It’s always been hard for me to admit any sort of weakness. The last thing I want now is for people to treat me differently or pity me because of my heart. But knowing that it’ll eventually get worse and that she will be even more upset if she finds out in any other way thanmetelling her, I know now is my chance. I can’t keep avoiding the conversation simply because I’m not ready to face the truth myself.
I stiffen in my chair. “Liv, I?—”
She raises an eyebrow, a concerned look painting her face. “What?”
I look down, tracing the rum of the coffee cup with my finger.
“Spit it out. What’s going on?” she asks.
I take a breath. “I’m getting worse.”
Any last bit of enthusiasm disappears from her instantly. “What do you mean?”
I swallow hard, forcing the words out before I lose my nerve. “Heart failure. I was diagnosed back in New York. That’s why I moved back.”
“No.” The color drains from her face. A look of shock or horror or fear appears, not sure which. Maybe all three.
“I’m okay,” I rush to say, even though we both know that can’t be true. “Well, notokay, but I’m handling it.”
She stares at me. Her jaw is hanging wide open and her eyes are glassy with unshed tears at the corners. “And you didn’t think to tell me sooner? Like right when you found out?! Fuck, Em!”
Guilt settles heavy in my chest. “I didn’t want to worry you. And I honestly wasn’t ready to talk about it much back then. It didn’t feel real, and honestly, it still doesn’t.”
She lets out a slow breath, shaking her head. “You’re literally the worst.”
“I know. I’m sorry.”
Liv’s eyes narrow. “I knew there was something weird about you moving back here after all this time. And you didn’t tell me yesterday either? Bitch.” She reaches across the table and grabs my hand. “Don’t you dare keep anything else from me, okay?”
I squeeze back her hand. “Deal.”
“Have you told Alex?”
“No. And I don’t plan on it.” I quickly hurl back.
“You don’t think he deserves to know, Em?”
“No.”
11
ALEX
Fall Apple Festival Kick-Off: the busiest day of the year.
I stretch my arms overhead, rolling the tension from my shoulders before unloading another heavy crate from the truckbed. The tent for the bar is in its usual spot, tucked between someone selling handmade soap and the local honey vendor. The Old Mill doesn’t do ‘small’, and our setup reflects that. There are barrels repurposed into tables, a full tap system, our signature spiked apple cider stocked and a detailed menu board propped against the side of the tent. It isn’t a “pop-up stand”, it’s anexperience.
“Yo, Alex! You got those extra kegs?”
I glance up to see Frankie adjusting the tap system to make sure everything is working properly.
“In the truck,” I call back, setting the crate on the ground and wiping both hands on my jeans. “Be careful with the cider ones. You know those are like gold this time of year. If you spill them, I’m making you lick it off the pavement.”
Frankie laughs and continues to mutter something under his breath about forced labor before disappearing to the truck. Igrab a rag, wiping down one of the barrel tables when a burst of laughter carries over from across the street.
I know that laugh.
I would know it anywhere.
