Sitting on the porch swing. Wearing that floral cancer scarf she used to tie around her head when the chemo took her hair—blue with little yellow flowers, the cheerful pattern a stark contrast to what it represented. Wrapped in the old afghan she crocheted herself before she got too weak to hold the needles. It’s summer in the memory, but she’s bundled up because she was always cold those last few months. Always shivering. Always small.
Watching me.
I’m maybe twelve. Skinny. All elbows and knees and too-big hands I hadn’t grown into yet. Shooting tennis balls into the net I’d set up in the backyard. Practicing my aim. My form. My control.
Over and over and over.
Because if I could just get good enough?—
And she’s singing. Some old hymn I don’t remember the name of. It carries across the yard like a promise.
If I get good enough, if I make it to the NHL, I can pay for better treatment. Better doctors. I can fix this.
I close my eyes.
The phone buzzes again.
This time I look.
Chloe
Everything okay? You’ve been quiet this week.
I stare at the message.
She doesn’t deserve this. She walked into my life, my mess, and…
No. I pick up the phone.
Brody
Yep. Fine. I’ll see you at the couples shower.
And now my back isn’t the only thing that hurts.
CHLOE
This has to go well.
I’m standing in Maya’s kitchen—which is basically the kitchen equivalent of a luxury car commercial, all white marble and glass-front cabinets and appliances that probably cost more than my entire apartment—arranging cupcakes on a three-tiered stand and trying very hard not to spin out. Mentally speaking.
It’s not working.
The couples shower starts in forty-five minutes, and I’ve been here since noon setting up, directing catering to the kitchen, staging the bar down the hall (accessible, but not a focal point), setting out favors and supplies for the plethora of wedding-themed games between rounds of gifts (of which there is bound to be a disgusting amount). I hurt just thinking about the number of gifts I can look forward to hauling back to the guest room throughout the night.
The house is gorgeous. Of course it is. Derek bought it for them just a few weeks after the engagement, with plans for them to move in together after the wedding. And of course, like everything else in Maya’s life, it’s perfect. A lakefront property on White Bear Lake, with a massive deck and floor-to-ceiling windows. It’s modern farmhouse meets Scandinavian minimalism meets “we have more money than taste but hired a designer to fix that.”
Meanwhile, my apartment is going for that “I have no money and no designer to fix it” vibe. So…samesies.
Actually, that’s not entirely true anymore.
For the first time in my adult life, I’m not panicking about rent. I paid up last month. This month. Next month. Three months ahead. The landlord did a double-take when I handed him the check.
I also made a massive payment on my student loans. Didn’t clear them—because that would require winning the lottery or a small miracle—but I made a dent. The kind of dent that means I might actually pay them off in this lifetime.
Thanks to the contract.
Thanks to twenty thousand dollars for playing pretend girlfriend.
