6

JILLIAN SAT ON THE EDGE OF HER BED, her damp hair wrapped in a towel, her robe belted around her waist. If she didn’t get moving and blow-dry her hair and get dressed, she’d be late for work. The first time ever.

She remained sitting, the soles of her feet rubbing back and forth on the soft carpeting.

It wasn’t as if anyone would reprimand her. Or ask why. Or even think for one second her fiancé had stayed at her apartment until three o’clock in the morning —fully clothed and sound asleep, holding her as she stared into the darkness.

Not the well-behaved, punctual, and pleasant Jillian Thatcher.

And if someone asked, “Are you okay?” she’d say yes. Nothing more, nothing less. She wasn’t prepared to invite more people into this new reality. Wasn’t ready to deal with their reactions. To watch them struggle to say the right thing. Or to listen to their advice. What their mother or sister or grandmother or second-aunt-twice-removed did or didn’t do when she had breast cancer.

Everyone had a story. Fine. She was stuck in this unexpected chapter of her story. She’d thought she was living in a romance, only to discover she was in the middle of a medical drama.

Somebody needed to hand her a copy of the story of her life so she could read ahead. Find out what came next.

If she lived or died.

Jillian stood, jerking her robe open and advancing on her closet, only to be stopped by the ring of her cell phone where it lay on the bed.

“Hello?”

“Hello, Jillian. Did I catch you on your way to work?”

Johanna.

Her sister’s voice was like a splash of cold water to her face. “No. I’m still getting dressed.”

“Running a bit late this morning, aren’t you?”

“Yes.” Jillian grabbed a simple black shift dress from the closet, tossing it on the bed and putting her phone on speaker. “Go ahead and keep talking. I can listen while I finish up.”

“First, thank you for having Geoff call about the MRI results. I told Mom and Dad that I’d . . .” Johanna’s voice became muffled as Jillian pulled on her dress. “So how are you?”

“Fine. Waiting to talk to Dr. Williamson on Monday. That’s all I can do.”

“I was online last night —”

“I don’t have time for that this morning.” Jillian grabbed a pair of gray leather boots from the closet. A paisley scarf in blues and whites from the rack hanging over the back of her door.

A moment of silence and then, “I understand.”

More like Johanna was tabling that conversation until later. What else did she want?

“Have you thought about when you want to have your bridal shower? Before the holidays or early next year?”

Now Johanna was back to her timetable. She’d always been about keeping her calendar organized. In high school, she’d color-coded her classes and after-school activities and job schedule, using Sharpies and highlighters and markers. Jillian was the one who loved the rhyme and rhythm of numbers, but even today her calendar was a bit helter-skelter, the front of her fridge covered with a maze of magnets that pinned down appointment reminders and coupons and last year’s photo Christmas cards.

And today she didn’t want to be squeezed into her sister’s timetable.

“Johanna, I really haven’t had time to think about this. Do we have to decide now?”

“You know we could simplify things.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Why don’t we forget about having the wedding in April and plan something much smaller —but just as nice —in about five weeks?”

“Forget about having the wedding in April.”

The words stung somewhere deep inside her.

“Are you crazy? We can’t have a wedding in five weeks —”

“Hear me out, Sis. We can still have the things that are most important to you. The flowers. The colors. Maybe even the location if we move fast. The style of dress you want. A small wedding can be so intimate and lovely.”

“But I’ve always wanted a spring wedding. . . .”

“I know. But this way you and Geoff would be married before . . . before you start any sort of treatment.”

Johanna had it all thought out. As far as she was concerned, abandoning all of Jillian’s plans was the right, best thing.

Jillian dropped the boots to the floor beside the bed, causing the small stack of bridal magazines to topple over. Should she fight Johanna? Or was her sister right?

“There’s no way we can plan a wedding in five weeks —”

“With Payton’s help we can.”

“You talked to Payton about this?”

“Yes.”

She couldn’t deal with a cancer diagnosis and fight both her sisters. “I don’t know . . .”

“Why don’t you talk to your doctor on Monday? See what she thinks?”

Ask Dr. Williamson on Monday about getting married to Geoff in five weeks while they discussed her cancer.

Ridiculous.

“No. No more ideas, Johanna.”

Would her sister even listen to her? It seemed Johanna would never hear the voice inside Jillian’s head demanding, Listen to me! Look at me! Maybe one day Jillian would actually say it out loud.

“Why don’t you think about it for a few more days —?”

“I’m getting married in the spring like I’ve always wanted to. Just like Mom and Dad did.”

“Then we stay with April.” Johanna’s voice was subdued. “The way you planned it.”

Jillian’s shoulders relaxed. Argument won. This was Johanna, the sister she’d been closest to growing up. They’d shared a bedroom and a love of Disney princesses —Ariel for Johanna and Belle for her —and bonded as “the other Thatcher sisters” once the twins were born. How often had she called out, “Johanna, wait for me!” while she ran for the school bus or got ready to go outside and play?

And her big sister always waited for her.

“Thank you for understanding.”

After saying good-bye, Jillian settled back on the edge of her bed, reaching for one of the magazines on the floor. She flipped through the pages, past images of serene brides. Grooms lingered in the background, like some sort of nuptial secret agent. Handsome. Sexy. Just a bit dangerous. Nothing marred their make-believe wedding days.

She’d thought she had all the time in the world to make her plans. To daydream her way through Pinterest and create her haphazard wish list. Plan a wedding that blew her budget and then be realistic and make everything just the way she wanted.

But this was her life . . . and welcome to it.

Who would want it?

She didn’t. Not this way.

It was as if someone had taken a paintbrush, dipped it in red paint, and splattered the word CANCER across some perfect bridal layout.

Jillian tossed the magazine to the floor. It was time to finish getting dressed and go to work. Do something easy, like read through loan applications. Maybe she could make someone else’s dream come true.

I paced my galley kitchen, tapping my cell phone against my chin, the black-and-white tiles cool against my bare feet. A row of appliances on one side —step, step, step all the way to the cozy breakfast nook at the end. Turn around and step, step, step to the archway leading to my living room. And repeat. For once, I’d remembered to start the dishwasher, the mechanical rumble echoing my mood.

Just make the phone call already. How hard could it be? It wasn’t as if I was facing . . . what Jillian was dealing with.

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?