I order the terror still buzzing through my veins to back it down for a sec as I focus on my boss. “Is everything okay?”
“It will be.” She waves a dismissive hand even as her chin wobbles. “I’ve been having these tremors in my hands, and my balance has been off. I thought it was just age, but the doctor wants to run more tests. He thinks it might be something neurological.”
I swallow slowly. “What kind of something?”
“He mentioned Parkinson’s.” Her voice is nearly a whisper, like speaking the potential diagnosis too loud might make it real. “Early stages, but it’s not definite. You know how they want you in for as many appointments as possible.” She laughs like it’s all a silly misunderstanding. “More waiting.”
I come from behind the counter to wrap my arms around her small frame. She stiffens in surprise because I’m not a hugger. Everyone who knows me knows that. But Winnie gave me this job with no reason to trust that the former mean girl of Skylark could handle an industrial mixer and a four a.m. alarm. She took a chance on me when I was at rock bottom, so I won’t stand by while she falls apart.
“I can help,” I say into her hair, which smells like the rose-scented shampoo she keeps in the bathroom upstairs. “Whatever you need, and I’ll drive you to all those appointments.”
She pulls back, laughing through her tears. “You’ve been here less than a week, sweetheart. You don’t owe me that.”
“I want to.”
Winnie studies my face, and whatever she sees there makes her pat my cheek with a hand that’s still trembling so slightly, I might not have noticed if I hadn’t been looking for it. “Maybe you should buy this place.”
“Excuse me?”
“I think my dough-kneading days might be coming to an end. I want to spend more time with my grandkids and travel while I can.” She straightens, seeming to gather up her emotions like marbles spilled across the floor. “The bakery brought me joy for a lot of years. Maybe it’s time to let someone else have a turn.”
“Winnie, you can’t sell The Sugar Shack.”
But even as I say it, I hear how ludicrous the words sound. She can do whatever she wants. It’s her life. I don’t get a vote.
I quickly continue, “And I’m not in a position to buy it. What about JP?”
“He’s a great baker, but I wouldn’t trust him with this place.” She pulls a tissue from her purse and dabs at her nose. “I get it, Avah. This is just a pit stop on the way back to your fancy career.”
I manage a smile. “Right. A pit stop.” It sounds right but feels so wrong.
“I’ll figure it out.” She squeezes my arm like I’m the one who needs a pep talk. “I always do.”
As Winnie heads to the back to check on inventory, I stand behind the counter of a bakery that might not exist in a few months, in a town where my con-artist father just materialized like a ghost I can’t outrun. I press my palms together, chasing the phantom warmth of a billionaire’s hand like it’s still holding mine.
This is what happens when you let your guard down. The universe doesn’t send you a single clean hit. It waits until you’re stupid enough to feel safe, and then delivers a combination that drops you to the mat. Dad and Winnie, back to back, a one-two punch aimed right at the fragile scaffolding of the life I believed I was cobbling back together. I should have known better.
20
JEREMY
Sloane’s oncologistis on the third floor of the CU Cancer Center on the Anschutz medical campus in Aurora. Every time I walk through the doors, I have to consciously unclench my jaw against the fluorescent-lit purgatory of waiting while someone in a white coat decides whether the numbers that dictate your sister’s future will let you sleep tonight.
I’ve gotten good at hiding it. Sloane doesn’t need to look over and see her brother white-knuckling a three-year-old copy ofNational Geographic, so I sit in the waiting room with my ankle crossed over my knee, pretending to scroll through emails I’m not reading. I keep my face arranged in what I hope passes for calm detachment rather than full-blown existential dread.
Today, though, Sloane practically floats out from the exam rooms after her appointment.
“White blood cell count is stable.” She waves the printout at me like a kid showing off a straight-A report card. “Platelet levels are up. Dr. Jackson said the drug trial numbers are tracking better than expected.”
I take the paper from her and scan the columns myself. I trust Sloane, but I also trust data. And the data is good. Her absolutelymphocyte count has been trending down for three consecutive months, and the new monoclonal antibody protocol is doing what the previous rounds of chemo couldn’t quite finish.
“She wants to keep me on the trial through the end of the year.” Sloane waves to the woman at the reception desk, then pushes the down elevator button for the parking garage. “But she’s optimistic about long-term remission.”
Words that would have sounded like a miracle six months ago when Sloane’s numbers were a rollercoaster, and her body’s response to treatment had flatlined. Now she says them like facts, and the relief that moves through me makes my legs feel like jelly.
I clear my throat. “That’s good.”
“You could try to sound less like a voice from the speaker on my kitchen counter. Excitement isn’t a four-letter word, bro.”
