“You have been feeling bad.”
Summer ignored that. “Something to drink?”
“How about a beer? I’m not working tomorrow.”
“It’s a pretty night. Let’s sit on the patio.”
Miranda wandered out; a moment later, Summer returned with two bottles of Blue Moon. They sat at the small table and Miranda eyed the beer. “You sure that’s a good idea?”
“What I have, a little alcohol isn’t going to hurt.”
“Yeah?” Miranda brought the bottle to her lips. “And what’s that?”
Again, Summer ignored her and redirected. “I know I seemed kind of like a jerk back there—”
“Kind of like?”
“My kind of friend, honest to a fault.” Summer lifted her bottle in a mock toast, then took a swallow before continuing. “The deal is, I already know what’s wrong with me and they weren’t going to be able to make it better.”
“Hardheadedness? A screw loose? Or maybe, wound too tight?”
“Funny—” She brought the bottle to her lips once more. “Considering.”
Miranda frowned. “Considering what? You’re sort of scaring me now.”
“I have cancer.”
Miranda felt like a two-hundred-pound, drug-fueled perp had just punched her in the gut. “You didn’t just say—”
“Yeah, I did.”
“What kind?” Miranda managed, voice thick.
“The worst kind.”
“I don’t know what that means.”
“Brain.”
Miranda sucked in a sharp breath. “Okay … so what’s your plan?”
“Live out the rest of my life here, not in a hospital.”
“What about your treatment plan? Is it underway?”
“It is,” she said. “Because I’m not doing treatment.”
“Wait … what?”
“You heard me.” Summer looked her in the eyes. “The tumor’s inoperable. The drugs will make me sick as hell, and I’m not interested living my last months that way.”
Months, not years. Miranda swallowed past the lump in her throat. “But won’t treatment extend your life?”
“Define life.” She leaned forward. “This is a fast-growing, high-grade tumor. I have drugs to help with symptoms, but I choose not to seek treatment. It’s terminal, Miranda. I’ve dealt with that fact, and I’ve made my decision about how I want to live out the rest of my life. I hope you can support me in this.”
What could she say? It was Summer’s life, her body, and her decision what to do with it. With every fiber of her own being she wanted to scream, “Fight!” and “Miracles happen!”
But that was her reaction, not Summer’s. And how could she judge? Until faced with the same prognosis, she couldn’t. Nobody could.
So she nodded, went around the table, and hugged her friend.
Holding on to each other, they cried until they laughed.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
11:45 P.M.
Miranda left because Summer asked her to. It felt one hundred percent wrong leaving her friend alone, but Summer insisted that’s what she wanted.
Miranda started her car but just sat, staring at the dark road ahead of her. Summer had made up her mind how her story would end. Miranda respected that, but it wasn’t the way she wanted her own story to go. Alone, fighting her battles without an ally. No one by her side to share the victories or the defeats. The joy or, like now, the despair.
She despaired, not just for her friend, but for herself as well. Summer was dying. It hurt.
She didn’t want to be alone.
Jake. She wanted to be with Jake.
Miranda plucked her phone from the console and punched in his number.
“Miranda?” he answered, sounding groggy.
She didn’t know why the sound of his voice made her start to cry, but it did. “Hey,” she managed.
“What’s wrong?” The change in his voice was immediate; she heard the rustle of bedclothes.
“Summer’s sick. Real sick. I just found out and—” Her nose was dripping and she fumbled for a tissue with her free hand. “I’m so … can you come over? I need you, Jake.”
“I’m on my way.”
They arrived at her place simultaneously and without speaking, went inside. There, in the dark foyer, he folded her into his arms and held her.
“I’m sorry,” he murmured.
She didn’t reply, simply buried her face into the curve of his neck and shoulder. He smelled real, she thought, letting his scent fill her head. Like a man should—honest like the outdoors, and strong—like spice and sweat.
She slid her hands from his chest around to his back. The muscled ridge of his lats, the solid breadth of his shoulders.
The kind of shoulders a woman could lean on. A strong back to help carry a heavy load.
Had she ever leaned on anyone?
Not like this.
“Brain cancer,” she said against his shoulder. He didn’t respond and she went on. “She’s … refusing treatment. It’s terminal and—” She tipped her face up to his. “I feel like my heart’s breaking.”
“I’m here,” he said. “Hold on to me.”
He was, she realized. In a way no one had ever been there for her. Moral and loyal to his core, Jake didn’t manipulate or cheat, didn’t put himself or his own needs first. He stood up for what was right—and those he loved.
And he loved her.
She caught his hand, laced their fingers, and led him to her bedroom. There, they made love. Real love, she realized. Different from sex, this was something she hadn’t experienced before. Beautiful and reverent, they melted into one another, becoming one. Not to give or receive pleasure, though they did—but to share the essence of themselves.
It was wondrous, surreal and … reverent. That word again. Not physical—not about reaching completion, some momentary feel-good climax, but a spiritual connection.
In this moment, twined with Jake, they were one person. For the first time in her life, she wasn’t alone.
*
Miranda awakened with a start. Jake lay beside her, arm flung possessively across her back. She listened. His deep, rhythmic breathing, the gentle whir of the ceiling fan. A motor running, she realized. Out front.
Careful not to wake him, she slid out from under his arm and off the bed. He groaned slightly, then rolled over.
She grabbed his T-shirt and slipped it over her head, collected her personal weapon from the bedside drawer, and tiptoed into the hall. The sounds of steps on her porch, then the slam of a car door.
Miranda ran to the door, yanked it open, and darted across the porch in time to see a car round the corner, little more than red taillights on the dark road.
She turned to head back inside and stopped. Whoever had just sped off had left her something in a black plastic garbage bag. Heart thundering, she crossed to it. She nudged it with her toe. Whatever was inside was rigid and heavy—certainly nothing that was going to jump out and bite her.
Still moving cautiously, she opened the bag. A box, she saw. About the size of a shoebox, gray in color with a handle on top.
And then she knew what it was. A lockbox.
The lockbox, she knew. Stark’s.
Miranda lifted it out and a folded piece of paper fluttered to the ground. She bent to retrieve it. Two words were written on the paper in a scrolling, feminine style.