’t it true that twins have this special, almost-magical connection? Maybe that’s still there, even though Pepper’s gone.”

Pepper and me. The identical, powerful Double Trouble.

“It’s true, Pepper and I were close.” How much of this did I want to remember? “My parents even said we had our own language when we were toddlers. Nobody else understood what we were saying, but we understood each other perfectly —or so they said.”

But no relationship is perfect. And people change. And twin relationships aren’t magical.

“You know what? I appreciate you listening. I really do.” I eased past Kimberlee so I could rinse my empty cup and then insert a fresh pod into the Keurig. Time for caffeine, round two. “But don’t you think it’s time to table this ‘Let’s analyze Payton’ discussion and get to work?”

“Why do I get the feeling you’re not telling me something?”

I faced away from my friend. She was persistent. And right. I poured water into the top of the Keurig. Why not tell her the truth? Someone not involved? Kind of like a trial run. If I stumbled over my words, so be it.

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.